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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE: A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART. WM. C. RICHARDS, Editor. Original JJoctrn. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE MAID OF THE FERRY. BY JACQUES JODRNOT. At Ferry, on the Iliwassee, I found the boat 01 the north side of the river, but found no ferry man. After shouting, at the top of my voice, several times, a young girl, of some fifteen sum mers, made her appearance, and, in a sweet, mu sical voice, informed me that the ferryman had “gone up the river, on a hunting excursion, but that she could ‘set’ me across.” I looked at her doubtingly, for a moment, for she was no Amazon, but a slightly formed and graceful young woman, with a beautiful face, black, soul-ful eyes—there is some magic in black eyes—and dark hair, which, escaping beneath her bonnet, fell in most poetical ringlets upon her delicate shoulders; but I saw that she was in earnest, so I stepped into the skiff with her, and, taking from her hand the pole with which the craft is usually navigated, pushed it across the stream. Paying her the usual fee, and detaining her a few minutes to make some inqui ries with regard to my route, I proceeded on my way. When, after having advanced a few rods, I turned to catch a parting glimpse of my Naiad, she was in the middle of the stream, managing her skiff with the dexterity of a sailor. She is one of those angels incarnate, who occasion ally cross our paths, when and where wo least ex pect to meet them, making the way, for a few brief moments, radiant with beauty and peace, and infusing into our souls new life and strength —one of those pure, beautiful ones — “ Who from Eden wide asfrny, Iu lowly homes have lost their way.’’ Extract from my Journal. Ne’er again, my dark eyed maiden, By Iliwassee’s waters blue, May I, shouting at tho ferry, The vision of to-day renew. This morn thou earnest, like a fairy, Tripping lightly through the trees — While thy curls, thy hood escaping, Frolicked with the mountain breeze. Transmuted by the power of beauty, Thy rude boat a palace seemed; Not the barge of Cleopatra, With more gorgeous splendor gleamed ! Eyes at Love’s high altar lighted, ’Neath their dusky lashes shine ; And a smile which, wooing, winneth, Carolinian maid, are thine. Blessings on the hour I met thee ! Pleasant memories roun l it (ding ; Thoughts of Alleghanian highlands, Thoughts of thee will ever bring. As Autumn’s flowers, red and golden, Upon thy river’s blue waves smile — Waves that pass, (stern law impels them.) Sadly loves that would beguile: So the radiance of thy beauty One moment on my pathway fell — Passed I then beneath the shadow, Winding lonely through the dell. Bless thee, Maiden of the Ferry ! Noble-souled and fond and true Bo tho man who woos and wins thee, By Iliwassee’s waters blue. Humble is thy lot, fair stranger, Yet I would the power were mine, To inweave, in verse immortal, On one page my name and thine ! Bank* of the Hiwassee, N. C., 184 C. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE LIGHT OF HOME. B T WILLIAM C . RICHARDS. Mr home, my home, oh, once again Its charms around my heart arc wove, I see each sight—l hear each That tells of joy and breathes of love. The weary months that I have passed In exile from this ch rlshed spot, Had o’er my soul a shadow cast, Which Pleasure’s Sun could banish r.ot. ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1849. I felt its chilling touch, and sighe 1 For one whose smile could bid it flee ; While she was absent from my side— Life s sunshine was all to me. The gloom is passed—the shadow fled Before the blessed light of home ; Here sweet contentment crowns my head, Here Care and Sorrow may not come ! Sketches of Clfc. -i ——- For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE REDEEMED HOMESTEAD. BY JACQUES JOURNOT. “Why so sad, my dear father'?” said a beautiful, fair-haired girl of sixteen summers, as she smoothed back the slightly gray locks from the high but care-marked forehead of her only living parent, and gazed affection ately into his dark, expressive eyes. “Why so sad ?” she repeated, “ you scarcely smile of late. What is the matter? Shall I not sing to you that beautiful song which brother gave me the other day—‘Our home among the trees V ” “No, I cannot bear it now,” said her fa ther, whom we will call Mr. Weston, rising and pacing the floor, evidently struggling with some deep emotion. “ Will you not tell me, your own dear Ellen, what troubles you ?” persisted the “maiden. “Yes, Ellen,” said he, at length, with a forced calmness, seating himself again at her side. “Y r es, I will tell you all. Farther concealment is useless. Prepare yourself for developments of which you have not even dreamed. The tale is a painful one, but must be told.” Mr. Weston then proceeded to relate the history of his reverses, his struggles, and the final ruin of his pecuniary prospects. A few words will tell the whole. In common with many others in whom the feelings of human ity and a sense of justice predominate over reverence for ihe Almighty Dollar, and whose consciences rebel in view of the duplicity and chicanery everywhere practised in trade and commerce, he had found the struggle—a struggle in which the beautiful arrangements of civilized society compelled him to engage —between him and his less scrupulous neigh bors, to be an unequal one. With all the confidence of a noble and generous nature, he had trusted those around him, had been decieved, and had lost large sums of money in consequence. In a word, others secured their own share and his also. Portion after portion of his property had been disposed of, and he had concealed, as much as possible, the true state of the case from his family, hoping still to be able to redeem the whole. All was now gone but the Homestead, the “ cot where he was born,” and that had been mortgaged. A small sum in addition to what he had been able to save from the sale of his other property, would redeem it, and leave him still a home; but he saw no way to get even that small sum, and in a few months, he said, the “home among the trees” must be sold! Ellen listened calmly to all father said. She was in a measure prepared for the dis closure. She had for a long time suspected that the result that was now manifest was far from improbable. She remained silent and thoughtful a few minutes, atid then said : “I see it all, father ; our case is indeed a hard one, yet many are worse off than we. Our home, our dear, loved, beautiful home, must not, shall not, be sold. I have a plan which will redeem it. 1 will tell you of it to-morrow.” Mr. Weston shook his head incredulously. “ No, Ellen,’ 5 he replied, “we must reconcile ourselves to our fate. We must seek a home elsewhere. Y'our devotion and self-sacrifice will not avail here.” “Do not say so, my dear father, till you hear my plan,” said Ellen. Ellen’s “plan” for the redemption of the Homestead, may be inferred from the follow ing letter: Lowell, June 21st, 1845. My Dear Father—l know you are impa tient to hear from me, and l think I hear Wil lie say, half in sorrow and half in anger, ‘why don't Ellen write V Well, here you have a letter. I have waited till pay-day, that I might give you something in proof of the practicability of the project which you deemed so wild. You see by the enclosed that I have saved a little. Next month I can save more, as I have learned the work and shall get higher wages. Do not think I am robbing myself to send you this. I can get along very well. Y r ou know I haif plenty of clothes, and good ones too—thanks io you, dear father—and though they are not quite so fashionable as the girls wear here, I am well satisfied to wear them. You know 1 don’t care much for fashion, besides, I don't go out much. I get very tired, and do not feel like going out. I work very hard, and the days seem so long; but then I am well, and can bear it all for a while. It is too bad that we are obliged to toil so hard for just enough to keep soul and body together, while those who do none of the work are getting immensely rich by appropriating to them scYHe products of our toil. They live in fine palaces; we are crowded together here in boarding-houses, six in a room! They have plenty of time to eat, and drink their champagne, and .ride in their coaches; we are obliged to toil thirteen hours a day—have hardly time to swallow our meals, to say no thing of eating them, have no time to ride, and no coaches to ride in if we had time. If they would give us an opportunity to walk, we would not complain. I do find, as you said I would, that in some things connected with factory life, “ ’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.” But do not think that I repent having come here. Ido not. lam willing to bear this, and more, to attain the object I have in view. I am pretty well yet, though I am getting a little pale. I miss the fresh air and bright sunshine of my native hills. lam required by my ‘ Regulation Paper’ to attend some church. I have done so a few times, but don’t like the meetings here much. The ministers, they say, get a thou sand dollars or more a year, but I think they preach rather dull sermons; and then the fine pulpit and the frescoed walls, seem to lift themselves up so between me and God, and his glad sunshine and free air, that I am all the time, like an imprisoned bird, pining for the hill-side and the woods. My room-mates are good girls, but not “congenial spirits,’’ so 1 don't enjoy their company so much. I have formed a very strong friendship for a young lady from our own State, who works in the same room, but boards “on the street.” I wish I could hoard with her, but my “Regulation Paper” says I must hoard in one of the Company’s board ing-houses. They allow her to board on the street, because her mother lives there. Is it not too had, that kindred spirits are thus sep arated, and those who have no affinity for VOLUME I.—NUMBER 4C. , each other are forced into contact I But so it is here. . I have seen but little of Lowell yet, and if ■ l had seen more, I have no room left to tell you about it. Write me a long letter as soon as you get this, and tell me all about things at home. How does Mary get along with the work alone. I guess she would like to have Ellen to help her a little. Would you not, Mary I Take good care of everything, not forgetting Kitty and my flowers. Give Willie a kiss for me, and tell him to be a good boy and mind his lessons. Love to everybody who loves me. God bless you all. Your affectionate ELLEN. Other letters followed this, each containing a portion of her earnings, and breathing an earnest and hopeful spirit. In the meantime, Ellen’s health was fast giving way. She pined for the freedom and fresh air of the country. Over-work and the want of the care and sympathy of those who loved her, were fast undermining her constitution. — This was concealed as long as possible from l her friends; but the secret could not always be kept. Still she toiled on. The letter from which the following is an extract, contained a remittance which completed the required ! sum : “My object is accomplished. The task has been a hard one, hut the reward is great. Our dear, loved, beautiful Home, will not be sold. Blessings on its trees, its brooks, and its sunny hill sides. * lam sick. There is no use in concealing the fact. I have not been in the mill these three days, but think I shall be able to go back to-morrow. I feel that I have injured my health very much by my labors here, but hope that the pure air of the country and the tender nursing that 1 shall have at home, will restore me. * * * * I have given my “ notice,” and shall be ready to start forborne, in about two weeks.” ***** In the little rural cemetery of M , is a plain white marble slab, bearing this in scription : IN MEMORY OF ELLEN WESTON, WHO DIED MAY 1 5tH, 1846, AGED 17 YEARS. “She died for those she loved.” True, loving hearts, are sad in the Re deemed Home. Darkness broods upon it.— Its chief ornament and pride is no more. She returned to them pale, emaciated, worn out! All that love could do was done, but iq vain. When the early violets came forth on the hill-side, she was laid beneath the sod ! Such is the reward which our so-called Christian civilization bestows on the holiest love, and the truest and most earnest devo tion to duty. Ihe Monopolist who pockets more than four-fifths of the products of the poor Factory Girl’s toil, and is guilty, in the sight of Heaven, of robbery and murder —sits in the high places of Church ami State, while the victim of oppression, who receives less than one-fifth of her real earnings, goes home to die. uncared for and unthought of by him I I do not look for the cause of this stfcte of things in our Factory System., It lies beloAv this, in a false Social and Industrial organi zation. While the operatives in the Lowell Mills get from $1 50 to $2 #0 per week, the poor Sempstress in Boston or New Y’ork is making shirts for six and a quarter cents a piece! The relation of employe: and em ployed is a false one. Athens , Georgia.