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VOL. i.
OLD TREES.
BY KEY. ABEAM J. RYA*.
Old Treos ! old Trees ! in your mystic gloom,
There is many a warrior laid;
There is many a nameless and lonely tomb
Sheltered beneath your shade.
Old Trees! old Trees! without pomp or prayer,
We buried tho Brave and the True—
We fired a volley and left them there
To rest, old Trees! with you.
Old Trees! old Trees! keep a watch and ward
Over each grass-grown bed;
’Tis a glory, old Trees, to stand as guard
Over our Southern Dead.
Old Trees! old Trees! we shall pass away,
Like tiie leaves you yearly shed,
But ye. lone sentinels, still must stay,
Old Trees! to guard our Dead.
THE LEGEND oSimiTt,
BY AMEDIE I)K FOUTHIfcRE.
Translated from the French, for the Banner of the
South, bv Miss Kosine dk La Toiire, of Johnson’s
T. 0., S, C.
Legend or History—History or Le
gend—there are truths to be culled
from each, my friend, truly says that
charming writer, Charles Nodier. A
beautiful legend scatters everywhere its
sweet and moral influences, as a fhiwer
exhales its perfume. Happy arc those
gifted spirits that can discern and ap
propriate them. I love those quaint old
narratives, into which a nation has in
fused all that is most beautiful and pure
in its poetry and its faith, because they
are the truest expressions of a people’s
thoughts. I love these simple traditions
of the past, because for a long time they
constituted all the literature of the social
circle, and kept firmly cemented the no
ble sentiments of family, of union, and
of justice, which form the triple corner
stone of all well regulated society. For
a long while these were all-sufficing—
tor a long time they were the sweetest
consolation of evil days, and when the
trembling voice of the old man was
heard, all were silent, and wont forth
after life nairative with souls deeply im
pressed by the punishments which over
took the wicked ; or softly moved by
the justly merited reward which so often
formed the graceful denouement of some
touching ballad.
Some of these legends, coming to us
as they do, from afar, have even preserved
the first freshness of the primitive ages.
This is in fact their greatest charm.
Yit ness this beautiful Legend of Hos
pitality, which for many centuries de
lighted the simple hearts of the peasants
ot France.
In the days of Jesus, there lived on
ti.c banks of the Jordan, a fine old man,
whom one might readily have taken for
the patriarch of some ancient tribe, and
whom death seemed to have forgotten.
His name was Philomen, and in his lowly
cabin lie subsisted solely upon the fruit
grown in his little garden, and the milk
furnished him by’ his goat.
Now, one quiet evening, someone
tapped gently at his door, and an old
man, though younger than he, entered
aud claimed his hospitality.
“ Most gladly, my friend—my cottage
and not large, my gulden yeilds but little
truit, my goat gives not much milk—
still, what 1 have I cheerfully share
with all who cross my threshold in the
of hospitality. Come in then
good triend, and rest after the fatigues of
your journey.”
‘‘ But,” said the traveller, hesitatingly,
''l am not alone. 1 have twelve com
panions with me all overpowered bv
weariness and parched with thirst, lor
we have just crossed the desert.”
“ lou are all welcome, all who come
huDgiy tc my cabin shall share with me
tiie little I possess. So come iu.”
Ihen the stranger made a sign to his
companions, who were silently standing
at l he door, and Philomen found that it
was Jesus, and with him his twelve!
apostles, whom St. Peter led by the
shores of the Jordan—this great chief
ever walking in advance, who was one
day to open tjie gates of Paradise. They
partook of fne old man’s simple fruit,
they drank the milk of his goat, thev
rested upon his rough mat. When day
be; to dawn, St. Peter said to him :
“Before going hence, hast thou no
boon to ask of us ? Hast thou no wish
that we may gratify? Ask what thou
wilt in return for this generous hospi
tality ?■”
Then Philomen made three wishes,
anu said : “My sw’eet Lord, I love life
so well, grant me then yet five hundred
years to live. The days pass so quickly
in my peaceful abode.”
“ Granted,” said a sweet and touching
voice, which seemed to come from the
midst of the group. “ What else wilt
thou have?”
“My good Lord, I have a beautiful
fig tree in my garden, which bears such
fine fruit, they are often stolen from me.
Grant me then, that whoever climbs into
it, must stay there, until I give permis
sion to descend. So you see, I will be
able to catch the’thief.”
Jesus smiled as lie hoard this strange
wish, and bowing his fair head, said :
“Itshall be done as thou wilt. Hast
thou yet more to ask ? Speak freely, for
thou seest how readily i* grant all thou
askest.”
“My bountiful Lord, I have an old
wooden chair in which my friends sit
when they come sometimes at night, to
chat with me. Grant me that whoever
sits on it, may not be able to rise without
my consent, and will have to stay there
as long as 1 please. ”
And Jesus approved again, because he
loved this giyleloss old man, who made
such simple wishes, and seemed so clean
of heart.
Then St. Peter thanked him, and went
forth surrounded by his twelve compan
ions, in whose midst Jesus seemed to
love to hide himself.
Tears passed by one after the other.
One century passed—then another, then
finally all rolled on, until the last day of
the last year arrived, and the venerable
Philomen saw the grim and unwelcome
traveller Death enter his cabin. She
saluted him roughly:
“ Come along old man. Thou hast
eluded me this long whilo. Thanks to
an especial favor, thou hast reached the
years of Mcthusala. If every mortal
lived as long as thou hast, I would have
no work to do on earth. Come along'- -
quick—settle thy affairs, bid farewell to
thy garden, because with the setting sun,
I lead thee hence.”
_ "Oh my good lady, if you could but
pity me, you would let me live a few
days longer—life is so sweet—-just one
day then, it is so good to live.”
“No—not one day—not one moment
more,’’ replied the sinister guest, in a
harsh and discordant voice.
“At least then let me once more eat
of the fruit of my fig tree. I have loved
these figs so well, it will be a last conso
lation to me. But as I am too weak to
shake the tree, and too old to reach the
fruit, do you go up and gather me that
one up there, so thoroughly ripened by
our Eastern sun.”
“Oh very willingly ! See old man, I
will show thee that Death is not so ill
natured as it is said she is.”
Ihen leaving' her hour-glass and
scythe at the foot of the tree, the unlucky
dame climbed up. But she had scarcely
touched the branches, when they sprung
up like springs of steel beneath her
tread, closed upon, and so tightly im
prisoned the imprudent wight, that she
could not stir. She called aloud ; cried
out, supplicated—but all in vain. Phi
lomen renewed his humble petition, but
she still obstinately refused.
“ \ ery well. I must have my fiy?
centuries. Five hundred years'mere of
AUCtUSTA, GA, MAY 9, 1868.
life,” and defiantly shaking his head, he
picked up tho hour-glass and scythe and
went back to his cabin, leaving Death
still a prisoner, struggling and crying
aloud. Every morning he returned—
proposed anew his terms, which Death,
more and more irritated, more and more
obstinately rejected, upon which the old
man would quietly return to his hut.
Now, about the third night of the siege,
ho saw a dark figure, with glittering
eyes, prowling around the foot of the
tree. He listened and overheard the
following conversation. But first, I
must tell you that this was the Devil,
who came to quarrel with Death.
“ W hat dost thou up there, thou idler?
Thou no longer givest me occupation. I
shall be ruined if thou returnest not to
thy work.”
But his terrible accomplice could not
move, because, He who binds on earth as
lie binds in Heaven, had in this instance
bound so well, that Death herself could
not undo it.
Well, next day, after a fresh dispute
with Philomen, Death yielded, and con
sented to grant him five centuries more
of life. But as Death was known to be
treacherous, he would not trust her, and
bringing out his tablets, he made her
sign the promise she had made. That
finished, he restored her baggage, her
hour-glass and scythe, and let her depart,
ail threatening and raging as she was,
vowing to cut off at the expiration of the
very moment, the life of one who had so
pitilessly mocked and jeered at her.
1 ears again rolled on. The centuries,
one by one, were completed, and yet our
Philomen did not grow old. Ten times
had he seen pass by that weary pilgrim,
that unhappy Jew, condemned to travel
forever around the world. Each journey
marked one century, as he crossed the
Jordan, near this little cabin, on his way
to Jerusalem, that, ascending Golgotha,
he might plead for mercy on the very
spot where the blood bad been shed of
Him whom he had despised.
These five centuries, then, having
passed away—one evening, as Philomen
sat thoughtfully near his hearth, looking
up, he saw the dark, mysterious traveller
once more enter his hut. Midnight was
the fatal hour. She rudely accosted him
again :
“Come along, now, old man. Thou
shouldst, long since, have been in thy
grave. No mercy this time for thee—
thou wouldst but mock me again, had I
any longer pity for thee. All ! how wor
ried-I am ! To-day I have slain nearly
three thousand Christians, a whole race of
Infidels, and decimated an entire kingdom
with my well-tempered weapon, Pesti
lence. Kick and poor, prelates and
priests—l have upturned everything.
But I am horribly tired, and while waiting
thy hour of doom, I will just rest me
here.”
Saying these words, she threw herself
upon the wooden stool which Jesus had
gifted with supernatural power, and be
gan to jeer at the old man, speaking to
him of all the pleasures of life—youth,
love, everything.
’A hen midnight struck, she attempted
to rise, that she might seize upon Phile
mon. But he had wisely placed himself
beyond her reach. Nailed down, how
ever, upon her wonderful chair, she could
not move ! In vain she shook her glass,
and made deadly thrusts at him with her
scythe ! Then the good man went to his
fireside, and kindled such a blaze as near
ly roasted her, even at that distance.
Her hour-glass was about falling to pieces,-
and the handle of her scythe nearly re
duced to ashes, when, alter a vigorous
dispute, she again made terms with him,
granting another lease of five hundred
years.
Now this was, as you know, the second
time she had been caught by the same
snare, and, more enraged than ever, she
went out, vowing she would never be so
entrapped again. And old Philomen
lived on through the longjyears gained by
these simple tricks.
But everything ends at last—every
thing falls—everything dies—everythin«•
passes away—anil the five centuries, too,
passed on their way, with all that had
gone before. Death had, however, learn
ed to be prudent now, and this time she
did not venture near, but sent a shaft
from afar, which pierced the old man’s
heart, and sent him from life to death.
But as he had always led a spotless life,
and practiced the virtue of holy hospi
tality, God had prepared for him a home
in His own beautiful Paradise.
Now, it happened that, before going
there Philomen wished to see just a little
of what was going on in hell. Since that
memorable night, when he overheard the
dispute with Death and Satan, he
cherished a great desire to have some
insight into that kingdom.
He quietly entered the abode of the
condemned, and when the Devil came to
meet him, and would have clutched at
him, Philomen cried out, “Stop there! I
am not for thee! I am of the kingdom of
tho elect, and came here only to see if all
trial, is said of thy empire in the kingdom
of the living be correct. Lead me every
where."
When conducted by his dark guide, he
had visited the bowels of the earth, and
witnessed all manner of torments, he pro
posed to him to stake liis own soul against
some of the most fearfully tortured
amongst the damned, who were uttering
most frightful shrieks.
I he dice were brought, and shaken by
each in turn. Philomen soon gained
twelve souls Then Satan seemed alarm
ed, and fearing to lose all with this most
mysterious partner, refused to play on.
Philomen then entered the road to
Paradise, and, reaching the door, tapped
quietly. Saint Peter came to open it for
him. He recognized him, and said, with
a smile: “Pass on, we have long been
expecting thee.
“Oh, yes, replied the cunning old man,
but like you, formerly, I am not alone.
I have with me twelve companions, who
also claim your hospitality.”
“It is only fair,” said St. Peter smiling
once more. “Come in, all of you.”
And all went in, to join tho throng of
the Blessed, who will forever sing the
praises of God.
It is thus this good old Philomen lived
for fifteen hundred years, and practiced
the laws of holy hospitality. And it is
thus that our pious ancestors taught their
children never to refuse admittance to
those who knocked at their door asking
for shelter. And we also see how reli
giously and beautifully hospitality was
practiced, in the early ages, in the lowly
dwellings of the poor, as well as in the
chateaux of the rich.
A REMEDY FOR MOTHS,
We were examining our wardrobe after
the summer, and found, to our surprise
and grief, many of our choicest articles
of apparel sadly damaged by the moths.
In the midst of our trouble, aud the dis
cussion as to the modes of protection
against moths, which had been handed
down by tradition, Aunt Julia came in.
“ Aunt Julia, how do you keep your
winter clothing from the moths ?” we*botli
asked eagerly, as that good lady pro
ceeded to lay aside her handsome shawl
which looked as fresh as ever after seven
years’ wear.
“ I used to suffer as much from moths
as any one,” replied Aunt Julia, taking
her knitting from her little basket, and
sitting down, “ but I found a recipe in
an old-fashioned book, which has relieved
me of much soljeitude on the subject. It
was many years before I could be per
suaded to try it. bn my young days
money was not quite as plenty as now,
but provisions were cheap, and a farmer’s
daughter began her life better supplied
with linen, blankets, and bed quilts, than
many a jewe 1-decked city belle. Asl
was an only daughter and was not mar
ried too young, a noble pile of blankets,
feather beds, bed quilts, <kc., became my
portion. For many years after we re
moved to the oily. I used to dread my
summer’s work of airing beds, and pack
ing very fine home-made blankets and
quilts stuffed with the softest down. I
tried snuff, tobacco, camphor, pepper, and
cedar chips, and yet, as we changed our
place of residence several times, some
colony of moths, old squatters among the
beams of the garret, or in some unob
served scrap of woolen cloth would per
forate tiny holes in my choicest posses
sions.”
“ Why, Aunt Julia, I thought you had
a cedar closet.”
“ Yes, when we moved into our new
house; but by that time my closet was
too small for my increased wealth, and till
I used this recipe I seldom passed a year
without some moth holes, but now I have
not seen one in nine years.”
What was it, aunt? Have you the
book ? or can you repeat it from memory ?
It is too late to save these tilings, but I
will write it down and try it next spring.”
So saying, Anna took out her little recipe
book and pencil, while Aunt Julia pre
pared to record the moth preventive.
The book was an old one with the title
obliterated, and title page torn out by
some careless child, but the directions
were these :
“Lay not up for yourself treasures up
on earth, where moth and rust doth
corrupt.”
“ But lay up for yourselves treasures
in Heaven, where neither rust nor moth
doth corrupt, and where thieves do not
break through and steal.”
“0, Aunt Julia, is that all ? How
does that help the matter?”
“ Wait, Anna, and hear my story out.
One day, as I was mourning ovci my
choicest blankets, eaten by the moths, and
airing my down bed quilts and feather
beds, which have been rendered obsolete
by the introduction of spring matresses,
as I stood ready to cry with vexation to
see my choicest articles eaten in the most
conspicuous places, as you have expe
rienced to-day, my eye rested on an old
Bible, which lay on the top of a barrel of
pamphlets in the garret. I opened it, and
almost unconsciously read the recipe for
avoiding moths which I have given to
day. I then recollected that they seldom
troubled the clothing in frequent use,
and that the articles which caused me so
much care were not needed twice a year.
I then thought of Sophy Baker, with her
large family and sick husband.
“ They had been burned out the Spring
before, and were just entering upon a cold,
long Winter of poverty. I sat down, and
writing her a note, sent her two feather
beds and four blankets, aud an old fash
ioned ‘coverlid’ that very day ; and two
more blankets 1 dispatched to a poor old
rheumatic neighbor, whose destitution had
never occurred to me before. 1 then be
gan to breathe freely; and before another
week two more blankets were gone to
comfort tired limbs, and aching hearts.
The cast-off coats, cloaks and old pieces of
carpeting which had long lain in my gar
ret were given to the deserving poor. A
bag of woolen stockings and socks,
C O
which had been kept for cleaning bras-,
were sent to a charity institution, never
again to become a temptation to the
moths. I inquired particularly the next
year, and found the beds and blankets
wore in such excellent preservation that
1 cheerfully laid up more oi my surplus
‘ property in Heaven,’ and out of the way
of moth and mould. My cedar closet and
trunks hold all I wish to preserve, and
when they begin to run over, I commit
more articles to the keeping of my wid
owed and fatherless acquaintances.”
“ But, Aunt Julia, yours is a peculiar
case. You hatT the home made outfit of
a rich farmer’s daughter, anu could not
expect to make use of it; besides the
Bible don't encourage wasting our goods
extravagantly.”
No. 8.