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For the Banner of the South.
At Midnight.
]s< neath the solemn midnight sky,
I bow me and adore;
1 watch the drifting clouds float by,
The pale, «old mo >n enthroned on high,
And thank Thee, Lord, that such aa I
May live to praise Thee more.
A tender wind, that breathes oi showers,
Uplifts my loosened hair ;
Sweet messenger from Southern bowers,
Half drunken with the breath of flowers,
It gently wakes its lulled powers,
To cool the sultry air.
The beautiful, bright lamps of Heaven,
Like guardian spirits seem;
For every space their lights have riven,
Perhaps, some erring soul is shriven,
Tom hed by their radiance, then forgiven,
White men, unconscious, dream.
The tired, pulseless city sleeps—
Forgotten all Its strife;
Save where some lonely watcher weeps,
And wearily her vigil keeps,
Till Death, with stealthy footstep, creeps,
To free a parting life.
Or where, in secret haunts of crime,
The revellers seek to drown,
With burst of song and maudlin rhyme,
The voice of conscience, mocking time,
And hailing pleasure in its prime,
Keep recollection down.
Serene and calm, the peace I feel,
As the winged hours fleet by;
Homo distant bell sends forth a peal,
And as the soft notes nearer steal,
With bowed and reverent head, I kneel,
Beneath the midnight sky.
_ Fidelia.
[For the Banner of the South.]
THE HERMIT OF THE ELM,
A LEGEND OF PROVENCE.
In the days of the good old King
Rone, whose memory is still cherished in
the hearts of the inhabitants of Provence,
there lived, in the little town of A ,
a young fisherman, by the name of
Jerome. Tall, handsome, and well built,
Jurome was the most expert of all the
young men of the coast, in the manage
mml of a boat, or in the casting of the
net and of the seine, or in the use of the
trident and the harpoon; and many of
the older fishermen envied, but admired,
his wonderful skill and boldness. In
the numerous games and athletic exercises,
in the enjoyment of which the peasantry
of Provence have always been accustomed
to devote their holidays and leisure mo
ments, none had ever excelled him; and,
so loved and respected was he for his
many virtues and good qualities, that the
victory was ever conceded to him in good
grace, and as a matter of course; and
the most ambitious were satisfied to occupy
the second place ; and, so modestly did he
b ar his laurels, that he had never excited
the jealousy of any, while the old men of
the village were proud of his prowess.
As graceful in the dances as he was
strong and expert in the games, and on
the sea, he had caused the heart of more
than one of the pretty girls of the neigh
borhood to beat more quickly than was its
wont, at a word, or a look, fancied to be
more tender than usual. But, Jerome’s
heart was captivated ; he loved Marianne,
the beautiful daughter of his father’s old
friend, Anselme ! Marianne, whose
beautiful eyes shone so brightly under
the pretty little Provencal hat, and whose
slender waist so charmingly fitted the
elegaut black velvet corset. Marianne
seemed to have been made for Jerome,
and Jerome for Marianne. What more
natural than that they should love each
other ?—so much so, that not even a
suspicion of jealousy was awakened in
th( bosom of the other girls ; they took
it, as a matter of course ; besides it had
ever been an understood thing between
the two old friends that thefr children
were intended for each other; and the
time was fast approaching when their
happiness was to receive its crown of
joy ! But, alas ! the course of true love
has never run smooth to the end. It is
like that of the gentle stream first glid
in' through fields of many flowers, which
lavish upon its unruffled bosom their
nuaiy brilliant colors and sweet perfumes,
un il a few ripples upon the smooth sur
face,* warn of approaching danger ; rocks,
t>! ‘ impediments, are ahead! over which
thi hitherto quiet waters are irresistibly
-mpeil and ! Now, they are dark, angry,
loamy, and enshrouded in mist, and seem
as hough they never could again reflect
l lk bright colors of happier days. But
hope on ! hope ever ! other flowery
banks are below; perhaps, brighter than
ever!
Like the threatening ripples, there
aanie rumors of war floating over the
hitherto unruffled happiness of the two ;
Marianne trembled; she scarce knew
why ! Then came news of a more con
firmed character, and her poor heart was
chilled, and almost paralyzed. War is
declared, and sailors are wanted ! Je
rome, the best sailor in the town, cannot
Orders have come; he must join a ship
at Toulon ! Marianne’s heart is broken;
tears fill the eyes of all the family. So
neur happiness ; now so far from it—so
unhappy ’
How swiftly flew the few intervening
hours! Jerome grieved; but his griet'
was tempered by a sense of duty to" his
country, and a hope of coming glory to
lay at Marianne’s feet. The hour has
come ; the last minute counted ; he must
go ! The last farewell is taken on the
quay! “Farewell! father,friends, Mari
anne ; we shall soon meet again, never
more to part!” The anchor is weighed ;
the sails are given to the breeze ; Jerome
waives a last adieu; and the fainting
Marianne is carried back to her father’s
home !
Jerome stood upon the deck of the
ship, as she sped towards the open sea,
ami he watched the loved group until he
could see them no more ; then the houses,
the steeple of the Church, and, lastly, the
blue hills of his home, growing fainter and
more taint, until they melted away, be
ybiid the horizon. He brushed away a
tear, and turned, manfully, to the stern
duties of his station.
It is needless to follow him in all his
adventures upon the sea, or to speak of
the numerous actions in which his ship
had taken part during two eventful
years; suffice it to say, that here, as in
the village, he had earned the love and
esteem of all aboard, officers and men.
At last, in a horrible storm, the brave
ship was cast away upon the rocky coast
of Barbary, and broken to pieces by the
violence of the tempest. All were lost,
except a few of the men, and, among
these, was Jerome, who owtd his life to
his superior skill and strength as a
swimmer. But, he had no sooner reached
the shore, than he and his companions
were seized upon by a crowd of Arabs,
who carried him to Tunis, where, as soon
as they were sufficiently restored to make
a suitable appearance, they were sold as
slaves. Jerome was valued at a very
high price, and a wealthy old Mussulman
bought him.
This old sinner was the owner of a
'beautiful villa, surrounded with extensive
gardens, on the eastern slope of the
charming Bay of Tunis, and within a
short distance of the city. Thither was
Jerome taken, and his work allotted to
him in the cultivation of the gardens. He
was placed, with other slaves, under the
supervision of a Spanish renegade, whose
treatment of those under him was cruel
in the extreme. But Jerome accepted his
misfortunes with all the resignation of a
good Christian, and thought that as God,
in His exceeding goodness, had almost
miraculously preserved his life in the in
numerable battles that had been fought,
and, lastly, in the terrible storm which
had destroyed the ship, and so many of
his companions, more worthy than he,
that he was now justly suffering to atone
for his many sins, and to prevent him
from being over presumptuous; there
fore, he had made up his mind to bear
with fortitude all the evils imposed upon
him, and, as a slave, to do his work faith
fully, and to the best of his abilities.
The Spanish renegade, like all rene
gades, was, apparently, extremely zealous
in his new religion, and, consequently,
doubly anxious to bring others to the
faith which he had adopted, through
policy, more than through conviction ;
for, it is impossible for one, who has ever
been a Christian, to adopt any other faith.
But it is probable he had never been a
good Christian, for how could he have re
nounced his God to please a worldly
master ? Be this as it may, he deter
mined, as soon as he found that Jerome
was a Christian, to bring him, by fair
means, or by foul, to do as he had done.
It would be a triumph for himself, and
would be an additional cause of favor
from the bigoted old Mussulman, his
master. He, therefore, soon set to work,
and boldly and bluntly told Jerome he
must renounce his God, to adore the God
of Mahomet; and Jerome, as boldly and
as bluntly, replied he would do nothing
yf the kind ! Therefore, war was imme
diately declared, but a war in which all
the attacks and blows come from one
side. In ordinary cases, when one party
acts only upon the defensive, and never
returns blows, a home thrust will one day
be given which will settle the question
against the defensive party, however
skillful or strong. A rock, which is con
stantly beaten and battered by the waters
of the sea, be it ever so firm and massive,
is gradually, imperceptibly undermined,
and will, finally, topple over, and be en
gulphed ! But this case was different.
Jerome had help from above—by far, the
best of all helps !
The wretched renegade heaped blows
and hard labor upon the unfortunate
Jerome, and each day tried the effect of
soft words of persuasion and temptation,
or threats, and blows, and privations; but
all in vain ! Each day found Jerome as
firm as Heaven itself against the wiles of
Satan! No! lie would never, never,
yield his faith ! The renegade was en
raged beyond measure, at such unheard
of resistance, or stubbornness, as he called
it, and he repaired to the old bigot to
consult with him as to what should be
MBSBffi Qg fll MUffwr.
done, It was decided that the latter
should condescend to speak to the “dog of
a Christian,” and try the effect of his
dazzling and sharp eloquence, to which
nothing had ever resisted, as it was usual
ly enforced by the keen edge of the
sword.
But he met with no better success.
Offers of freedom, of promotion, of gold,
by way of temptation !—threats of perse
cution, even of death, found the bold and
faithful fisherman invulnerable; not the
slightest impression was made upon him.
“Dog of a Christian !” then exclaimed
the old Turk, gnashing his few black
teeth in his rage, “thou shalt be treated
like a cursed dog, that thou art! See if
thy false God will save thee from the fate
which is reserved to thee ! Seest thou
yon mass of rocks, at the foot of that
steep hill ? Be it thy task to build from
tliem, on the top of the hill, a wall similar
to this one thou seest here. When the
faithful have been called to prayers, on the
setting of the sun beyond the hill, thou
diest the cruel death of the stake, * if thy
task be not accomplished.”
“Thou may’stas well kill me at once !”
boldly replied Jerome ; “for, no living
man can ITTt those immense rocks to the
top of yon hill!”
“Call thy God to thy help, then !”
snecringly replied the old heathen ; then
turning to the renegade : “Ali, on thy
head, see that my order be obeyed!” and
he moved away with a stately step.
A fierce grin of pleasure, like the
laugh of the contemptible hyena, when
about to make his vile repast on the leav
ings of the lion, lit the face of the rene
gade, as he bowed low his head, in token
of his submission to his master, and
showed that he would but too willingly
obey the cruel order, and he went to pre
pare the instrument of torture and death,
after a look of triumph at his victim.
Jerome, calm, but sad, sank upon the
ground at the foot of a large fig tree ; for
he thought it was useless, even to try to
perform the task so cruelly imposed upon
him. Some of the rocks were so large,
that ten men could not have removed
them to the place required. He, there
fore, thought he would prepare himself
the best way he could, to meet the death
that would so soon be inflicted upon him.
He prayed to God, to the Holy Virgin,
and to his good old patron, St. Jerome,
and, having accomplished his duties, he
sat down, and commenced to think of all
the dear ones at home—of his good old
gray-haired father ; of Marianne, his own
beautiful Marianne, whose sweet image
was ever before his eyes. Overcome, by
fatigue of body and mind, the familiar
scenes and faces of home gradually be
came more and more indistinct, and
sleep, unsought, imperceptibly crept over
him. Then Marianne’s image returned
more vividly than ever ; but soon it was
no more Marianne ; it was more like that
beautiful picture of the Virgin he had
always seen in the old Church at home,
and ic seemed to have life ; it smiled
upon him, and, at last, spoke in tones so
clear and so sweet : “Have Faith.” He
awoke, and looked up for the beautiful
Mother, and saw nothing ; but the sweet
voice still raDg iu his ear : “Have Faith.”
He sank on his knees, and thanked God
and the Holy Mother that he now “had
Faith.” He felt that they would liefy him.
The time allotted for his task was fast
approaching; he went to the rocks, and
found an old man, with a long, black
beard, seated upon one of them. He
greeted the old man respectfully, and
then went to a heavy rock to lift it; but,
alas! with his whole might, he could not
even move it.
“Son !” said the old man, “I will help
thee !”
They worked together, and Jerome
found that the very heaviest scarcely had
the weight of a feather! Thus they
worked together, and, as they lifted the
last rock, the sun went down behind the
hill, and the gong called the heathens to
their sinful prayers :
“I may not tarry longer,” said the old
man ; “Farewell 1 but ‘ have Faith!’ ”
Jerome did not suffer the supplice of
the stake that night; but his persecutions
did not cease; the renegade, and the old
Turk, although staggered by Jerome’s
miraculous feat, soon recovered their en
deavors to break down his stubborn faith
by sheer exhaustion of mind and body.
Jerome found he must soon sink under
such ill treatment, and he determined to
risk his life in one bold attempt to flee
from his persecutors, and regain his
liberty. He was well aware that death,
a cruel death, would be the penalty of
failure; “but then,” thought he, “if I
remain, I must soon die, and there is a
chance, if God helps me, to succeed.”
Among the other slaves was a renegade
upon whom Jerome’s wonderful wall had
made a deep impression; and the con
viction had entered his mind, and was
now fervently' rooted, that the huge
stones, which were there to speak for
themselves, could have been raised only'
by a special interposition from above ; for,
it was well known he had received no aid
from any one on the Earth. And, gradu
ally, the old Faith, which his apostacy
could not have entirely eradicated, com
menced again to fill the hollowness of his
heart, into which Mahometanism had never
gained admittance. With the Faith,
came repentance, and the desire to atone,
and, also, the yearning to see, once more,
his old country, and to die among God’s
faith!ul people. He soon found means to
communicate all this to Jerome, and, to
gether, they matured some plan for
escape. Not being suspected, he was not
watched, and was free to go and come as
he pleased, provided his work was accom
plished.
It was not many days before he suc
ceeded in procuring a small boat, which
he concealed in a cove, not far from the
gardens of the Mussulman, and, having
placed in it provisions for several days,
and all else that would be essential, the
time was fixed for that night, one hour
after the setting of the moon.
That evening, Jerome prayed longer
than usual, for he recommended his soul
to God’s mercy, and he prayed for the
intercession of the Blessed Virgin, and of
his good old St. Jerome, who had already
been so kind to him, Then, when he
thought all asleep around him, and when
the young crescent moon had sank behind
the hills, he crept out so slowly, and so
quietly, that scarcely would he have
awakened a mouse, had one been near.
Cautiously, he crept along the ground
and gardens, for guards were here, there,
and everywhere; but, thanks to his
good old Saint, none met him or saw him.
He reached the wall, and, watching for
his opportunity, crawled over like a nimble
snake, so noiselessly, that a guard close
by neither saw nor heard the least thing.
The cove is at last reached ; and hefouud
his future companion waiting for him, and
ready to start. They exchanged a few
words in whispers; the night was dark,
but it was necessary that the boat should
glide close to shore in the shadow of the
banks; for, farther on the water, the
numerous guard boats and ships must
see them. It is true that, near the shore
they incurred the risk of being discovered
by sentinels on the coast; but, better
that, than the boats, for the sentinels
could not pursue them. They passed
within a short distance of several vessels,
and could distinctly hear the men on
board laughing and talking. Suddenly,
the renegade touched Jerome on the arm,
and pointed ahead of them; a barge, pro
pelled by many oars, could be heard
coming towards them, and almost as near
to the shore as they were !
With throbbing hearts, and a desperate,
but noiseless, shove, the two fugitives
ran their small craft ashore, and laid
themselves flat in the bottom! Jerome
said an “Ave,”and called on St. Jerome.
The enemy came within a few yards of
them; they heard the one iu command
order the carmen to stop, and enquire
whether it was not a boat he saw by the
shore ? One of the men replied that if
was a boat which belonged to a fisherman,
who always kept it there. They resumed
their rowing, and, in a minute, were out of
sight.
Jerome did not forget an act of thanks;
the other man, perhaps, thanked his
star!
At last, they reached the farthest
headland; it was soon passed, and the
open sea lay before them! but caution
was still necessary; vessels might be
near them ! They continued for a little
while in silence; then, a light land breeze
springing up, they put up their small
sail, and steered for the open sea, and the
coast of the loved Provence !
When the day dawned, not a vestige of
African land could be seen, and they
were alone on the broad bosom of the
Mediterranean! What were the emo
tions which stirred the hearts of the two
men, can better be imagined than de
scribed. Those contending within the
bosom of the renegade, were uncertain,
conflicting between fear and hope; Je
rome’s, were thankfulness, joy, and hope!
How vividly the scenes of home, and the
smiling faces of the dear ones, came
flitting before his vision ; all there, exactly
as he had left them ; indeed, it sometimes
seemed to him but yesterday he had
parted from sweet Marianne; it required
an effort of thought to realize it was
over two years since he had seen them
all; two or three more days, and he would
pr ess them again to his lunging heart.
But, two years !—how many events may
have happened in two years! His father
was aged ! Marianne—not impossible !
away with such foolish thoughts!
All that day the light .Southern breeze
continued to favor them; the sea was
smooth, the skies were clear and beautiful,
and the light little craft flew swiftly over
the water, scarcely seeming to graze the
surface. Two such days as this, and they
would reach their destination 1
But, alas! this was not to be ! —that
evening the sun went down in a most
gorgeous and magnificent style, midst
clouds of gold and silver, of crimson and
ourple, like a fat and rosy monarch, sink
ing to rest on a bed of down, and velvet,
and satin, surrounded with curtains of
cloth of gold and purple. But, below all
this brilliant array, close down to the
lorizon, there lay a dark and frowning
bank of clouds. Jerome, accustomed to
the sea, was not slow in reading what it
meant; he pointed it to his companion,
and observed:
“That means mischief!”
What are we to do ?” inquired the
other. 1
“Trust to God!” was the answer.
“Aye . aye !” said the renegade, “but,
with an egg shell such as this, it will
hardly save us.”
Jerome thought, too, that there was
much danger ; but his faith in the *ood
Mother, and in the good old Saint with
the long beard, was unbounded, and he
prayed to them not to abandon him now,
after having so far helped him.
Well, the stars came out, but dimly
and gradually disappeared behind the
advancing cloud; the breeze, which had
died away with the setting sun, sprang
up again, but from a different quarter; it
was no longer favorable to them! They
tried to beat first to the right, and then
to the left of the wind; but, it was in
creasing in force, and the sea w T as swell
ing. The sails were too much for the
little craft; a reef must be taken; but the
wind blew stronger, and the sea rose
higher.
“We must take them in, entirely,” said
Jerome, “and try to keep the boat from
the trough of the sea with our oars.”
The sails were soon taken in, but the
wind was now very violent, and the waves
fearfully high and frothy, the crest of
each blown into sheets of spray as it rose
to its apex.
“This is awful!”
“Yes,” observed the renegade; “very
little chance for us! She can’t stand
this much longer.”
“Not much, ” answered Jerome, “unless
we get help from above.”
A squall, heavier than any yet, howled
over their heads, and shrieked as it
passed; a sea, higher than any yet, was
hurled towards them furiously, rolling
before it a mountain of foam. The rene
gade, appalled, let go his oar to cling to
the side of the boat! The next second,
the huge mass had swept over boat and
all, and passed along, roaring as it went!
"W hen Jerome realized his situation, he
found himself alone in the trough of the
sea, with the boat not far from him, but
bottom upwards. With a desperate
effort, he reached it, and clung to it with
a death grip ! He looked around for his
companion, but be was nowhere to be
seen ! Death was now imminent!—the
next wave must sweep him away; thought,
so immensely active at such extreme
moments, flew to God, to Marianne'
to his old father ! But the next wave
came and passed furiously over, then
another, and another, and Jerome still
held on to the boat.
“Oh! Holy Virgin ! oh ! Good Patron
Saint!”—if ever man fervently prayed to
you, Jerome now did ! He raised his
hands to Heaven, and offered lip a vow,
that, if permitted to be saved, and to reach
Provence, he would devote one entire
year to prayer and holiness as an Hermit,
near bis home, unknown to his father, to
Marianne, or to any of his friends.
Scarcely had he pronounced the vow,
ere the wind seemed to subside; the
waves, less angry than before, passed softly
under the boat, without breaking over it;
the rain commenced tailing in torrents,
and seemed, as it fell, to beat down the
sea, and to subdue the winds, and, before
many minutes had elapsed, the air was
calm, the sea with only a pleasant swell,
and the clouds overhead commenced to
break with the dawning of day. As the
sun rose, all around was calm, serene,
pleasant and clear, and, oh! joy! a ship
was seen at a little distance, and coming
towards him; and it bore his own native
flag, the flag of France! They see him ;
they lower a boat, and, ere many minutes,
he walks once more the deck of a French
ship.
The vessel was bound for Toulon, where
it soon arrived.
Jerome did not tarry in that city
his long delayed happiness was, at last,
about to be realized ; a few more hours,
and he will press to his longing heart his
old father, and his own darling Marianne.
What joy to them, too, to see him after
such a long absence; for, he knows how
much they love him. His stride is rapid,
and he sings and laughs as he goes along;
he has reached the high hill that crowns
the village, and he stops to enjoy his own
happiness. Yonder is his own dear na
tive cottage, with the large chestnut tree
close by; yonder is the roof that shelters
sweet Marianne, and the little vineyard
in the rear of it; everything as it was two
years ago. Here is the slender steeple of
the Church, which has that beautiful pic
ture of the Holy Virgin !
“Holy Virgin! good God! my vow! I
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