"Legend or history, history or legend, there are truths to be culled from each, my friends," justly remarks that charming writer, Charles Nodier. A beautiful legend creates its own atmosphere of sweet and moral influences, as a flower exhales its perfume. Happy they who can discern and appropriate them! It is in these old and popular legends that oftentimes will be found infused whatever is most beautiful and pure of a nation's poetry and of its faith; they being, as it were, the expression of a people's thought. For a long time, indeed, those simple traditions of the past constituted, as we may say, the literature of the people's social gatherings, and served an important part in keeping firmly cemented the noble principles of family, of union, and of justice, which formed the triple corner-stone of all well-regulated society. {70} When the trembling voice of the old man was heard, all were silent, and went forth after his narrative with souls deeply impressed, on the one hand, by the punishments which struck down the wicked, or, on the other, softly moved by the justly deserved reward that so often formed the graceful _dénouement_ 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, indeed, their greatest charm. Witness this exquisite legend of hospitality, which for a long time delighted the simple hearts of the peasants of France. In the days of Jesus, there lived on the banks of the Jordan an old man, who might well have been taken for a patriarch of an ancient tribe, whom Death seemed to have forgotten. His name was Philomen, and in his lowly cabin he subsisted solely on the fruit of his little garden, and the milk furnished him by his goat. Now, one quiet evening, some one tapped gently at his door, and an old man, though younger than he, entering, claimed his hospitality. "Most willingly, my friend. My cottage is not large; my garden yields not much fruit; my goat gives but little milk; but, even so, I share it cheerfully with all who cross my threshold in the name of hospitality. Enter, then, good friend, and rest after the fatigue of the day." "But," said the traveller hesitatingly, "I am not alone. I have twelve companions with me, overpowered by weariness and parched with thirst, for we have just crossed the desert." "Let them all come; you are all welcome. All who come hungry to my door are welcome to all I possess." Then the stranger made a sign to his companions, who were silently standing at the door; and he found that they were Jesus and his twelve apostles, whom St. Peter led on their journey, ever walking in advance, he who was one day to open the gates of Paradise.