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EDMONDINE, OR FRIENDS IN THE FOREST.
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S. G. GOODRICH,
AUTHOR OF "PARLEY'S TALES," ETC, ETC.
D. APPLETON & COMPANY,
846 & 848 BROADWAY.
Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1858, by
S. G. GOODRICII,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New-York.
EDWARD MALEEN . . ...
GooD NGHT .............. 39
THE SNOW STORM.. . . . 7
OBEDIENCE ............ 60
THE EXILED FAIRY . 64
THE TWINS .. . 70
LUCKY AND UNLUCKY .... . 84
WHIPPOORWILL ..... . 90
THE BOY THAT WOULD HAVE HIS OWN WAY. .. 98
TIE WAY TO CONQUER. .. . 406
ToM DIPFINGER. . 4 43
LIMPING DICK. .. . 4 46
DAN AND DANIEL. ... .... 422
TIREE WORLDS . 4 26
SILLY SIMON .. . ... 430
THE PEARL OF THE PALACE. .... ..... 40
TIE FLYING HORSE. . .. 465
A ,aETURN FROM A WRONG ROADl. . .. 72
E BLACK BEAST . . .. 478
TOTTERING TIM . . 484
TAT TING I CANNOT DO . . 88
THE FIRE-FLIES ... 93
TRAVELS OF PRINCE POPINJAY. . . 200
ITOMAS TUMBLEDOWN. . . 2
THE PRINCE IN DISGUISE ......... 219
THE TWO DOGS. . .. 229
HEIDELBERG .... . . 235
THE ARTIST LEBiUN . . . 24
FLOWES . . 244
TUn AMBITIOUS MOTH . ........... 250
THE THREE CHAMPIONS. . . 252
TaE DISCOVERY. . . ... .. 274
TALE OF A TULIP .. . 276
LIST OF ENGRAVINGS.
EDMONDImE, OR FRIENDS IN THE FOREST, frontispiece.
EDWARD MALEEN AND SAnQUE, to face page. ... 4
GooD NIGHT. ............ 39
OBEDIENCE. . . . 60
THE TWINS .... ........... 70
EDMOND LACOSTE . 73
LuCKY AND UNLUCKET. . ... 84
YOUNG SOLOMON . . 98
TUOMAS DIPFINGER. . . 413
POOR OLD SIMON. . . 430
THE RUNAWAY. . . .. 47
THOMAS TUMBLEDOWN. .. . ... 214
THE PRINCE IN DISGUISE . .. 249
THE YOUNG ARTIST. . . ... 24
SLANG-WHANG . . 252
THE DISCOVERY. . . 27
EDWARD MALEEN AND SAI
In the southern part of France is an ancient town,
with irregular streets, built mostly of brick, and bear-
ing the name of Toulouse. The river Garonne runs
through it, and this is here crossed by a strong stone
Many years since, on a drizzly winter's day, two
police officers were seen hurrying a boy of some .x-
teen years of age, across this bridge, towards the city
prison. They were followed by a crowd of men,
women and children, who seemed to be much inte-
rested, and about half pleased at what was going on.
The party soon reached the jail, the dark and gloomy
doors of which were opened to admit the officers and
The boy was committed to the care of the jailor, and
being taken to a cell, was thrust in and locked up.
The place was dark, and for a few moments he could
hardly distinguish any object whatever. After a little
space, he saw that he was in a small room, with a
* little grated window, and that there were five or six
human beings in different parts of the place. These
came up to him, and began to talk with him. They
then asked for tobacco and money, and as neither of
these were given to them, they rudely rummaged his
pockets. The few coppers he had, with a penknife, a
small gilt cross, a fish-hook, and some bits of twine,
were speedily taken away. All that escaped the plun-
derers, except his clothes, was a gift from his mother
-a thin gold chain around his neck, to which a locket
was attached. This, being worn beneath a coarse
brown shirt, was not seen, nor indeed could such a
trinket be supposed to be under a so rude garment.
The conversation of the prisoners was by no means
agreeable to the new comer. They used many profane
words, and said many coarse and vulgar things. At
the same time, they laughed and jeered at the youth;
and as he appeared very sober, they seemed to take
pleasure, all the more, in teasing him. After a time,
he retreated to a corner of the cell, where was an iron
frame, with a thin, damp mattress, and having been
told this was his bed, he lay down upon it. He now
clasped his forehead in his hands, and the tears gushed
plenteously between his fingers, but no one saw them,
or heard the sighs which escaped from his bosom.
In about a week the youth was taken from his cell,
and carried before the mayor of Toulouse. This was
a fat personage, wearing a cocked hat, edged with sil-
ver lace, and a blue coat ornamented in a similar man-
ner. His head was gray, and his hair was combed
back so as to give him a proud, important air. The
boy was obliged to wait a full hour, during which time
he was cooped within a small, square seat, enclosed by
a dark wooden railing. At last he was called upon to
stand up, and one of the officers read a paper charging
him with being a poacher, and stealing hares from the
park of the marquis of Tilley a worthy gentleman
living in the vicinity of Toulouse. After this, the boy
was called upon to speak and to tell his name, and give
an account of himself.
"My name," said the youth, "is Edward Malcen.
My father was a fisherman, formerly living on the coast
of Gascony. I ran away from home, three years ago,
with a sailor by the name of Sarque, and I have since
been to sea. I returned to Gascony a short time ago,
and tried to find my father, but he had become very
poor and had gone away, no one could tell me whither.
I joined one of the river boats, and came from Bor-
deaux to this place. One day I left the boat and strol-
led into the country. As I was passing along the road,
a hare ran out of the thicket before me. I took up a
stone and threw it at him, and to my great astonish-
ment I killed him. I had just picked him up, and
while he was struggling in my hands, a person came
along, called me a poacher, and he being joined by
others, I was hurried to prison. This is my story,
Mr. mayor, and I pray you not to punish me for an
accident and not a crime."
The appearance of young Maleen was very prepos-
sessing, and all around at first had a feeling in his favor.
His face was fair, and its expression open and frank.
He admitted that he had done wrong in leaving his
EDWARD MALEEN. 0
father, and this seemed to show that he was not har-
dened in iniquity. But the case had a very different
aspect to the mayor.
Lifting his spectacles up from the bridge of his nose,
the great and wise man spoke thus : "Edward Maleen
- if that be your name, though I doubt it very much
-you are evidently a hardened villain You admit
that you ran away from your parents- and very like-
ly your disobedience has broken their hearts. You
confess that you took the life of a hare-an innocent,
unoffending creature, that had done you no harm.
What deformity in one so young! Alas, these are dread-
ful times ideed! Whath will become of us, if such
acts be permitted to go unpunished? And then- the
hare that was killed, belonged to my excellent friend
the marquis of Tilley! I say to the prisoner at the
bar-and let it thrill through his young bones-- that
hare belonged to the marquis of Tilley! He, sir, is my
friend. He, sir, is the most powerful man in the whole
region around Toulouse. He is of the blood of the glo-
rious marshal Tilley, of historical fame, and not a hair
of his head, nor a hare of his park, shall be injured with
impunity. What will become of society-of France,
of Christendom, indeed, if such things are tolerated in
0 EDWARD MALEEN.
Toulouse! Let the prisoner be taken back to his cell
-and thence let him be led to the galleys, to which he
is condemned for five years! "
Such was the force of authority, such the power of
eloquence, that all around-lawyers, policemen, and
the throng of listening lookers-on-rolled up their eyes
in admiring wonder and approbation. "Five years to
the galleys!" fell like a thunderbolt on the heart of poor
Malecn, and he staggered, rather than walked, to his
cell between his two attendants.
It is necessary here to go back a little in our story.
Young Edward Maleen was not worse than most other
boys, but he had one great fault-he was easily led as-
tray by evil counsellors. It was this weakness which
was the chief cause of his past folly and present mi-
The sailor already mentioned, named Philip Sarque,
was a native of the same village in which Edward Ma-
leen lived. He was a wild, daring and desperate fel-
low, who had been many years at sea, and had visited
various countries. His accounts of his curious adven-
tures captivated the imagination of Edward, and the
latter was easily induced to take a stealthy leave of his
parents and enter a ship at Bordeaux, bound for the
Indies. To this place the youth made several voyages,
always in company with Sarque, who had gained over
him a great ascendency.
As Edward grew older, he began to perceive and ap-
preciate the character of Sarque; he also became im-
patient at the sort of despotic control which the latter
exercised over him. About this time, a desire to see
his parents arose in his heart, and taking advantage of
a favorable opportunity, he changed his ship, andre-
turned to France without letting his old comrade know
With a heart full of regret for leaving his parents, he
returned to his native village, but he could find no trace
of those he sought. All he could learn was that his fa-
ther and mother had been nearly broken-hearted at his
departure, and that misfortunes soon after fell upon
them, and compelled them to change their residence.
To the remembrance of these painful events and the
remorse they excited, Edward was now obliged to add
the consciousness of his own degradation and misery.
The night that followed his imprisonment seemed one
of the longest of the poor boy's life. Sleep did not for
a moment come to soften his distress. How bitterly
did he repent the great error he had committed in
quitting his home and his family! For this act he
had little excuse. His father hand required him to
work at the fishery-but this was necessary to support
the family. His mother had been kind to him; he
haid indeed been her pride and her joy. She had
cherished him in sickness and in health; she had taught
him to read and write; she had given him lessons of
truth and piety, and every night, for years, had come
to his bedside, on his going to rest, to hear him say
his prayers and to invoke Heaven's blessing on his
head. And his sister-his only sister-a year younger
than himself-0, how did her image now come to him
in the dear memories of the past I
These thoughts became agonizing to the youth, as he
lay on his bed. He rose up, and his temples throbbed
as i his veins would burst. "And must I go to the
galleys?" said lie to himself. "For five years must
I be chfined as a slave, living with the outcasts of the
earth and enduring the treatment reserved for the
basest and meanest wretches that exist! 0, I shall
die-I cannot endure'it-and my mother, my sister
Maida, my dear father-I shall never see them again!
11 is too much it is too much!"
The morning came at last, and Edward, pale and
heart-broken, had his head shaved and a dress of
gray flannel fitted to his body. He was then taken out
and conducted to the river. Here an iron ring, at-
tached to a short chain, was put around one of his an-
kles; the chain was then riveted to a strong iron bar,
to which four men were fastened in the same manner.
The five prisoners, thus secured, were then conduct-
ed to a large boat or scow, into which they entered.
An officer, with a sword in his hand, watched over
them, and not a word was said by any of the party.
At a little distance, standing on the bank of the river,
was a crowd of people; who seemed accustomed to
such scenes, and who appeared to take a kind of sad
delight in the spectacle before them.
The five galley-slaves being seated in a line, length-
wise of the boat, now took the oars and rowed it down
the river, a distance of several miles. This gave
Edward time to look at his companions. The person
next him was a pale, thoughtful young man, of dark
complexion and delicate limbs. His arms and hands
were thin and wasted; his breast was sunken, his
cheeks hollow, and his eye, deep in the socket, was
lighted by a kind of feverish brilliancy. Thenext per-
am was a man of nearly fifty years of age, his hair and
beard being grizzled, hut he was of a coarse and athle-
tic form, as if bred to toil. There was a mixture of
indifference and hardiness in his face, which seemed to
say that he was reconciled to his fate. The next per-
son was a man of a rude, dark and malignant expres-
sion. As Edward looked at him, the man gave back a
sort of defying gaze, which made the youth's eyes turn
instantly in another direction. The fifth and last of
the unhappy band, was a man some thirty years of age,
who, even in his degraded condition, had the air and
bearing of a person of good education and refined
For two hours the boatmen continued to pull steadily
at their oars. Edward soon recovered his strength in
the fresh morning air, and being young and strong,
performed his task in such a manner as to excite the
approbation of his immediate neighbour, who bestowed
upon him kind looks and a few encouraging words.
At length they reached a rocky bluff on the side of the
river, and here the boat was put ashore. The men
stepped out, and occupied themselves in filling it with
large hammered stones. The boat thus loaded, they
rowed back to Toulouse, where they took the stones
out of the boat. These, it was now plainly seen, were
to be used in building a wharf or quay along the bank
of the river, in front of the city.
The five slaves were now furnished with a breakfast,
consisting of a loaf of black bread and a jug of water for
each. In half an hour they returned to the boat, and
during the day they made two other trips to the quarry
and back to the city. Their dinner, like their break-
fast, consisted of bread and water. At sunset, they
were taken to a dungeon, dark and damp, and still
chained together, they lay down on their bed of straw.
The night passed partly in sleep and partly in con-
versation between the men. The pale neighbour of our
young adventurer spoke kindly to the youth, and asked
by what means he had been doomed to the galleys.
Edward told his simple story, and heard that of the
others. One sang songs, one told stories, and the
others maintained a gloomy silence, till all were at last
Some four months passed away, during which a
considerable alteration had taken place in the prisoners.
The pale man had become so reduced, that he often
fainted in the midst of his labour. The hair of the gray
man had become white as wool, and his skin had assu-
med a dead and chalky appearance. The malignant
man was thinner in his person, but otherwise he was
little changed. The refined man had sunk into a kind
of sullen indifference, bordering on idiocy. Young
Edward was the only one among these wretched men
upon whom the dreadful nature of their punishment
had not wrought a fearful transformation.
It was now spring. The banks of the river Garonne
were bordered with trees clad in their green livery,
and with flowers which scented the breeze on every
side. In the fields, the farmers and their wives and
daughters were busy gathering the hay, or cultivating
their various crops. All had the aspect of cheer
fulness, of liberty and peace. The birds sang their
songs, and the very air seemed to breathe of joy and
And it was the lot of the five slaves of the galley to
perform their task chained, degraded, emaciated -
with such scenes as these on either side. What- was
bright and joyous to others, was agonizing to them.
On a bright morning of May, as they were passing
down the river, they saw a throng of young men and
women dancing in a field close to the bank. There,
beneath a large oak-tree and near its trunk, sat a cler-
gyman, the mayor of Toulouse, and other personages
who by their dress appeared to be men of wealth and
rank. It was a fete-day, and so near did the boat go
to the scene, that Edward distinctly saw the face of the
burly mayor, who had sentenced him to the galleys.
Little cared or thought the happy revellers of the
wretched slaves who were looking with bitter thoughts
and bleeding hearts upon the joy they could not share.
The mayor cast a glance at them, and a feeling of pride
crossed his bosom as he reflected upon his own im-
portance and power. Some of the gay throng paused
a moment in the dance to see the galley pass, and then
they returned to their sport. Alas, how little do the
happy think of the wretched! how selfish is joy! how
small is the sympathy of those who call themselves
good for those whom the world calls bad! We may
devoutly hope that Heaven is more merciful and more
just; and perhaps the dread record of the jugdment
day will show that often the convict finds more favor
in the eye of God than the harsh judge who dooms him,
or the unfeeling jailor who holds the key of his prison.
At least there wwione among these galley-slaves whose
heart was not hardened, and whose life was not
darkened by long and continued wickedness.
It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of the fete-
day just mentioned, that the galley was toiling up the
river, towards Toulouse, with its usual load, when sud-
denly the sky became overcast, and there was an
appearance of a thunderstorm, advancing rapidly from
the west. As it came near the scene of the dance, a
boat containing the mayor and several other persons
of distinction put off from the bank, and was rowed
towards the city, which was some two miles above, on
the opposite side of the river. As the galley advanced,
it came very near the boat, so that the two were side
by side. At this moment a fierce gust of wind, attended
by thunder and a dashing torrent of rain, broke over
the river. The mayor's boat was instantly upset, and
in a moment, thoughts as fierce as the lightning and
the tempest seemed to seize on two of the galley-slaves.
The gray man and the malignant man, seeing the
mayor and his companions at their side, struggling in
the water and screaming for help, lifted their oars, and
were on the point of bringing them down with murde-
rous effect upon their heads. Quick as- thought,
Edward seized upon one oar, and the refined man upon
the other, and turned aside the blows, which sloped
downward and plashed harmless into the water. With
a sudden frenzy, the two slaves, who were large men
EDWARD MALEEN 10
iland of prodigious strength, disappointed in their ven-
geance, jumped over the side of the galley, and carried
their companions into the river!
With a painful jerk, Edward felt the iron ring
wrenched over his ankle, and, to his utter amazement,
he was free. He was an excellent swimmer, and not
easily disconcerted; he had time to look back and see
his four companions, after a few convulsive struggles,
sink in the water to rise no more. Chained and
heavily ironed, their efforts to save themselves only
hastened their destruction. The mayor and his party,
by the aid of the servants and boatmen, were all got
into the boat, and, amid the rage of the thunderstorm,
rowed towards the city. They had time to see the
drowning of the galley-slaves, and to notice that one
had escaped as if by miracle, unless indeed he should
be drowned, which the terrified mayor hoped would
be the case. They waited a moment to see young
Edward pulling towards the shore, and seemed to
hesitate whether they should not pursue him; but fear
prevented, and leaving the young swimmer to his fate,
they made their way successfully to Toulouse.
In a few hours the storm had passed, and the story
of the mayor and his party had thrilled the good people
of the city with mingled terror and admiration. The
story of the galley-slaves was told with variations and
embellishments worthy the pages of romance. The
wonderful escape of one of the prisoners was regarded
as an act of witchcraft or demonology, calling for re-
venge. The agents of the police were summoned, and,
attended by a posse of at least a dozen volunteers, were
immediately despatched in search of the fugitive. As
to the four wretched men who had suddenly closed
their career in the bosom of the river, no heart had
a thought of pity for them. If unreflecting human
judgment had then fixed their doom in the other world,
we fear that it had consigned them to a perpetual
endurance of punishment, even less tolerable than that
which had been awarded them by the ministers of
Our last chapter left the hero of our story, Edward
Maleen, just escaped from the chain of the galley and
the waters of the Garonne. When he had gained the
bank of the river, he naturally felt lively emotions
of gratitude and delight at a deliverance so wonderful
and so unexpected. But he knew that he would be
pursued, and that his only hope of success in an at-
tempt to elude his enemies must be in immediate and
For a moment he hesitated, balancing in his mind
whether he would not yield to his fate, and give himself
up to the magistrates. His ankle was stiff from long
confinement, and was moreover bruised, and painful
from the wrench of the iron ring as it was drawn off.
A shade of gloom passed over his mind, and he half
muttered to himself. "Why should I try to escape?
Fate is against me--else I should not have been so
unjustly condemned to the galleys. "
But atthis moment he lifted his eye towards the sun,
which was near its setting in the west. The scene was
most lovely. The storm which had just passed was
sinking away in the east, leaving all behind in peace
and tranquillity. The landscape, refreshed by the rain,
seemed greener and more beautiful to Edward than
ever before. And could he relinquish the pleasures of
freedom, and accept the terrible doom of the galleys,
when this very landscape seemed to smile on him and
give him hope ?
SWith this new turn of thought, he cast aside his
despair, and looking around to see in which direction-
he should fly, he observed a thick forest at a conside-
rable distance. Towards this he immediately bent his
steps, walking at a rapid pace. He had not gone far
before he met two men at the crossing of one of the
roads. They gazed at him intently, and evidently re-
marked his galley-dress. They spoke hastily to each
other, and seemed on the point of pursuing him, when
suddenly they changed their mind, and proceeded ra-
pidly towards Toulouse. "So, so!" said Edward;
"you will go to the magistrates, and tell them you have
seen the fugitive goingtowardsthe forest. In twohours
a posse of officers will be there. I must try to disap-
point their calculations."
Saying this, the youth proceeded on his way a short
distance, and then turning about, went straight back to
the river, plunged in, and, after a vigorous effort,
reached the opposite bank. It was now evening, and
he had little fear of being observed. Taking the high
road which led down the river, he travelled five or six
miles; and then coming to a thick copse, he entered it,
and gathering some leaves, laid himself down to rest.
He slept soundly, and when he awoke, the sun was
shining brightly between the branches of the trees.
The birds were all busy, either in attending to their
nests, in smoothing their feathers, or in singing their
morning hymns. "Happy creatures," thought he;
"happy are ye in your freedom; you come and go as
you please, and your little hearts are so full of joy, that
it overflows in music and song. How different is it
with me! I am an outcast-a fugitive! I have done
nothing wrong. I was condemned for a crime I did
not commit. I was chained to the galleys, and made
to suffer as if I were the greatest criminal on the face
of the earth. Why is this? Let me think! After
all, Edward Maleen, are you quite so innocent as you
pretend? True, you did not kill the hare, and that old,
conceited tyrant, the mayor of Toulouse, judged you
wrongfully. He is, no doubt, a greater sinner in the
sight of God than you, though he may be a man of
power, and may wear a coat all covered with silver
lace. Silver lace, and gold lace too, cover a multitude
of sins, no doubt. But, Edward Maleen-come, con-
fess! Did you not run away from your parents Had
they not been good and kind to you? Had they not
fed, and clothed, and taken care of you in sickness
and in health ? Had not your mother prayed for you,
night and day? Had she not poured out her whole
soul in petitions to Heaven to save, to protect, to bless
you? And your kind, sweet, gentle sister-had she
not loved you and blessed you? 0, how often had she
smoothed your errors and follies to father and mother,
and thus saved you from rebuke! And where are your
parents now, Edward Maleen? Where is your angel
sister? Alas, Heaven only knows! Oppressed by
poverty, and broken-hearted by your leaving them,
they are gone where you cannot find them; they may
all be in their graves-bowed to the earth by your
unfilial conduct; or, if alive, they may still be in po-
verty, rendered the more bitter by the uncertainty
which hangs over the fate of a son and a brother! How,
then, Edward Maleen, can you say you have done no
wrong-that you are innocent? Innocent! you are,
indeed, a great sinner. You may plead that you were
led astray by a deceitful companion; you may offer
your youth and thoughtlessness as palliation; but, after
all, you have done a great wrong, and doubtless your
present misery is a just retribution for it. But what is
now to be done? Shall you sink down in despair? or
shall youmake an effort for deliverance? Heaven seems
to have sent you the opportunity; will you not take
advantage of it?"
Having thus taken himself to task, the young man
rose this feet, and after a little reflection, he deter-
mined to proceed on his journey down the river, hop-
ing at last to reach Bordeaux and get to sea. The dis-
tance was great, certainly, and he miglrt have many
obstacles to surmount; but the chance of his detection
would diminish every day that passed and every
mile that he added to the distance between him and
Toulouse. So, taking courage, he followed his course
through the wood as fast as possible.
After a few hours, he came to the verge of the forest,
and saw before him a wide plain, laid out in small
squares and covered with various crops. One patch
was devoted to wheat, another to barley, another to
field-cabbage, another to grass, and so on. The
people-men, women and children-were all at
work, attending to the wants of their various i)lants.
What was Edward to do now? He could not cross these
fields unobserved. If once seen, he would be im-
mediately detected by his galley-dress. There was
no help for it; he must conceal himself till night, and
then proceed on his journey.
He lay down in a thick cover of bushes and tried to
sleep. But now another trouble came : he was very
hungry, and no reflection could appease his appetite.
IHe laid his hand on his stomach, and addressed it thus:
" Be easy, my friend-pray, he easy! I have nothing
to giveyou just now. Wait a while. In two or three
days, perhaps, you may be satisfied. Do you not see,
my dear stomach, that we. are all in trouble-the head,
the heart, the bowels? All these suffer as well as you
-and why is it that you alone make such a piteous
outcry? If you force us upon the enemy, just to
please and gratify you, do you not see that we shall
be taken, condemned, imprisoned and again chained
to the galley? My dear stomach, listen to reason and
The day passed slowly away, and evening at last
came. The youth was about to rise and pursue his
journey, when he heard steps approaching. Through
the dusk and the leaves, he saw a young man and a
young woman who came near, as they followed a sort
of foot-path in the woods. Within a few feet of him
they paused and pursued their conversation. Edward
could not but listen, and he easily distinguished the
"It is a very wonderful story," said the girl; "do
you believe it, Raoul?"
"I know it is true," was the reply, "for Jacques
Petrie was in the boat, and saw it all."
"And you say one of the galley-slaves escaped!"
"One escaped, and the rest seemed to be drowned
-at least, they all sank to the bottom; but I believe
that the evil spirit, after nightfall, fished 'em all out and
set them free."
"Oh, horrible! what makes you think so?"
"It's a secret."
"Tell it to me."
"Will you not reveal it?"
"Promise me faithfully."
"Well-don't be frightened-but last night I saw
something stealing along in the edge of these very
woods, about two miles from here."
How many legs had it? Was it a man?"
"I am not sure."
"Raoul, you are mocking me."
"Not at all. I am in earnest; never more so. I
saw a man in the dress of a galley-slave enter these
"Why did you not give the alarm ?"
"I thought perhaps I was dreaming. I must make
a confession, Clementine. I had been at the little
tavern, the Four Corners-you know-and I had
Irunk more than I ought. My head was dizzy, and
Ssaw double. There seemed to be two moons in the
sky, just as clear as I now see one. Everything had
an odd look. There was a bush by the road side,
which I took for an ass making mouths at me. I gave
it a good cudgeling, before I found out what it really
was. I then laughed, and my senses cleared up. Just
after that, I saw this man enter the wood. I did not like
to speak of it, for fear I should get laughed at by my
companions who drank with me at the Four Corners.
But now that I have heard this story of the galley-slaves,
I am sure that it was one of them I saw. It was just
at dark, but I remarked that his hair was cut short;
he had a close-fitting, dark jacket and trousers, like
those of the galley-slaves I have seen at Toulouse. He
appeared very young, not over sixteen years."
Dear me! if he should be in this wood "
"It is indeed terrible to think of! "
"What do you intend to do?"
"What do you advise! "
"To hold your tongue."
I dare not keep such a terrible secret. Were I to
do so, and were it to become known, I should perhaps
be sent to the galleys myself."
That's frightful, dear Raoul: well, go, if you must,
and tell what you have seen."
Just at that moment, Edward, who had watched and
listened with breathless interest, made a slight move-
ment, and a bush was stirred. The two strangers
quickly glanced their eyes towards him, and seeing a
dark figure, screamed and fled. They were soon out
of view, and silence reigned once more in the forest.
But Edward now saw that he was surrounded with
dangers and difficulties. He knew that a watch would
be immediately set about the forest, and in the morn-
ing a strict search would be commenced. What was
to be done? This was a difficult question, yet he must
immediately answer it.
His resolution was soon taken. He rapidly broke
some boughs off the trees and bushes around, and
bound them together, making a bundle such as the
peasants in this part of France often carry home on
their backs, for thatch. Laying this over his shoulders,
so as partly to hide his head and back, and thus con-
ceal his dress, he boldly passed out into the public
qU EDWARD MALEEN.
road. He met several persons, but as he kept in the
shadows of the moon, he was not particularly noticed.
He continued his journey, and made, his way through
two or three small villages. At last he found himself
very weary; so, throwing aside his bundle, he left the
road and turned into one of the fields. This was a
wide, sandy waste, and had a peculiar aspect of deso-
lation. A few spindling cedars were the only vege-
tation. The place was not inviting, but as it was near
morning, he had no choice. He proceeded a short
distance, and pulling up three or four of the cedars,
made himself a bed and lay down.
Again he slept till morning. At last he awoke, and
at a distance he saw a crowd of persons coming along
the road. He could not be mistaken; here was the
police in pursuit of him. He lay still till they had
nearly passed; but the keen eyes of one of the party
discovered him, and in a few moments the whole posse
were in pursuit. Nothing was left to Edward but
flight. He sped rapidly across the waste, and though
he was weakened from want of food, he easily out-
stripped his pursuers.
He soon came to the river, which here made a
bend, called the Ox Bow. Without a moment's hesita-
tion, he plunged in, and was half across before any
one of his followers reached the brink. Most of them
stopped on the bank, but two or three, bolder than the
rest, dashed into the stream and pursued. Edward
reached the opposite shore, and now, sheltered by
thick shrubbery, made his way across the neck of the
land; and again coming to the river, swam across.
In this he was not seen by bis pursuers, and therefore
he had gained a decided advantage. Leaving the
enemy at fault, he crept along under the cover of
the shrubbery, and coming to an open space, he
was proceeding across it, when suddenly, he saw a
small hut before him and an aged man standing in the
doorway. It was not possible for him to retreat
A sudden thought now struck him. "I will confess
myself a fugitive, and will claim succor of this peasant,"
said he, mentally. He is poor, but poverty may
perhaps make his heart kind. I have found the rich
hard, cruel, unjust; perhaps this man may have learnt
mercy by the very teachings of poverty: and, beside,
what hope have I in this race? I am dying of hunger;
and if I can keep out of the fangs of these hounds at
my heels, it will only be that I may feed the crows
at last. I am resolved. I will go straight to this man
and ask his protection!
No sooner said than done. Edward went up to the
peasant and said : "Sir, I am a galley-slave; I have
escaped; my pursuers are upon me; in the name of
Heaven, give me shelter! "
The peasant stared at the youth as if overwhelmed
with surprise. After a moment, he said : "It is im-
possible, my poor youth; it is impossible! "
How so? I will conceal myself in the cellar."
That would be a poor retreat, for it would be soon
searched; and, beside -"
Beside! what beside?"
You find a man perhaps even more wretched than
"I have a wife and daughter. I had once a son-
alas, I have a son no longer! Had he been here,
perhaps this misery had not fallen upon us. But I
cannot speak of that. We are now poor -very poor.
I have lost my health and strength. My wife's heart is
well-nigh broken. We have been unable to pay our
rent, and our landlord is hard-hearted. Ile will give
us no time, and to-morrow we are to quit this place
and be turned out into the fields, without a home and
without a shelter."
This is dreadful," said young Edward -his brow
becoming clouded, and the tears stealing down his
cheeks. After a moment of deep thought, he said :
Where are your wife and daughter? May I see
"It is not a cheerful sight," said the old man; "but
you may still see them. Saying this, he entered the
hut, and mounted a ladder. Edward followed. There,
in a garret without a window, and almost wholly des-
titute of furniture, was a woman, pale from suffering
and wasted with poverty. She was lying on a mat of
straw, and by her side was a girl some fifteen years
of age. She too was thin and pale, and her exube-
rance of dark hair, curling down the sides of her face
and over her shoulders, gave her a kind of unnatural
look. The place was shadowy and the objects indis-
tinct, but the impression made on the mind of the
youth was deep and startling. He said nothing, but
after gazing around for a few moments, he beckoned
to the old man to follow, and descended the ladder.
As soon as they had reached the floor, he said: "My
dear friend, you are indeed far more unfortunate than
I am. How much is this rent due to your cruel land-
"It is eighty francs."
"And if this could be paid, would you be happy?"
"Not happy, certainly, for there is a grief at my
heart deeper than poverty."
"And what is that?"
"The conduct of an undutiful son."
tell me of that, I pray you!"
"I cannot-it would open wounds to bleed afresh,
and without any advantage."
"Is your son living?"
"No, oh no-he is dead, at least so we have been
told; but do not speak of it. I beg your pardon for
forcing my grief upon you."
Do not, my good friend, do not fear to give me
pain. I find a relief from my own distress, in think-
ing of yours. Would to Heaven I could do something
for you! Let me see! Yes, I can doit. The reward
for my capture will certainly be as much as eighty
francs. I will give myself up, claim the reward, and
give it to this poor family!"
"You will do no such thing!" said the peasant,
with a mingled look of admiration and apprehension.
"And why not?" said Edward.
"I will not accept it."
"We will see! Saying this, the youth left thehut,
and proceeded rapidly backward on the path which had
led him to it. Reaching a knoll which gave him a
view of the country around, he saw the party of pur-
suers, who had given up the chase in despair, now
taking their way towards the public road. Edward
shouted aloud, and was able to arrest the attention of
the posse. They looked around, paused, spoke with
one another, and at last came slowly towards the youth.
He met them half-way.
When they came near, he said : "How much is
the reward for discovering a galley-slave?"
A hundred francs," was the reply.
"I give myself up and claim the reward, on condi-
tion that the money be paid to yonder cottager."
"A good joke, truly! I see no cottager; this is
some trick. "
"Go with me over the brow of yonder hill, and
I will satisfy you that I am in earnest."
The party went accordingly. Edward told his story,
and the peasant confirmed it, at the same time protest-
ing that he would not receive the money, great as was
his want, at such a price. The officer and his men
were not hard-hearted : the French people have lively
and tender sensibilities, and even these rude men look-
ed upon the youth as a kind of hero. The officer said :
"My brave boy, you have done well! This shall be
told to your advantage. I do not know that you can
lawfully claim the hundred francs, but your generous
purpose shall be fulfilled, if I have to beg through the
streets of Toulouse, to get the money for this poor
It was arranged that the party should return to the
city, and that the peasant should go there on the mor-
row, so as to have the whole affair laid before the ma-
gistrate. Next day the city hall of Toulouse was filled
with people, to hear and see what was to be done with
the young galley-slave that had been recaptured.
Edward's story, with many exaggerations, had been
spread through the town, and all were curious to see
a person about whom so many wonders were told.
It was at two o'clock that the mayor, his head pow-
dered and his coat glistening with silver lace, took his
seat, and cast an awful look around upon the assembly.
At his left was the police officer, with Edward in his
charge. Before him, on a low bench, sat an aged
peasant, his hair white as snow, and by his side a
woman, apparently wasted by sorrow. Next her was
a girl of some fourteen or fifteen years remarkable
for a rare and gentle beauty. Behind this group was
a crowd of people, gazing intently and inquisitively
on the scene.
After a time, the mayor, in a harsh tone, com-
manded the prisoner to stand up. Edward arose.
"What have you to say for yourself?" said the
"I will, if your honor pleases, let the officer speak
for me," was the reply.
The officer accordingly recounted the circumstances
which we have just related. The mayor shook his
"wise head and added: "This won't do, my young
spark! There's some trick beneath it, and I am all
the more sure of it, because I can't comprehend it.
I order you back to prison, and then you shall go to
the galleys again. Besides that, I add two years to your
former term; so you have seven years to serve. You
killed a hare, sir, and you are a vile poacher, and it is
Smy duty to see society protected from such dangerous
reprobates. Then you escaped from the galleys, and
this is a heinous offence. Do you think I am mayor
of Toulouse for nothing? I am here to purify and
protect society, religion, morality and law, and I shall
do it, sir-I shall do it, without fear or favor! "
"Will your honor allow me to say a few words "
said Edward, mildly.
"You may speak," said the mayor, "but be
"Well, then, may it please your honor," said the
youth, "when I was first brought before this court, I
was charged with killing a hare. This I did, but itwas
mere accident. I had no evil purpose. To God in
heaven, I appeal for my innocence! Yet I was con-
demned to the galleys. Unjust as was my sentence, I
submitted. I never rebelled. I was delivered, not by
my own act; it was in a terrible moment that two of
the slaves with whom I was chained, jumped over
the side of the boat, intending that all of us should go
to the bottom. Their purpose was partly fulfilled : all
were drowned but me, and I was only delivered by
the slipping of the ring over my ankle. Heaven
seemed thus to offer me a chance of escape, and was
it a crime in me to accept of it? Yet for this you
would sentence me to two years more of servi-
The mayor sat uneasy in his seat, and the whole
assembly seemed touched with sympathy for the young
prisoner. The latter went on.
"Your honor seems to have forgotten one thing.
In the midst of that frightful scene to which I have
just alluded, you will recollect that two of the galley-
slaves levelled a blow, with an oar, at your head.
But for me, sir, that blow had been fatal. It was I,
sir, aided by one of my companions, who turned it
aside, and to me you are indebted for your life!"
That is true! said a rough man in the crowd,-
"that is true, for I saw it!"
"I think," said the mayor, "that I recollect what
you speak of. Are you certain it was you who thus
struck aside the oar?" At the same time the old
gentleman felt of his neck, as if to make certain that
his head was fast to his shoulders.
"I am certain," said Edward, "that it was I,
assisted, as I have said, by one of my companions."
"Well, well," said the mayor mildly, this affair
requires consideration. I will take counsel, and if
what you say is true, why, we will see what can be
At this moment the peasant whom we have spoken
of, arose, and asked leave to say a word. The tall
and respectable form of the man, with his sad aspect,
attracted general attention, and all listened with
breathless interest. The mayor having granted him
leave to speak, he went on as follows :
May it please your worship, I beg, in justice to this
youth to say a few words. lie came to me, when pur-
sued, and asked for shelter. I could not give it, for I
was about to be driven out of the house by my
landlord, because I had not the means of paying the
rent. The youth asked how much I needed. I told
him eighty francs. "I will surrender myself," said he,
"claim the reward, and give it to this poor man, who is
more wretched than I am. No one will believe that
I could agree to this. But I have a sacred duty to
perform. Sir, this young man could have escaped.
lie had baffled his pursuers and was actually free. It
as the impulse of a generous and noble nature that
tiis thus led him back to the galleys. Nor is this the
only good deed he has done. It is proved, before this
assembly, that in a moment of great peril, he saved the
life of the mayor -the very man who had condemned
him unjustly, to the galleys. I dare to ask the mayor
himself, if he would not best consult the interests of
EDWARD MALEEN. 01
morals, 'society and religion, by paying homage to
such virtue, and giving this youth his liberty?"
This appeal fell like a flash of light upon the assem-
bly, and a universal cry arose, "Liberate him! liberate
him!" The mayor, who was a good old gentleman at
* heart, was himself touched, but he was a man of di-
gnity, and did not like to see things done in a hurry.
Rising up with great state, he said, Silence! order!"
and then addressing the grey-haired peasant, he added -
"You have spoken well and like a man of sense.
What is your name?"
"Edward Maleen, was the reply.
"Edward Maleen!" said the youthful prisoner,
trembling from head to foot; "say again, is your name
It is," said the old man, in great surprise.
The youth sprang from the inclosure, and at a single
bound was at the feet of the peasant, exclaiming,
"Oh, my father, my mother, my sister! The quick
intelligence of the audience comprehended the whole
at a glance. There was scarce a dry eye in the assembly.
Some of the women sobbed aloud, and the old mayor
made a fierce attack upon both flaps of his official coat,
in trying to get out his pocket handkerchief, so as to
38 EDWARD MALEEN.
hide the emotion he was ashamed of. After a little
time, he pronounced the liberation of young Edward
Maleen, and dismissed the assembly. The next day
he sent him two hundred francs, with express injunc-
tions to let nobody know it. The people of Toulouse
took Edward and his family into favor. Five hundred
francs were speedily raised for them, and thus the
clouds of seeming despair gave way to a return of joy
and peace I
.11 A I
*II /j -~
4 ~~~ I':i
GOOD NIGHT, MOTHER.
PRESENT, ROBERT MERRY AND IIIS YOUNG FRIENDS.
Merry. How many pleasing thoughts are brought
to mind by that simple sentence -" GOOD NIGHT,
Come, black eyes, and blue-come around me, and
tell me, each of you, what these words make you think
of. We will begin with Mary, here. Now tell us,
Mary, what ideas are suggested by the words "Good
night, mother I"
Mary. Well, when I say "Good night, mother," I
wish she may have pleasant and quiet sleep-I wish
she may be well and happy through the night, and that
she may arise in the morning in good health.
Merry. Yes-that is quite right. Now, Lizzy, it
is your turn.
GOOD NIGHT, MOTHER.
Lizzy. I hardly know what to say. The words
"Good night, mother," make me think of so many
things, I can hardly tell any of them. When I say
"Good night, mother," Iwish that Heaven may watch
over her, that angels may be around her bed and pro-
tect her, and send her beautiful dreams; and I hope
that she will pray for me, and that God will do for me
all the good she may ask of him. 1 cannot tell why,
but night always seems to me something dark and
fearful, as if a cloud came over the world to make us
feel our weakness and our dependence; and then I
feel how necessary to me are the love, and goodness
and protection of my mother; and when I bid her
"good night," the tears come to my eyes, for I cannot
otherwise express all I feel.
Merry. Thank you, my good girl. Now, Ruth, tell
us your thoughts.
Ruth. My brother Ben says I never do think.
Ben. That is really too bad, Ruth!
Ruth. Well, perhaps it is, and it's too bad for you
to tell me that I'm a giddy, thoughtless, butterfly.
Mr. Merry, pray, let Ben tell his thoughts first, and
then I'll tell mine.
Merry. Very well: come, Ben I
GOOD NIGHT, MOTHER. 111
Ben. I thought the rule was, Mr. Merry, always
to mind you. I shall follow it myself, as a lesson to my
Ruth. Oh, brother Ben, that's too sharp! I am
only a little bashful. I was quite wrong, however, as
I am apt to be. Itismyturn, and I will go on. When
I say "Good night, mother," I am usually very sleepy,
and think how good it will be to get snug into my bed.
But by the time I am in bed, my sleepiness is generally
gone away, and I lie awake a long time, thinking about
all sorts of things. I think over what has happened
during the day, and it is very strange that I think most
of those things which have given me pain. If I have
disobeyed my father or my mother, I feel very unhappy.
If I have said anything unkind to my playmates, the
words seem to come back to accuse me. If I have
quarrelled with Ben, I'd give the world to see him, and
make up with him. And so, having thought of a great
many painful things, at last I drop to sleep. And then
I have some very sad dreams. I fancy myself alone,
in a very solitary place; I believe myself far away from
home; that I have got lost, and am wandering in search
of my friends. At last I come to a house; I go in,
thinking it to be my home. I call for Ben, for mother,
42 GOOD NIGHT, MOTHER.
father. I think I hear their voices faintly in some
distant room. I go from chamber to chamber, but find
no one. At last I seem to be walking on beams and
rafters, with a deep and terrible darkness beneath me.
I look down to the awful abyss, and the whole fabric
seems tottering under my feet. The floor on which I
stand gives way, and I am about to fall. I cry out,
"Mother! mother! "and I awake, and there is my
mother before me, giving me a last kiss before she goes
to her bed; and after she has given me her blessing,
and quieted my beating heart, she leaves me; and when
I say, Good night, mother, "-oh, it is too much to tell
what is then in my bosom !
Merry. Very well, my giddy, thoughtless, but-
terfly! Ruth, after all, you do think and feel-though
sometimes it may seem otherwise. I believe we are
all very apt to judge those who differ from us in taste,
impulse, and character, too harshly. If a dog were
to speak his mind of a cat, I believe he would say she
was a mean, sly, selfish, hypocrite. Ifa cat were to
describe a dog, she would say he was a rough, rowdy,
biting, barking, overbearing, good-for-nothing scamp.
Yet Puss, in her way, is a good, gentle, purring,
peaceful creature; and Dash is generous, frolicksome,
GOOD NIGHT, MOTHER.
affectionate and faithful. We could not well get on
without either of them. And so it is with my young
friends : they may have their spats, like cats and dogs;
but I could not spare any one of them. They've all
got a great deal of good in them and anybody will find
it out, if they take the right way. However, I must
not ramble on in this idle fashion. Come, Ben, it's your
turn to talk. I ask pardon for talking so much myself.
Ben. I have no objection to your talking,
Mr. Merry; but in what you said about the cat and
dog, did you mean Lucy and me?
Merry. Well, suppose I did?
Ben. In that case I should like to know which of
us is the cat and which the dog?
Merry. Poh!-poh! you sarcastic rogue! Dear
me! my pupils are getting sharper and keener than
their master This won't do. I must maintain my
authority. Benjamin, that question of yours is easier
asked than answered; so we will let it pass. Now let
us have your thoughts.
Ben. Upon what-the cat and dog?
Merry. As you please. But let me first say one
thing, my young friend. You regard your sister Ruth
as thoughtless. She has given us evidence that such
lILi GOOD NIGHT, MOTHER.
is not her real character. She fancies, perhaps, that
you sometimes think too much; or, in other words,
that you scrutinize too severely what is said and done
by others. You have seized upon an illustration I
just used, and made a personal application of it to
yourself. Your self-love is touched perhaps of-
fended. Instead of seeing it in its true light-as an
illustration of a general remark, and not intended as a
personal reflection you strive to find fault with others,
and work up in your bosom a feeling of resentment
Now, my boy, let me say that this is not right.
Ben. I confess it, Mr. Merry. I believe I am too
Merry. Yes, too critical with others, perhaps not
too critical with yourself.
Ben. Are you offended with me, Mr. Merry?
Merry. Not a bit of it, not a bit, Ben. Offended!
Young people are very apt to think us old ones angry,
when we tell them of their faults. Do you think a
doctor angry with his patient, because he gives him
pills that don't taste good? Which physician is most
truly kind--he who gives bad-tasting medicine that
will cure, or he who gives sweet things that will leave
the patient to die?
GOOD NIGHT, MOTHER. 11o
Ben. I need not answer, Mr. Merry. I know you
are always good and kind, even when you tell us of
our faults. In this case you have pointed out one of
mine, and I assure you I thank you for it.
Merry. Well, well; you always come out right,
Ben! We must have patience with these young people.
As I said before, there is more good in them than some
wise heads think. But enough of this. Come, tell
us, my boy, what do the words "Good night, mother,"
suggest to you?
Ben. It is not easy to reply. Feelings and emo-
tions, rather than trains of ideas, are called to mind
by these words.
Merry. Well, what feelings-what emotions?
Ben. Those of love- gratitude.
Merry. Certainly; but can you not illustrate
Ben. If I could repeat what Mary, Lizzy and Ruth
have said, I could do so.
Merry. Very well indeed, my boy; very well!
See here, my good girls! Here is master Benjamin,
who, everybody knows, is a good scholar-he cannot
find better words than yours, to answer the question
that has been put to him.
h6 GOOD NIGHT, MOTHER.
All the girls. Thank you, Ben-that is a real
Ben. It is no more than you deserve.
Ruth. And do you really include me, Ben?
Ruth. Oh, how proud I am! for though Ben and I
have a breeze now and then, I must confess that I'd
rather be praised by him than by almost anybody else
in the world.
Here Ben gave Ruth a very funny look; Mary and
Lizzy seemed satisfied with themselves and every-
body else; and old Robert Merry, who was very
sleepy, took a candle, and saying: "Good night,"
THE SNOW STORM.
I will now tell you an American story. There was
once a little girl there by the name of Cornelia, who
was very fond of having her own way. In this, she
was no doubt very much like many other girls, and
boys too. But Cornelia carried her self-will very far,
and I am going to tell you how it once brought her into
You must know that she lived in the western part of
Connecticut, and near the ridge of mountains which
separates that state from New-York. The village in
which she dwelt was called Ridgebury, and if you ever
visit the place, you will sec that it skirts the woods lying
at the foot and up the slopes of an elevated mountain.
These woods are filled with chestnut, walnut and but-
ternut trees, and to gather their fruit, the children of the
vicinity often visit them.
THE SNOW STORM.
Now at the time of which I speak, it was late in
december, but as yet there had been no snow, and very
little cold weather. The season was, indeed, uncom-
monly mild and pleasant. Well, on a certain day,
Cornelia had arranged, with some of her young friends,
to go into the woods a-nutting. She was very impa-
tient to have the day arrive, and when at last it came,
she was in high spirits. The sun rose fair, and seemed
for a time to promise a beautiful day, but soon a cloud
in the west rose up gradually and spread over the sky.
At the same time a peculiar chill was in the air, which
made the farmers shake their heads, the birds seek
shelter in the forests, and the old hens step slow,
high, and long-all the wlile uttering low and scarcely
Cornelia's father was what is called weather-wise,
and lie advised his daughter and her companions not to
carry out their plan-saying that he believed it was
going to snow. Some of the children were disposed
to adopt this advice, but Cornelia was determined to go
-rain or shine.
"Pray, father, said she, "what if it does snow, we
don't care! "
"But," said the old farmer, "you may take cold, or
THE SNOW STORM.
you may suffer from cold, or you may get lost in the
woods. It is folly to seek pleasure when you are likely
to get nothing but pain. "
All this had no effect upon Cornelia; she had made
up her mind to go, and nothing could stop her. So at
last she set off with her half-dozen companions. Full
of expectation, they went along with hops, skips, and
jumps, and at the end of two hours they were in the
woods. All had their baskets, and, the chestnuts being
tolerably thick, they had pretty good picking, even
though the squirrels had been for a full month laying in
their winter stores. So on they went, from tree to tree,
gradually filling their baskets, and their mouths too-
if the truth must all be told.
Thus the early part of the day was passed, during
which time the gay and thoughtless party had buried
themselves in the thickest part of the forest. So busy
were they, that no one took notice of the path by which
they came, or the direction in which they had gone.
Nor did they, for some time, observe that the clouds had
become dark, and that fine flakes of snow were sailing
down from the sky, and lighting softly and stealthily
upon the ground. When snow begins in this way, it
forebodes something serious. It is with snow storms
THE SNOW STORM.
as with people : if they set out with big, blustering
pretences, they are likely to wind off with a mizzle, or
a drizzle; but if they take it quietly at the start, say
little and work steadily-before they get through, they
are apt to do a great business.
Well, on the present occasion, the snow storm did
not advertise in the newspapers; it did not put up a
tall board, saying, "Look out for the engine while the
bell rings!" it did not send notice by that strange,
incredible, unaccountable creature, which the editors
work so hard, and which is called The Express; in
short, it did none of these things. So quietly did it fall,
that our little gypsies did not remark what was going
on till the snow had fallen an inch deep. Then they
began to look about, and pretty soon they perceived
that the flakes now filled the whole atmosphere. So
thickly did they fall, that it seemed us if they were
shovelled down from snowbanks in the sky.
At first the girls all began to laugh, and then they
began to be serious, and ask what was to be done.
"Where are we?" said one. "Which way shall we
go?" said another. These were very important ques-
tions, for the reader will observe that when we pro-
pose to set out for any particular place, it is somewhat
THE SNOW STORM. 51
essential to know the direction in which it lies. Now
the little girls wished to go home, but which way
home lay, not one of them could tell. They had been
so busy in their sports, that they had taken no heed of
the points of the compass, and no notice of the paths
by which they had reached their present position. And
this, by the way, is very apt to be the course of young
people, not only in hunting walnuts and chestnuts, but
in pursuing other pleasures. They run along,
thoughtless and joyous, dreaming only of amusement;
they turn hither and thither; they do this and they do
that; perchance they disobey their parents, or neglect
their duties, or get the habit of telling falsehoods, or
become deceitful, unkind and treacherous. So they
go on, till at last a day of storm comes; then they find
that they are disliked; no one loves them; no one
trusts them. They feel alone; they want help, they
want friends-but none are at hand. How dark is
all around, at such a time! 0, how do they now
yearn to get back to the scenes of peace, and inno-
cence, and love! Yet how often is it that they find they
have wandered too far to return; they know not the
way-they are lost, and nothing but storm, and
tempest, and sorrow, are before and around them.
THE SNOW STORM.
But we must go back to our little friends. They
stood close together, like a flock of startled quails, for
some time looking in each other's faces-and pretty
long faces they were. But while they stood still, the
snow kept on falling. By this time it came in one
wide sheet, while at intervals, rowdy gusts of wind
seized upon the tops of the tall trees, and made them
bow and toss as if they were about to dance a polka.
One might have imagined that the forest was a giant's
head of hair, and an angry barber was combing it;
and I might say powdering it, too--using a plenty of
snow for the purpose. At last, Cornelia led off, and
the rest of the party followed her. For some time they
threaded the thickets, in silence following their leader;
but at the end of half an hour, they found themselves
returned to the very spot from which they started!
Again they set out, and by good fortune found the path
by which they had entered the wood. They now
scampered along pretty merrily, though the snow by
this time was six inches deep.
They finally came to a place in the woods where two
paths- one leading to the right and one to the left--
lay before them. Which of these were they to follow?
That was the question. Cornelia said they must take
THE SNOW STORM.
the left; all the other girls judged that the one to the
right should be followed. And now Cornelia's habi-
tual obstinacy and self-will took possession of her.
And I may as well say, in passing, that if any one has
a fault, it is very apt to come in the way at the very
worst time. I have often noticed, in travelling, that if
a wheel or a bit of harness has a flaw or a weak spot, it
is sure to give way when you are on a hill side, or at
a broken bridge, so as to give you a turn-over, or at
least a tumble. Just so it was with poor Cornelia, as
we shall see. Her fault, on the present occasion,
brought her into great difficulty and danger. To tell
the truth, she was by no means sure which was the
right road; but as she had given her opinion in favor
of that to the left, her pride induced her to speak with
great confidence. At last she said pettishly : "Well,
girls, I shall take this path, and youmay doas you please!"
Saying this, and not deigning to look behind her, she
struck into the left-hand path, and proceeded on her way.
The other girls, after a moment's hesitation, took the
right-hand road. It was a long way home, and the
snow was deep; but at length, just at evening, they
reached the village, and went to their several dwellings.
They called by the way, and told the parents of Cor-
THE SNOW STORM.
nelia what had happened, though they seemed to have
no apprehension on her account. But night soon set
in, and Cornelia did not come. Then her parents
became anxious. The father went to the door several
times; and the mother looked up repeatedly from her
work, and listened. The old dog, now fat and
wheezy, would not sleep by the fire-side as usual, but
he sat out on the door-steps and kept his ears erect, as
if uneasy or troubled. Finally the farmer took his hat
and went out. It was not dark, for the world seemed
dimly lighted up by the snow. Never was there a
more dreary night. The snow-flakes came swift and
steady, and the bitter wind- chill and screaming-
tossed it hither and thither, now making it spin along
the roof, now chasing it into the angles of the house,
and now making it dance like ghosts along the tops
of the half-buried walls and fences. Suddenly the
thought struck to the heart of the father, "Perhaps my
child is wandering in the forest, this terrible night!"
He went back to the house, almost faint with apprehen-
sion. He took his overcoat and stout cane, while the
eye of his wife rested upon him; she saw in a moment
what this meant. She sprang to his side, and gazed in
his face, now pale and terror-stricken.
THE SNOW STORM.
'"You are right, you are right!" said she; "go, but
do not go alone. Heaven have mercy upon our child!"
Leaving the mother in a state of dreadful anxiety, the
farmer called upon his nearest neighbors, and in a
brief space, five brave men set out in search of the
missing girl. They had got the best account they
could from the companions of Cornelia as to her pro-
bable route, and, impelled by their fears, pushed as
rapidly forward as the encumbered state of the roads
would allow. Breathless, and oppressed with terrors
which he did not dare to speak, the father of the lost
child led the way.
Leaving the party for the present, we return to Cor-
nelia. For some time after her separation from her
young friends, she went steadily forward, not turning
to see if they followed her; but at last she became
uneasy, and paused to listen. For a moment she
thought of turning back and following her friends, but
then again her pride interfered. What! said Pride,
whispering in at both ears, "what! you, Cornelia
Blossom-you turn back? You confess you were
wrong? You be laughed at by half a dozen chits, not one
of them so smart as you? Do this, and you lose your
place as queen of the village for ever! "
TIE SNOW STORM.
Now perhaps, gentle reader, you might think it
quite as ridiculous, quite as humiliating, to be led
about by that miserable, cross eyed fellow, called
Pride, as it would be to follow the advice of your
friends. For my part, I think it is very silly indeed, to
let Pride govern us, especially as Pride is very apt to
make us do dirty and mean things. No doubt our
poor friend Cornelia was very foolish in listening to
thle fellow; but girls will have their whims, even though
they pay dearly for it. Having finally decided not to
go back, she went as rapidly forward as she could, and
in spite of the deep snow, made considerable progress.
But what's the use of getting ahead, when we go in the
wrong direction? Poor Cornelia! you were all this
time going from home, and not towards it; every
step you took carried you farther and farther from
the object you sought!
Nevertheless, the girl kept on, till at last evening
began to set in. At the same time the storm increased,
and' the path became more obscure. Finally it va-
nished entirely, and a trackless forest was before her.
Her courage now began to give way. She stopped
and burst into tears. Yet what cared the trees or the
tempest for this? What sympathy had the snow, or
THE SNOW STORM.
the wind, or the roaring forest, for her? 0, where
was mother, where was father, then? It is in the time
of trouble that our hearts perceive the truth; that we
see the value of friends and parents whom we have,
perhaps, spurned in the hours of prosperity. What a
feeling of contrition now stung Cornelia's bosom, as
this thought crossed her mind. "0," said she men-
tally, "how often have I disobeyed my parents; how
have I set at nought their counsel. Here, this very day,
did I reject the advice of my father, and come upon
this unlucky expedition against his warning! Andnow
perhaps, I am to perish in this forest as a punishment
for my folly and disobedience. Dear me-what shall
I do-what shall I do?" The poor girl's voice was
lost in the creaking and groaning of the tr and
the hollow roar of the winds.
For a short time she stood still, wringing her hands
-and then she grew angry. "It's too bad-it's too
bad!" said she, stamping her foot, and throwing her-
self down upon the snow. But this did not feel good to
her bare flesh, and as the stones and trees did not ex-
press any pity or come to her help, she thought best to
help herself. So she got up, brushed off the snow,
and again set forward. But whither she went she did
THE SNOW STORM.
not know. Her mind was so bewildered that she
hardly sought to pursue a definite route. She wan-
dered hither and thither, and at last a terrible fear came
over her, and throwing her hands wildly in the air:
"Must I indeed die?" said she, "must I die in this
terrible wilderness? 0 mother! help! help! The
piercing cry was caught by the wind and echoed along
the hollows of the forest, but the snow-drifts sported
not the less merrily, and the tops of the trees revelled
not the less madly in the gale.
Poor Cornelia! you are indeed lost, if One who hears
the cry of His children come not to thine aid! She
was now nearly fainting. Her brain soon whirled, and
then a eadful stupor began to creep over her. Her
feet amhands were numb; her heart seemed scarcely
to beat. Her tongue could hardly utter audible sounds.
The trees seemed swimming around her. She paused;
her limbs trembled, and faintly exclaiming, "Father!
father! father!" she fell upon the snow. Loud,
cold, and indifferent was the storm that dreadful night.
What cares the snow-drift, whether it becomes the
winding-sheet of a blighted leaf, a perished flower, or a
lost child? Can trees hear the cry of distress? Will
the wind listen to the wail of despair? No-but a
THE SNOW STORM.
father's ear is keen, and a father's car caught the last
appeal of the wanderer. Heaven guided the faint
sounds, "Father! father! father!" to his heart. He
heard the cry. He rushed forward, and clasped his
child in his arms. He was not too late-and we need
not tell the rest of the story.
LAURA, JANE AND DOLLY.
Jane. Oh you naughty Dolly, what must be done
with you ?
La a. Don't speak so harshly to poor Doll : she's
a pre#little creature. See what red cheeks she has
got, and how her hair curls, and what a nice frock she
Jane. But because sheis pretty, and has red checks,
nna a nice frock, -all that is no reason why she
should leave her clothes about the room, and get ink on
her dress. I have told her of her faults fifty times,
and she is just as bad as ever. What shall I do with
Laura. Really, Jane, you play the Doll's mamma
II ~ ~ \\
j I I'I 'I t
!;i r (fi I
very well indeed. I should think you had learned your
lesson from life.
Jane. What do you mean?
Laura. Why, Jane, have you not the same faults
that you impute to poor dumb Dolly ? Do you not too
often leave your clothes helter-skelter about the room?
Do you not get ink on your dress? Are you not very
careless in this way, and has not your mother tried to
cure you of these faults? And when she blames you,
do you not go up to her and smile in her face, and does
she not look at your rosy cheeks and your curly hair,
and forgive you?
Jane. Yes-that is all true-but I do one thing
Laura. What is that?
Jane. I ask forgiveness, and promise to do better.
Laura. Do you keep your promises?
Jane. That is a hard question.
Laura. Well, it is a good thing to ask forgiveness.
for it shows that we have a sense of our faults, ana a
desire to do better. Now, Dolly, look at your mamma
there! Come, lift up your little hands, and beg her to
forgive you. See, mamma, how she pleads! Can you
resist these beseeching arms, those downcast eyes?
Jane (in a severe tone). Ah, Dolly, Dolly,- this
is all very well- but how many times has this hap-
pened before? How often have you asked forgiveness
-how often have you promised never to do so again,
and how often have you broken your word!
Dolly. (Laura speaks for her, in a little fine
voice.) Oil, do forgive me, mamma, I really, positively
will never, never do so again.
Jane. You have told me that forty times, and forty
times you have deceived me.
Dolly. Well, mamma, is not that right?
Jane. Right? Is it right to be careless in your
habits, and to ruin your dresses? Is it right, when
told of your faults to promise to do better, and then to
break your promise?
Dolly. I thought it was right.
Jane. Indeed? How came you to think so?
Dolly. Why you are my mamma, you snow, and
I thought it was right to do as you do!
Jane. 0 you minx-what do you mean ?
Dolly. Oh, pray, mamma, don't look at me so fier-
cely: but really, I saw that you were very careless; when
rebuked for it, I saw that you promised your mother
to do better, and yet I saw that you paid no attention
whatever to such promises. Well, I am your poor
little Dolly : a mere child, and very naturally I take
example from you, who are my mother. And thus it
is I am thought to be careless, to make promises and
then break them.
Jane. This is worse and worse. Go to bed, Dolly
Dolly. 0 dear mamma!
Jane. Don't dear me- go to bed!
Dolly. Well- I'm going (pretends to cry.) Good
Jane. Good night.
Dolly. Won't you kiss me, mamma?
Jane (holding out her hand--takes Dolly and
kisses her). Good night.
Dolly. Pray, do forgive me, mamma! I will never
follow your example again.
Here Jane and Laura look at each other, and
burst into a laugh.
THE EXILED FAIRY.
Far, far away, there was once a lovely spot, encir-
cled by the sea. No vessel had ever found this en-
chanted island; nor had any human foot disturbed its
peaceful haunts. It was the. abode of perpetual sum-
mer; fruits and flowers ever hung.from the trees, and
the music of bright-winged birds never ceased to 1ill
the air with melody. The shores vere covered with
gorgeous shells, and the waves that rippled to the beach
seemed to linger among them as if enchanted by their
beauty, or perchance whispering in their ear some
fond legends of coral groves and pearl-built palaces
they had visited in the deep bosom of the sea.
It was indeed a charming island, small in extent, but
containing every thing that could delight tl heart.
All around was the work of nature, save Orming
alone; and this was a temple, reared, as if by the hand
THE EXILED FAIRY.
of magic, upon the verge of the water. During the
day, it seemed like the palace of silence, for not a
moving thing was seen, not a sound was heard within
its halls. There was an air of repose in every thing
around, as if even the inmates slept and none would
disturb their dreams. But when night came; the
palace shone with a light more beautiful than that of
the sun, moon, or stars.
This proceeded from a string of seven beautiful
pearls, suspended in the hall like a chandelier of
seven moons. By'the soft, yet glowing radiance that
thus illumined the place, seven beautiful forms might
be seen moving, sometimes hand in hand, as if march-
ing to music, and sometimes whirling in a merry
dance. Their whole life seemed devoted to enjoyment.
They frequently turned their eyes upon each other
with affection, and seemed to find more bliss in seeing
each other happy, than in all the other delights that
Thus years passed away, and no sorrow came to
disturb the happiness of the seven sister-fairies. Each
sight and sound seemed endowed with the power of
inc g their enjoyment. They were never sepa-
rated; but, like the seven pearls that lighted the palace,
THE EXILED FAIRY.
tied by a silken thread, their hearts were bound to-
gether in perpetual concord.
But at last a change came over the fairy isle. As
the maidens were tripping along the shore one moonlit
night, they heard sweet sounds, which seemed to issue
from a cave at the water's edge. They paused and
listened; it was a soft and plaintive melody, and
touched the hearts of the fairies. They looked over
the bank, and there was the form of one like a youthful
prince; yet he seemed a dweller in the sea. He held
a brilliant shell in his hand, and, by placing his lips
to this, he produced the most delicious music. When
the fairies saw and heard this spectacle, they all fled,
save one, the youngest and most beautiful of the group.
The sea prince continued his song, and praised the
youthful fairy. She listened awhile, and then, half
pleased and half frightened, she ran away.
The next evening the young fairy said nothing to her
sisters, but alone she went to the shore, where she had
seen the strange minstrel of the waters; he was not
there, but she heard the melody that had pleased her
the night before. She followed the sound, and came
at last to a magnificent cave, which opened from the
surface of the water. She entered, and a scene of
THE EXILED FAIRY.
great splendor was presented to her view. A vast
arch rose above her, and shone with a profusion of
pearls, and diamonds and precious stones. While
she was looking around with admiration, the prince
approached her. He spoke to her in gentle terms,
and welcomed her to his palace. He then led her
through a succession of brilliant chambers, all blazing
with jewels. At last he said "Gentle fairy, I'am a
king of the sea; this is but one of my thousand palaces.
Far away in the deep, I have still more splendid halls
than these. Yet I am alone. I need but one thing
for my happiness. Be thou my queen, and my bliss
will be complete."
Nay" said the fairy; 1 am one of seven sisters;
we are bound together by a tie of affection which is the
source of our happiness. If I were to leave them, the
charm would be broken, and the happiness of my sis-
ters and the joy of the fairy isle would depart for ever."
Fear it not! said the king. ''And why sacrifice
yourself to a fantasy ? You arc qualified to shine in a
wider and more brilliant circle than this. Here you
are a simple fairy, and bound to a narrow routine of
pleasure. Why not be a queen, and become the
brightest ornament of a monarch's dominion ?"
68 THE EXILED FAIRY.
This flattery touched the heart of the fairy, and she
seemed to consent. The king took her hand, and was
about to lead her to a skiff made of mother-of-pearl,
that was drawn up on the beach. He then suddenly
paused, and said, "Go to your palace, sweet maiden,
and bring me one of the seven pearls that is suspended
in the hall."
t Nay," said the fairy, somewhat startled. "I could
not divide that string of pearls. I have been told that
it is an amulet, and holds the spell of happiness that
reigns in this island."
One of them is yours," said the king; take that,
and leave the rest. These will secure the peace of
your sisters, and that one which you take with you,
will insure your own."
The fairy hesitated; but her heart was beguiled by
the soft words of the king. Flattery and ambition had
triumphed in her mind; so, careless of the happiness
of others and thinking only of herself, she departed to
obtain the pearl. Her sisters were absent from the
hall, and she slipped it from the string. She ran to
the beach. The king seized her trembling hand; they
entered the skiff, and glided away over the waters.
On they went, joyous, for a time; but suddenly the
THE EXILED FAIRY.
boat vanished, and the fairy found herself in the sea.
The monarch had disappeared, and the pearl was also
The unhappy fairy now strove to return to the island;
but she moved slowly and painfully over the waters.
After many weary hours, she came near the shore,
but all was changed. In the place of the palace was a
dreary ruin; and apes grinned and chattered among
the trees, in lieu of the nightingales. Serpents were
seen creeping among the shrubs, and the beautiful
sea-shells were turned to lizards. The fairy herself
seemed to have lost her power of gliding through the
air, and could not raise herself from the water. Ever
after, she seemed to be but a mermaid, moaning amid
the currents and whirlpools that chafed the rocks of
the fairy isle. The mariner, as he passes by, may
sometimes catch the notes of a plaintive melody, to
which the roaring waters furnish a melancholy chorus,
About sixty years ago, during what is called the
Reign of Terror, in Paris, a French gentleman named
Lacoste, fled to the West Indies, to escape the destruc-
tion with which he was threatened by the Jacobins. He
contrived to elude the police who were seeking to arrest
him, and with his family of two young children- a son
and daughter-he made his way to the little island of
Here, in a small valley, enclosedbyrocky eminences,
he purchased a plantation and devoted himself to its
cultivation. For a time he forgot the turmoils of his
former life, and found peace and contentment in the
tranquillity and seclusion of his remote island-home. His
children, now about ten years old, contributed largely to
his happiness. They were twins, and though nothing
could be more unlike than they were in character and
complexion, yet they seemed bound together by a tie
I I ---------- ...~c--.. --. -.
of affection which nothing could sever. They were
seldom apart, and their sports all bespoke the intimacy
of their hearts. They were often seen running about,
hand in hand, or reading the same book, or walking
together with a palmetto leaf or a light piece of
drapery over their heads, shading them from the
sun like an umbrella. Such was the nature of this
affection, that it attracted the observation even of the
servants employed about the plantation, and as all
emotions tend to propagate themselves, so the loves
of these two children seemed to cheer and soften the
manners of the people of the valley.
It may well be supposed that the heart of the father
was bound up in his offspring-for they were all his
departed wife, whom he had dearly loved, had left
him. But the joy he found in them was not sufficient
to exclude other ideas. He had formerly been engaged
in public affairs, and had indulged in ambitious
dreams. After a time, these fancies came back, and
hearing that France was now raised to a pitch of great
power, under the guidance of Napoleon, he determined
to visit his native country, in the hope of gaining that
eminence to which he had formerly aspired .
Having placed his children under a goveriess and
regulated the affairs of his plantation, he set out for the
neighboring island of Guadaloupe, and from thence he
sailed for France. Arriving at Paris, he sought an inter-
view with Bonaparte, then first consul, by whom he
was favorably received. Having obtained an honorable
and lucrative situation under the government, he now
thought of sending for his children. But unhappily,
his mind had become absorbed by the stirring events
in which he was involved, and from time to time he
delayed the execution of this design.
Thus some months passed away, and the twins-
Edmond and Edmondine--happy as they generally
were, wearied and embarrassed their governess with
questions about their father. "Dear me when will
he come? How I long to see him! Will he come
next week? Will he come next month? Oh, I am
afraid he has forgotten us, and lie will perhaps never
come! Such are examples of the teasing inquiries
- a hundred times repeated- of the children respect-
ing their father.
Still, he did not come, and though he sent them
letters, at first very often, these suddenly cease, and
for five long years no communication, no certain
intelligence as to M. Lacoste was received at the plan-
station. During this period, a great change had taken
place in the valley. The twins had grown to the
age of sixteen, and Edmond began to show the
marks of manhood. His character had become some-
what developed, and showed symptoms of a bold and
almost reckless daring. His black hair, dark, deep
eyes and brown complexion, with a small but power-
ful frame, seemed made to match a spirit of un-
common force -and decision. His habits liad" als
changed. He was no longer content with childish
sports and the society of his sister. He loved to wan-
der alone in the forests, to climb the hills, and to
stand upon the cliffs and look over tie-sea. Forwhole
hours he would sit upon the rocks that overhung
the deep, seeming to enjoy a kind of trance i ie
listened to the ceaseless roar of the surf below.
In all things, Edmondine was the reverse of this.
She was of slender form, blue-eyed and flaxen-haired.
She was gentle, kind and coelttmplative. She loM
flows and birds, and the smooth lawn and tranquil
rivulets of the valley. Yet such was the power,
exercised through her gentle that shj as fled
the Queen of the Vale. Even the rule workmen
obeyed her, as if she had really been their queen. The
birds were accustomed to come and pick up seeds and
crumbs which she scattered at her feet-thus losing all
fear in her presence. Even Edmond, who was now
headstrong to all others, was gentle and yielding
But while the twins had thus advanced towards ma-
turity, the plantation had become a scene of decay and
disorganization. The workmen, being ill directed and
ill paid, had mostly quitted the place. The overseer had
gone off, leaving behind him general poverty and ruin.
The buildings were either prostrate or falling to pieces.
The governess, born up by steady principle and love of
her pupils, had sustained her courage and her strug-
gles, but now, without hope of improvement, she was
nigh yielding to despair.
In this crisis, she took counsel of her pupils. Ed-
mond at once declared his determination to go to Paris
and seek his father, and then to find the means of
sending for his sister. He accordingly went to Guada-
loupe, where he took passage for France. Arrived in
Paris, he began his inquiries. For two months his
researches were in vain, but at the end of that time,
he met with a man who told him that his father was
imprisoned at the castle of Vincennes.
On making still further inquiries, he ascertained this
to be true. M. Lacoste had been favored by fortune
for a time, and he rose to a high station. But he
was at last charged with being concerned in one of
the conspiracies against Napoleon, who now wielded
the destinies of France as emperor. In a hasty trial,
he had been sentenced by a prejudiced court to per-
petual imprisonment, and he was now wearing out his
life in fulfilment of this dreadful sentence.
It is impossible to describe the feelings of Edmond,
when he heard the particulars of this sad history.
With the generous promptings of a noble heart, he
believed his father to be innocent, and of course con-
sidered Napoleon as a harsh and cruel oppressor. He
sought admission to his father's prison, but was denied.
In the agony of his mind, he wrote the dreadful
Story to his sister. He then cast about on all sides for
the means of deliverance for his father. Everywhere
'he was baffled. He lost his temper, and soon the few
friends who had listened to him or tried to serve him,
closed their doors against him.
One evening, after he had been brooding over these
things, he was walking along an obscure street, when he
was overtaken by a man wrapped in a caban or military
great coat. The stranger said : "Your name is
Edmond Lacoste, is it not?"
"You seem to know me, and therefore need not
ask the question" -was the reply.
"Well"-said the other-your father is impri-
soned, unjustly imprisoned. Would you desire his
"You mock me?"
"Not at all. Are you willing to make an effort to
free your father, and at the same time to free your
Suppose I am, what then!"
"Do you promise your assistance?"
"Yes, if I approve the plan. "
"Well-listen. This kingdom is now crushed
beneath the heel of an usurper. The throne of France,
which belongs by divine right to Louis-son of saint
Louis-is desecrated by a Corsican adventurer.
Will you assist in striking him to the earth?"
"And if I do, you promise that my father shall be
"Certainly, if we succeed."
"Well- I will think of it. When shall I see
you again ?"
"There is no time to think: now or never! Will
you go with me?"
Saying this, the man took Edmond's arm and gently
led him forward. They proceeded in silence for some
time; then turning to the left, they entered a dark,
narrowstreet. Coming to a large iron door, they pulled
the bell, and were admitted into a paved court. Cros-
sing this, they ascended a flight of steps and entered a
room where there were about a dozen men. After
a short time, these began to discuss the project which
had brought them together.
Edmond soon discovered this to be the assassination
of the emperor. Having had time to reflect, his
whole soul revolted at such an act. He therefore rose
and was about to quit the room, when one of the
persons called out : "Where are you going, my man ? "
"I am going to leave this place," was his an-
"And denounce us to the police, I suppose!"
"Yes, unless you abandon this infamous scheme"
In an instant there was great tumult, and a moment
after Edmond was struck and fell senseless to the floor.
Some of the persons rushed towards the door, but it was
bolted. After a short space, it was forced open, and
several police officers, with a file of soldiers, entered
the room. Resistance was vain, and the conspirators
being ansted, were led away, Edmond having
recovered, bejng among them.
We must now return to the little valley of Marie-
3alante. Edmond's letter almost broke the heart o.
Edmondine, but after some reflexion she determined
to join her brother in Paris and unite her efforts with
his, for their father's deliverance. In two months, ac-
companied by her governess, she reached the French
metropolis. What was her dismay to find that not her
father only, but her brother was imprisoned--the
latter being under sentence of death. He and the
conspirators had been tried, condemned, and in four
days were to be executed.
United with her gentleness, Edmondine had great
clearness of understanding. As soon as she had
ascertained the state of things, she determined to see
the empress Josephine, whose character for mercy and
kindness she well knew. She proceeded at once to the
palace of the Tuileries, but was refused admittance.
She stood at the door, hesitating what to do, when she
was pushed aside by the servants and soldiers who
gathered around the foot of the marble steps that lead
to the grand staircase of the palace. Looking in this
direction, she saw a lady of a sweet and gentle aspect,
descending the stairs. "This," said Edmendine to
herself, "can be no other than the empress"!
Without an instant's hesitation, she glided forward, and
as the empress set her foot upon the last step, Ed-
mondine fell upon her knees before her.
The scene startled every one, and for a moment all
stood still with surprise. Some of the servants then
rushed forward to take the intruder away,---but the
empress motioned them back. Even a harder heart
than hers might have been moved. Still kneeling,
Edmondine clenched her hands together, and looked
beseechingly into her face. Wasted with anxiety,
smitten with grief-pale, trembling, and crushed-
there was still in the large blue streaming eyes of the
petitioner a force of appeal which was ihtesistible.
Even the hard soldiers around became touched with
Speak, said the empress! What do you ask, what
do you desire!"
A brother's life a father's liberty! Edmondine
could say no more; her eyes grew dim, the scene seem-
ed to swim before her, and she fell senseless upon
the stone. "Let her be taken to my room! said the
empress. She then entered her carriage and drove
"After all," thought she to herself, "there are
terrible things connected with power. I am afraid
that poor child's heart will break, and I know enough to
know that she has probable cause for her distress. How
little does my stern husband sympathize with the
sorrows of those who stand in his way! I must be his
better angel. -If I cannot change his heart, I may at
least soften the inevitable miseries that attend his
In two hours the empress returned, and Edmondine
wasbrought to her. The girl told her story in a manner
to interest the empress, whose tender feelings had sur-
vived the hardening influence of splendor and power.
Her interest was increased by remembering that in
early life she had known Mr. Lacoste, and that he had
been a friend of her former husband during the
stormy days of the revolution. She retained Edmon-
dine at the palace, and promised to make an effort in
behalf of her brother and father.
True to her engagement, Josephine appealed that
very night to the emperor. He replied somewhat coldly
--"Josephine, understand me- these are matters of
state, and I wish you not to meddle with them! See
here I have had these diamonds set for you. .Are
they not beautiful ?"
"Yes, sire-most beautiful."
"Will you not accept them?"
"Unless what? You make conditions?"
"Yes.-I will accept the diamonds, if you will
release M. Lacoste and pardon his son."
"What impertinence! why, you are getting mad."
"I wish you were so, too."
"Yes, all mad people desire owners to run mad."
"But grant me this favor."
Here Josephine rang the bell, and directed the lady
in waiting to bring in mademoiselle Lac6sle. Ed-
mondine entered, and walking to the feet of the em-
peror, she knelt before him. "Tell him your story,
child, said the empress, "just as you told it
to me! Edmondine did as she was directed.
Napoleon listened, but his marble.face and shrouded
soul betrayed no emotion. After a time he said
coldly : "You have done -you may go! You have
82 THE TWINS.
spoken well-as a daughter and a sister should. A
daughter should always believe her father guiltless
of wrong; a sister should never doubt a brother's inno-
cence. But it is the duty of a sovereign to steel his
heart against everything but the necessities of his
Having said this, the emperor's brow grew dark,
and as Edmondine looked upon him, she retreated
in terror. Josephine too, seemed appalled, and
evidently did not dare to break the reverie into which
he had fallen. Three days passed, and Josephine
had no opportunity to speak to the emperor on the
subject which had so deeply interested her feelings.
On the evening of the third day, he asked her to
accompany him to the theatre. "Les us go incog,
to night," said he, "and we shall enjoy it all the
At eight o'clock they set out, and soon after stopped
at the door of an hotel. The party descended from
the carriage, and began to mount the staircase.
"But this is not the theatre?" said the empress.
"Come, come! said the emperor, don'tt keep
us here all night: this staircase-chatter will not do
for us, even though we are in disguise!"
The party ascended to the second story, and rang the
bell : the door was opened, and in the parlor sat a
man some forty year of age. On one side was a son
and on the other a daugther. The empress looked
at the party and then at her husband. "Is this the
play ?" said she.
"It is, "-was the reply;-"only it is a real,
instead of an imaginary scene."
"And you have liberated M. Lacoste,-you have
pardoned his son? "
"I have done neither. I ordered strict inquiry into
the facts : I have found both innocent. It is justice,
not the emperor, which has saved them. Now let me
ask :--Will you accept the diamonds?"
Sire, said Josephine, "what are diamonds
to me, compared to such conduct from him who com-
mands my love even more than my admiration! "
LUCKY AND UNLUCKY.
Robert Merry. Dear me, what's all this rumpus
Two or three children speak at once. Why, it's
nothing but John Bangabout!
Merry. Well, what has he done?
Philip. Why, he has run his head against the
corner of the table, and tumbled a pitcher of water all
over the floor.
Fred. Yes, and he's broken the pitcher.
Nathan. And he's torn his coat.
Peter. And he's smashed a tumbler.
Seth. And he's broken his head.
Merry. Dear me, can't you have a game of blind-
man's buff without making such a racket?
John Bangabout (rubbing his head). Oh, do for-
LUCKY AND UNLUCKY.
LUCKY AND UNLUCKY.
give me, Mr. Merry! I didn't mean to; but I'm always
Merry. Say, rather, you are so careless,
John. I don't think I'm careless, Mr. Merry; but
it's always my luck to get into some scrape.
Merry. I do not like to hear you impute to luck
what, after all, must be your own fault.
John. Well, I don't think it's my fault : I don't do
any worse than other boys; yet, every day of my life,
I meet with some disagreeable accident. If I take a
penknife into my hand, I'm sure to cut my fingers.
If I climb a tree, I tear my clothes. If I go on the ice,
it is sure to break, and I tumble into the water. If
I fire a gun, it kicks and knocks me over. If I attempt
to set a trap, it springs and catches me by the fingers.
When I write, the inkstand upsets and blots my paper.
When I am at table, the soup-plate slides into my lap
and spoils my pantaloons. I can't get over a fence
without it's hitting one of my knees, so as to make it
black and blue. I'm always in some trouble, and
everybody says it is because I'm so careless; but
I really believe it's nothing but my bad luck.
Merry. This is a mistake, my dear boy-a sad
mistake. What do you mean by ill-luck?