Chapter VI: The Pirate's Story (2)

"Bless the boy! why, Led, what is your hurry? Your business must have been _very_ urgent this last week. Why, in the name of all the saints, have you kept away so studiously? There is poor little Emily actually dying with anxiety to see you. Bless my soul! is this the way to treat your friends? But now that I have fairly captured you, I do not intend to let you go."

And he did not, and would not; so I had to go with him. And what do you think? The first object that met my bewildered gaze, as my uncle led me into the drawing-room, was--herself! her very self! but so altered, looking so cold and stately. My uncle introduced me to her as "My daughter Emily, nephew Ledyard." "My daughter Emily" inclined her beautiful head most graciously, and sweetly smiled, but not one recognizing glance did she deign to bestow on poor "nephew Ledyard." Lovely she was, and proud and majestic as a queen. What could it mean? I made several well-planned alluions to omnibuses and stages, &c., not one of which did she seem to comprehend.

Her exceeding beauty still charmed me in spite of her coldness; and I stayed to tea and then the evening. My cousin sung for me; her voice was highly cultivated and exceedingly sweet, and full of feeling. Song after song she poured forth into the listening air, and each song entranced me more than the last.

We conversed gayly on several topics, and she grew more and more familiar with me, alluded playfully to our childish intimacy; still, to the very close of the evening, did she refuse to remember by look or word that we had met since children. She evidently wished to forget, and wished me to forget the whole of that pleasant interview that had afforded _me_, at least, such soul-felt delight; yet she acted her part so well, was so careless and unconscious, and withal so cold and full of queenly dignity, that I went home in a perfect bewilderment of amazement.

As I lay tossing on a sleepless bed, and in my heart bitterly railing against the perversity and incomprehensibility of women, I found myself incessantly repeating to myself, "Am I Giles, or am I not;" the truth flashed upon me that I was the unhappy victim of an optical illusion, that the Cousin Emily I had but a little before left was simply my Cousin Emily, and not the beautiful being of whom my heart and life were full--that incessant thinking of her, and seeking her, had crazed my brain. I relighted my lamp and made my way into the doctor's study. I read all I could find on the subject of optical delusion and maniacal hallucination until I convinced myself that I was laboring under a very alarming attack of one or both, and resolved on seriously consulting my friend, the doctor, early the next morning.

I went back to bed with the decided opinion that I was exceedingly to be pitied--how would it appear in the papers? for I must undoubtedly grow worse, and it must undoubtedly end in suicide. "Sad occurrence," "nice young man," "brilliant prospects," "only son of--," and "promising talents," "laboring under incipient insanity," "fatal cause unknown," &c., &c. I sympathized with myself until near morning, then fell into a sleep, which lasted until the bell rung for breakfast. I dressed in a hurry, and got down before the muffins were quite cold. I ate a hearty breakfast, read a newspaper or two, and determining on seeing my cousin again before I made up my mind to ask advice, I soon found myself at her door. The fresh morning air and the walk had so invigorated me, that I laughed at my last night's fears, especially as my lovely cousin came into the drawing-room to receive me, radiant with health and beauty. I found her just the same as she was the night before, gay, witty and charming, and as cold as marble. Still I could not be mistaken; for, with all her feigned coldness--for some good reason of her own undoubtedly--there was no doubting her identity with that of my glorious Fairmount vision.

The day was a lovely one, soft and mild as a June morning could make it. After conversing on indifferent subjects for a time, I asked her, remarking on the deliciousness of the morning, if she would not like to go out with me to Fairmount. She assented with a quiet smile, as innocently as though she had never in her life before heard of such a place as Fairmount.

"The little-deceiver!" thought I. "Which way shall we go?" said I, aloud, and very significantly, "shall we take the omnibus?"

"I will order the carriage," replied she, with a slight shrug; "I never ride in those omnibusses, one meets with such odd people."

"_Never?_" asked I, emphatically.

"Certainly, never!" answered she, with much apparent surprise.

My drive was a delightful one. How could it be otherwise, with a glorious day surrounding me, and a gloriously beautiful cousin sitting beside me, with whom I could not exactly make up my mind whether to fall desperately _in_ love, or desperately _out_ of love. I, too, such an enthusiastic lover of beauty. But she chose to be so different from what she was at our first meeting--so reserved, that I could not decide whether I most loved or was most indifferent to her.

We rode all the morning, and I left her, promising to call again in the evening. I walked the streets until dark, the whole affair vexed me so much--I, such a hater of all mysteries, the most impatient of all breathing mortals. I determined to come at once to an understanding with my perverse little cousin, and to decide at once the puzzling question whether to love or not to love.

In the evening I found myself alone with my little tormentor.

"Now, sweet Cousin Emily," said I, playfully, "you have been teazing me long enough with your pretty affectation of ignorance and innocence--not but that you are as ignorant as the rest of your sweet sex, and as innocent too--but, I beseech you, lay by this masquerading, you have played possum long enough. I humbly implore of you to be the same to me that you were in our first visit to Fairmount--the earnest, simple-hearted Cousin Emily you then were."

"Mr. Lincoln speaks in enigmas; I must confess I do not understand his meaning, nor his elegant allusion to 'playing possum.'"

This she said with so much haughtiness, that I was taken all aback. Rallying, however, in a moment I determined not to give up the point.

"I beseech of you to pardon the inelegance of my expression, and also my pertinacity in insisting upon some explanation of your manner toward me. It will all do very well for the stage," continued I, bitterly, "but in real life, among cousins, and two that have met so frankly, and in such sincerity, I feel that our acquaintanceship must at once end, pleasant as it has been, as it might be to me, unless you lay aside this assumed coldness. It harasses me more than I can express. Emily, after seeing you in the stage-coach, I thought I had never met with one half so lovely, and I could think of nothing but you. After remaining at home but one week, business called me to Philadelphia. Judge of my delight when almost the first object that met my view was your beautiful, unforgotten little self. You were just stepping into one of those very omnibusses you have since seen fit to decry. What followed you must remember as distinctly as I--no _not_ as distinctly, for the whole of that delicious interview is engraven on my heart--one of the sun-bright scenes of my life that I can never forget. And now, after that beautiful interchange of thought and soul that promised--every thing, do I find you cold, impassive. If you repent the trust you so freely reposed in me, in all frankness, say so; but for the sweet love of heaven, do not pretend to such--"

"For the sweet love of heaven what is the man raving about? Are you mad, dear cousin, insane? Poor Cousin Ledyard! Or is it--?" her whole manner changed, her brilliant eyes lighted up with intense fire. How beautiful she looked! I could have knelt and worshiped her, though, strange to say, my restless, ardent love for her had entirely abated. "Yes!" exclaimed she, "it must be so;" and with that she clasped her small white hands, and throwing back her fine head, laughed with all her heart, and strength, and soul.

This was very pleasant for me; still I had to join her laugh, it was so genuine and infectious.

"Forgive me, dear cousin, forgive me for my rude laughter; forgive me also for my folly in attempting to deceive you. You will hereafter find me the same you found me in our first pleasant interview. Here is my hand--I will not explain one other word to-night; I hear voices on the stairs. Come here to-morrow evening at eight, and you shall know all--all my reasons."

"And why not to-morrow morning, cruel cousin?"

"I am engaged all of the day to-morrow. I go with mamma and papa out of town, ten miles or so, to dine; a stupid affair, but mamma wishes it."

"But before you go--just after breakfast."

"No, no--come in the evening."

By this time the voices heard on the stairs had entered the room in the shape of a merry half-dozen of my cousin's young friends. Feeling too agitated for society, I withdrew.

And now another night and a whole day more of suspense--that pale horror, that come in what shape it will, even in the shape of a beautiful cousin, always torments the very life from my heart.

All the clocks in town were striking eight as I rung my uncle's bell. I found the drawing-room full of company, at which I felt vexed and disappointed.

My lovely cousin came up to me and placed her arm within mine, and led me through the next room into the conservatory, and there, seated amid the rare eastern flowers, herself the queen of them, was, gracious heaven! I dared scarcely breathe, so great was my fear of dispelling the beautiful illusion. It was she! none other; my stage-coach companion--my Fairmount goddess. The musical, measured voice of my statue-like Cousin Emily brought me to myself.

"Allow me. Cousin Ledyard, to introduce you to _my_ Cousin Emily."

There they both stood, one Cousin Emily, calm, stately, serene; the other trembling and in blushes.

I looked from one to the other in the most ludicrous bewilderment, yet each glance showed me more and more what a wonderful fool I had been making of myself for the last few days. Still they were strangely alike; their own kindred could not at times distinguish one from the other. My heart could feel the difference. _My_ Emily was a child of nature, the other bred in a more conventional school. My Emily was a shade less tall, less stately, less Grecian, and exquisitely more lovely, and loving.

But that double wedding _was_ a grand one. By what means my Emily contrived to disentangle herself from that handsome-whiskered "Charles," and to entangle him fast in the chains of the other Emily, any one who wishes to know, and will take the trouble, can have all due information on the subject, and can also learn how I wooed my peerless Emily and won her, by coming to our lovely picturesque dwelling, situate in one of the most romantic spots in the country. I write you all to come, one by one, and spend a month with me, and you shall know all the particulars. You will find my little Emily a pattern housekeeper; you will also find a ready welcome. Bless her sweet face! There she sits, at the moment that I am writing this to you, with her willow arms twined around the exquisite form of her little lily-bud boy, and bending low her graceful form over him, hushing to sleep the very bravest, noblest, merriest little specimen of babyhood--the exact image of his enraptured father.

THE DEFORMED ARTIST.

BY MRS. E. N. HORSFORD.

The twilight o'er Italia's sky
Had wove a shadowy veil,
And one by one the solemn stars
Looked forth serene and pale;
As quickly the waning light
Through a high casement stole,
And fell on one with silver hair,
Who shrived a passing soul.

No costly pomp and luxury
Relieved that chamber's gloom,
But glowing forms, by limner's art
Created, thronged the room:
And as the low winds echoed far
The bell for evening prayer,
The dying painter's earnest tones
Fell on the languid air.

"The spectral form of Death is nigh,
The thread of Life is spun,
Ave Maria! I have looked
Upon my latest sun.
And yet 'tis not with pale disease
This frame is worn away,
Nor yet--nor yet with length of years--
A child but yesterday"

"I found within my father's hall
No fervent love to claim--
The curse that marked me from my birth
Devoted me to shame.
I saw upon my brother's brow
Angelic beauty lay,
The mirror gave me back a form
That thrilled me with dismay."

"And soon I learned to shrink from all,
The lowly and the high;
To see but scorn on every lip,
Contempt in every eye.
And for a time e'en Nature's smile
A bitter mockery wore,
For beauty stamped each living thing
The wide creation o'er;"

"And I alone was cursed and loathed;
'Twas in a garden bower
I knelt one eve, and scalding tears
Fell fast on many a flower;
And as I rose I marked with awe
And agonizing grief,
A frail mimosa at my feet
Fold close each fragile leaf."

"Alas! how dark my lot if thus
A plant could shrink from me;
But when I looked again I marked
That from the honey-bee,
The falling leaf, the bird's gay wing,
It shrunk with pain and fear,
A kindred presence I had found,
Life waxed sublimely clear."

"I climbed the lofty mountain height
And communed with the skies,
And felt within my grateful heart
Strange aspirations rise.
Oh! what was this humanity
When every beaming star
Was filled with lucid intellect,
Congenial, though afar."

"I mused beneath the avalanche,
And traced the sparkling stream,
Till Nature's face became to me
A passion and a dream:"
Then thirsting for a higher lore
I left my childhood's home,
And stayed not till I gazed upon
The hills of fallen Rome.

"I stood amid the forms of light,
Seraphic and divine,
The painter's wand had summoned from
The dim Ideal's shrine;
And felt within my fevered soul
Ambition's wasting fire,
And seized the pencil with a vague
And passionate desire"

"To shadow forth, with lineaments
Of earth, the phantom throng
That swept before my sight in thought,
And lived in storied song.
Vain, vain the dream--as well might I
Aspire to build a star,
Or pile the gorgeous sunset clouds
That glitter from afar."

"The threads of life have worn away,
Discordantly they thrill,
But soon the sounding chords will be
Forever mute and still.
And in the spirit-land that lies
Beyond, so calm and gray,
I shall aspire with truer aim--
Ave Maria! pray!"

A FAREWELL TO A HAPPY DAY.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

Good-bye--good-bye, thou gracious, golden day:
Through luminous tears, thou smilest, far away
In the blue heaven, thy sweet farewell to me,
And I, through _my_ tears, gaze and smile with thee.

I see the last faint, glowing, amber gleam
Of thy rich pinion, like a lovely dream,
Whose floating glory melts within the sky,
And now thou'rt passed forever from mine eye!

Were we not friends--_best_ friends--my cherished day?
Did I not treasure every eloquent ray
Of golden light and love thou gavest me?
And have I not been true--most true to thee?

And _thou_--thou earnest like a joyous bird,
Whose sacred wings by heaven's own air were stirred.
And lowly sang me all the happy time
Dear, soothing stories of that blissful clime!

And more, oh! more than this, there came with thee,
From Heaven, a stranger, rare and bright to me,
A new, sweet joy--a smiling angel-guest,
That softly asked a home within my breast.

For talking sadly with my soul alone,
I heard far off and faint a music-tone,
It seemed a spirit's call--so soft it stole
On fairy wings into my waiting soul.

I _knew_ it summoned me to something sweet,
And so I followed it with faltering feet;
And found--what I had prayed for with wild tears--
A rest, that soothed the lingering grief of years!

So for that deep, perpetual joy, my day!
And for all lovely things that came to play
In thy glad smile--the pure and pleading flowers
That crowned with their frail bloom thy flying hours--

The sunlit clouds--the pleasant air that played
Its low lute-music 'mid the leafy shade--
And, dearer far, the tenderness that taught
My soul a new and richer thrill of thought--

For these--for all--bear thou to Heaven for me
The grateful thanks with which I mission thee!
Then should thy sisters, wasted, wronged, upbraid,
Speak _thou_ for me--for thou wert not betrayed!

'Twas little--true--I could to thee impart--
I, with my simple, frail and wayward heart;
But that I strove the diamond sands to light,
In Life's rich hour-glass, with _Love's_ rainbow flight;

And that one generous spirit owed to me
A moment of exulting ecstasy;
And that I won o'er wrong a queenly sway--
For this, thou'lt smile for me in Heaven, my Day!

SAM NEEDY.

A TALE OF THE PENITENTIARY.

BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.

Several years ago, a man of the name of Samuel Needy, a poor artisan, was living in London. He had with him a wife, and a child by this wife. This artisan was skillful, quick, intelligent, very ill-treated by education, very well-treated by nature--able to think, but not to read. One winter his work failed him--there was neither fire nor food in his garret; the man, the woman, and the child were cold and hungry; he committed a theft; it is unnecessary to state what he stole, or whence he stole it. Suffice it to know, that the consequences of this theft were three days' food and fire to the wife and child, and five years of imprisonment to the man.

Sam Needy, lately an honest man, now and henceforth a thief, was dignified and grave in appearance; his high forehead was already wrinkled, though he was still young; some gray lines lurked among the black and bushy tufts of his hair; his eye was soft, and buried deep beneath his lofty and well-turned eye-brow; his nostrils were open, his chin advancing, his lip scornful; it was a fine head--let us see what society made of it.

He was a man of few words--more frequent gestures--somewhat imperious in his whole manner, and one to make himself obeyed; of a melancholy air--rather serious than suffering; for all that he had suffered enough.

In the place where he was confined there was a director of the work-rooms--a kind of functionary peculiar to prisons, who combined in himself the offices of turnkey and tradesman, who would at the same time issue an order to the workman and threaten the prisoner--put tools in his hand and irons on his feet. This man was a variety of his own species--a man peremptory, tyrannical, governed by his fancies, holding tight the reins of his authority, and yet, on occasion, a boon companion, jovial and condescending to a joke--rather hard than firm--reasoning with no one--not even himself--a good father, and doubtless a good husband--(a duty, by the way, and not a virtue;) in short, evil but not bad. The principal, the diagonal line of this man's character was obstinacy; he was proud of it, and therein compared himself to Napoleon, when he had once fixed what he called _his will_ upon an absurdity, he went to its furthest length, holding his head high, and despising all obstacles. Such violence of purpose without reason, is only folly tied to the tail of brute force, and serving to lengthen it. For the most part, whenever a catastrophe, whether public or private, happens amongst men, if we look beneath the rubbish with which it strews the earth, to find in what manner the fallen fabric had been propped, we shall, with rare exceptions, discover it to have been blindly put together by a weak and obstinate man, trusting and admiring himself implicitly. Many of the smaller of these strange fatalities pass in the world for providences. Such was he who was the director of the work-rooms in the House of Correction where poor Sam Needy was sent to undergo his sentence. Such was the stone with which society daily struck its prisoners to draw sparks from them. The sparks which such stones draw from such flints often kindle conflagrations.

In a short time Sam found the prison air natural to him, and appeared to have forgotten every thing; a certain severe serenity, which belonged to his character, had resumed its mastery.

In about the same time he had acquired a singular ascendency over all his companions, as if by a sort of silent agreement, and without any one knowing wherefore, not even himself. All these men consulted him, listened to him, admired and imitated him, (the last point to which admiration can mount.) It was no slight glory to be obeyed by all these lawless natures; the empire had come to him without his own seeking--it was a consequence of the respect with which they beheld him. The eye of a man is a window, through which may be seen the thoughts which enter into and issue from his heart.

Place an individual who possesses ideas among those who do not, at the end of a given time, and by a law of irresistible attraction, all their misty minds shall draw together with humility and reverence round his illuminated one. There are men who are iron, and there are men who are loadstone. Sam Needy was loadstone. In less than three months he had become the soul, the law, the order of the work-room; he was the dial, concentrating all rays; he must even himself have sometimes doubted whether he were king or prisoner--it was the captivity of a pope among his cardinals.

By as natural a reaction, accomplished step by step, as he was loved by the prisoners, so was he detested by the jailers. It is always thus, popularity cannot exist without disfavor--the love of the slaves is always exceeded one degree by the hate of their masters.

Sam Needy was, by his particular organization, a great eater; his stomach was so formed, that food enough for two common men would hardly have sufficed for his nourishment. Lord Slickborough had one of these large appetites, and laughed at it; but that which is a cause of gayety for a British peer, with a rent-roll of fifty-thousand pounds a year, is a heavy charge to an artisan, and a misfortune to a prisoner.

Sam Needy, free in his own loft, worked all day, earned his four pounds of bread, and ate it; Sam Needy, in prison, worked all day, and, for his pains, received invariably one pound and a half of bread, and four ounces of meat; the ration admits of no change. Sam was therefore constantly hungry whilst in the House of Correction; he was hungry, and no more--he did not speak of it because it was not his nature so to do.

One day Sam, after devouring his scanty pittance, had returned to his work, thinking to cheat his hunger by it--the rest of the prisoners were eating cheerily. A young man, pale, fair, and feeble-looking, came and placed himself near him; he held in his hand his ration, as yet untouched, and a knife; he remained in that situation, with the air of one who would speak, and dares not. The sight of the man, and his bread and meat annoyed Sam.

"What do you want?" said he, rudely.

"That you would do me a service," said the young man, timidly.

"What?" replied Sam.

"That you would help me to eat this--it is too much for me."

A tear stood in the proud eye of Sam; he took the knife, divided the young man's ration into two equal parts, took one of them, and began eating.

"Thank you," said the young man; "if you like, we will share together every day."

"What is your name?" said Sam.

"Heartall."

"Wherefore are you here?"

"I have committed a theft."

"And I too," said Sam.

Henceforth they did thus share together every day. Sam Needy was little more than thirty years old, but at times he appeared fifty, so stern were his thoughts usually. Heartall was twenty--he might have been taken for seventeen, so much innocence was there in his appearance. A strict friendship was knit up between the two, rather of father to son than brother to brother, Heartall being still almost a child, Sam already nearly an old man. They wrought in the same work-room--they slept under the same vault--they walked in the same airing-ground--they ate of the same bread. Each of these two friends was the universe to the other--it would seem that they were happy.

Mention has already been made of the director of the work-rooms. This man, who was abhorred by the prisoners, was often obliged, in order to enforce obedience, to have recourse to Sam Needy, who was beloved by them. On more than one occasion, when the question was, how to put down a rebellion or a tumult, the authority without title of Sam Needy had given powerful aid to the official authority of the director; in short, to restrain the prisoners, ten words from him were as good as ten turnkeys. Sam had many times rendered this service to the director, wherefore the latter detested him cordially. He was jealous of him; there was at the bottom of his heart a secret, envious, implacable hatred against Sam--the hate of a titular for a real sovereign--of a temporal against a spiritual power; these are the worst of all hatreds.

Sam loved Heartall greatly, and did not trouble himself about the director. One morning when the turnkeys were leading the prisoners, two by two, from their dormitory to the work-room, one of them called Heartall, who was by the side of Sam, and informed him that the director wished to see him.

"What does he want with you?" said Sam.

"I do not know," replied the other.

The turnkey took Heartall away.

The morning past; Heartall did not return to the work-room. When the dinner hour arrived, Sam expected that he should rejoin Heartall in the airing-ground--but no Heartall was there. He returned into the work-room, still Heartall did not make his appearance. So passed the day. At night, when the prisoners were removed to their dormitory, Sam looked out for Heartall, but could not see him. It would seem that he must have suffered much at that moment, for he addressed the turnkey--a thing which he had never done before.

"Is Heartall sick?" was his question.

"No," replied the turnkey.

"Why is it, then, that he has not again made his appearance to-day?"

"Ah," replied the turnkey, carelessly, "they have put him in another ward."

The witnesses who deposed to these facts at a later period, remarked, that at this answer, Sam's hand, in which was a lighted candle, trembled a little. He again asked, calmly,

"Whose order was this?"

The turnkey said "Mr. Flint's."

The name of the director of the work-rooms was Flint.

The next day went by like the last, but no news of Heartall.

That evening, when the day's work ended, Mr. Flint came to make his usual round of inspection. As soon as Sam Needy saw him, he took off his cap of coarse wool, buttoned his gray vest, sad livery of the work-house, (it is a principle in prisons, that a vest, respectfully buttoned, bespeaks the favor of the superior officers,) and placed himself at the end of his bench, waiting till the director came by. He passed.

"Sir," said Sam.

The director stopped and turned half round.

"Sir," said Sam, "is it true that Heartall's ward has been changed?"

"Yes," returned the director.

"Sir," continued Sam, "I cannot live without Heartall; you know that with the ration of the house I have not enough to eat, and that Heartall shared his bread with me."

"That was his business," replied the director.

"Sir, is there no means of getting Heartall replaced in the same ward as myself?"

"Impossible! it is so decided."

"By whom?"

"By myself."

"Mr. Flint," persisted Sam, "the question is my life or death, and it depends upon you."

"I never revoke my decisions."

"Sir, is it because I have given you offence?"

"None."

"In that case," said Sam, "why do you separate me from Heartall?"

"_It is my will_" said the director.

With this explanation he went away.

Sam Needy stooped his head and made no answer. Poor caged lion, from whom they had taken his dog!

The grief of this separation in no way changed the prisoner's almost disease of voracity. Nor was he, in other respects, obviously altered. He did not speak of Heartall to any of his comrades. He walked alone in the airing-ground, in the hours of recreation, and suffered hunger--nothing more.

Nevertheless, those who knew him well, remarked something of a sinister and sombre expression which daily overspread his countenance more and more. In other respects he was gentler than ever. Many wished to share their ration with him, but he refused with a smile.

Every evening, after the explanation which the director had given him, he committed a sort of folly, which, in so grave a man, was astonishing. At the moment when the director, in the progress of his habitual duty, passed by Sam Needy's working-frame, he would raise his eyes, gaze steadily upon him, and then address to him, in a tone full of distress and anger, combining at once menace and supplication, these two words only--"_remember Heartall_!" the director would either appear not to hear, or pass on, shrugging his shoulders.

He was wrong. It became evident to all the lookers on of these strange scenes, that Sam Needy was inwardly determined on some step. All the prison awaited with anxiety the result of this strife between obstinacy and resolution.

It has been proved, that once Sam said to the director, "Listen, sir, give me back my comrade; you will do well to do it, I assure you. Take notice that I tell you this."

Another time, one Sunday, when he had remained in the airing-ground for many hours in the same attitude, seated on a stone, his elbows on his knees, and his forehead buried in his hands, one of his fellow-convicts approached him, and cried out, laughing,

"What are you about here, Sam?"

Sam raised his stern head slowly, and said, "_I am sitting in judgment!_"

At last, on the evening of the 1st of November, 1833, at the moment when the director was making his round, Sam Needy crushed under his foot a watch-glass, which he had that morning found in the corridor. The director inquired whence that noise proceeded.

"It is nothing," said Sam. "It is I, Mr. Flint--give me back my comrade."

"Impossible!" said his master.

"It must be done though," said Sam, in a low and steady voice, and looking the director full in the face, added, "reflect, this is the first of November, I give you till the 10th."

A turnkey made the remark to Mr. Flint that Sam Needy threatened him, and that it was a case for solitary confinement.

"No, nothing of the kind," said the director, with a disdainful smile, "we must be gentle with these sort of people."

On the morrow, another convict approached Sam Needy, who walked by himself, melancholy, leaving the other prisoners to bask in a patch of sunshine at the further corner of the court.

"What now, Sam--what are you thinking of? You seem sad."

"_I am afraid_," said Sam, "_that some misfortune will happen soon to this gentle Mr. Flint_."

There are nine full days from the 1st to the 10th of November. Sam Needy did not let one pass without gravely warning the director of the state, more and more miserable, in which the disappearance of Heartall placed him. The director, worn out, sentenced him to four-and-twenty hours of solitary confinement, because his prayer was too like a demand. This was all that Sam Needy obtained.

The 10th of November arrived. On this day Sam arose with such a serene countenance as he had not worn since the day when _the decision_ of Mr. Flint had separated him from his friend. When risen, he searched in a white wooden box, which stood at the foot of his bed, and contained his few possessions. He drew thence a pair of sempstress's scissors. These, with an odd volume of Cowper's poems, were all that remained to him of the woman he had loved--of the mother of his child--of his happy little home of other days. Two articles, totally useless to Sam; the scissors could only be of service to a woman--the book to a lettered person. Sam could neither sew nor read.

At the time when he was traversing the old hall, which serves as the winter walk for the prisoners, he approached a convict of the name of Dawson, who was looking with attention at the enormous bars of a window. Sam was holding the little pair of scissors in his hands; he showed them to Dawson, saying, "To-night I will divide those bars with these scissors."

Dawson began to laugh incredulously. Sam joined him.

That morning he worked with more zeal than usual--faster and better than ever before. A little past noon he went down on some pretext or other to the joiner's workshop, on the ground-floor, under the story in which was his own. Sam was beloved there as every where else; but he entered it seldom. Thus it was--"Stop, here's Sam!" They got round him; it was a perfect holyday. He cast a quick glance around the room. Not one of the overlookers was there.

"Who has a hatchet to lend me?" said he.

"What to do?" was the inquiry.

"Kill the director of the work-rooms."

They offered him many to choose from. He took the smallest of those which were very sharp, hid it in his trowsers, and went out. There were twenty-seven prisoners in that room. He had not desired them to keep his secret; they all kept it. They did not even talk of it among themselves. Every one separately awaited the result. The thing was straight-forward--terribly simple. Sam could neither be counseled nor denounced.

An hour afterward he approached a convict sixteen years old, who was lounging in the place of exercise, and advised him to learn to read. The rest of the day was as usual. At 7 o'clock at night the prisoners were shut up, each division in the work-room to which they belonged, and the overseers went out, as it appears was the custom, not to return till after the director's visit. Sam was locked in with his companions like the rest.

Then there passed in this work-room an extraordinary scene, one not without majesty and awe, the only one of the kind which is to be told in this story. There were there (according to the judiciary deposition afterward made) four-and-twenty prisoners, including Sam Needy. As soon as the overseers had left them alone, Sam stood up upon a bench, and announced to all the room that he had something to say. There was silence.

Then Sam raised his voice, and said, "You all know that Heartall was my brother. Here they do not give me enough to eat; even with the bread which I can buy with the little I earn, it is not sufficient. Heartall shared his ration with me. I loved him at first because he fed me, then because he loved me. The director, Mr. Flint, separated us; our being together could be nothing to him--but he is a bad-hearted man, who enjoys tormenting others. I have asked him for Heartall back again. You have heard me. He will not do it. I gave him till the 10th, which is to-day, to restore Heartall to me. He ordered me into solitary confinement for telling him so. I, during this time, have sat in judgment upon him, and condemned him to death. In two hours he will come to make his round. I warn you that I am about to kill him. Have you any thing to say on the matter?" All continued silent.

He went on; he spoke (so it appears) with a peculiar eloquence, which was natural to him. He declared that he knew he was about to do a violent deed, but could not think it wrong. He appealed to the conscience of his four-and-twenty listeners. He was placed in a cruel extremity; the necessity of doing justice to himself was a strait into which every man found himself driven at one time or other; he could not, in truth, take the director's life without giving his own for it; but it was right to give his life for a just end. He had thought deeply on the matter, and that alone, for two months; he believed he was not carried away by passion, but if it were so, he trusted they would warn him. He honestly submitted his reasons to the just men whom he addressed. He was about to kill Mr. Flint; but if any one had any objection to make, he was ready to hear it.

One voice alone was raised to say, that before killing the director, Sam ought to make one last attempt to soften him.

"It is fair," said Sam. "I will do so."

The great clock struck the hour--it was eight. The director would make his appearance at nine.

No sooner had this extraordinary court of appeal ratified the sentence he had submitted to it, than Sam resumed his former serenity. He placed upon the table all the linen and garments he possessed--the scanty property of a prisoner--and calling to him, one after the other, those of his companions whom he loved best after Heartall, he divided all amongst them. He only kept the little pair of scissors. Then he embraced them all. Some of them wept--upon these he smiled.

There were moments in this last hour, when he chatted with so much tranquillity, and even gayety, that many of his comrades inwardly hoped, as they afterward declared, that he might perhaps abandon his resolution.

He perceived a young convict who was pale, who was gazing upon him with fixed eyes, and trembling doubtless from expectation of what he was about to witness. "Come, courage, young man," said Sam to him, softly, "it will be only the work of a moment."

When he had distributed all his goods, made all his adieux, pressed all their hands, he interrupted the restless whisperings which were heard here and there in the dim corners of the work-room, and commanded that they should return to their labor. All obeyed him in silence.

The apartment in which this passed was an oblong hall, a parallelogram, lighted with windows on its two longer sides, and with two doors opposite each other at the two ends of the room. The working-frames were ranged on each side near the windows, the benches touching the wall at right angles, and the space left free between the two rows of frames formed a sort of avenue, which went straight from one door to the other, crossing the hall entirely. It was this which the director traversed in making his inspection; he was to enter at the south door, and go out by the north, after having looked at the workmen on the right and left. Commonly he passed through quickly and without stopping.

Sam Needy had reseated himself on his bench, and had betaken himself to his work. All were in expectation--the moment approached; on a sudden they heard the clock strike. Sam said, "It is the last quarter." Then he rose, crossed gravely a part of the hall, and placed himself, leaning on his elbow, on the first frame on the left hand side, close to the door of entrance; his countenance was perfectly calm and benign.

Nine o'clock struck--the door opened--the director came in.

At that moment the silence of the work-room was as of a chamber full of statues.

The director was alone as usual; he entered with his jovial, self-satisfied, and stubborn air, without noticing Sam, who was standing at the left side of the door, his right hand hidden in his trowsers, and passed rapidly by the first frames, tossing his head, mumbling his words, and casting his glance, which was law, here and there, not perceiving that the eyes of all who surrounded him were fixed upon him as upon a fearful phantom. On a sudden he turned sharply round, surprised to hear a step behind him.

It was Sam Needy, who for some instants followed him in silence.

"What are you about there?" said the director. "Why are you not in your place?"

Sam Needy answered respectfully, "Because I have something to say to you, Mr. Flint."

"What about?"

"Concerning Heartall."

"Still Heartall!" exclaimed the director.

"Always," replied Sam.

"Be quiet," said the director, walking on again. "You are not content, then, with your four-and-twenty hours of solitary confinement?"

Sam followed him--"Mr. Flint, give me back my comrade."

"Impossible!"

"Sir," said Sam, in a tone which might have softened the heart of a fiend, "I entreat you, restore Heartall to me. You shall see how well I will work. To you who are free, it is no matter--you do not know what the worth of a friend is; but I have only the four walls of my prison. You can come and go, I have nothing but Heartall--give him back to me. Heartall fed me--you know it well. It will only cost you the trouble of saying yes. What can it be to you that there should be in the same room one man called Sam Needy, another called Heartall?--for the thing is simply that, Mr. Flint; good Mr. Flint, I beseech you earnestly, for Heaven's sake!"

Sam had probably never before said so much at one time to a jailer; exhausted with the effort, he paused. The director replied, with an impatient gesture,

"Impossible--I have said it; speak to me no more about it, you wear me out."

Then, as if in a hurry, he stepped on more quickly, Sam following. Thus speaking, they had reached the door of exit; the prisoners looked after them, and listened breathlessly.

Sam gently touched the director's arm. "At least let me know why I am condemned to death--tell me why you have separated him from me?"

"I have told you," answered the director; "_it is my will_."

He turned his back upon Sam, and was about to take hold of the latch of the door.

On this answer Sam had retreated a step; the assembled statues who were there saw him bring out his right hand, and the hatchet with it; it was raised, and ere the victim could utter one cry, three blows, one upon the other, had cleft his skull. At the moment, when he fell back, a fourth blow laid his face open; then, as if his frenzy, once let loose, _could not stop_, Sam struck a fifth blow; it was useless--he was dead.

"Now for the other!" cried the murderer, and threw away the hatchet. That other was himself. They saw him draw from his bosom the small pair of scissors, and before any one could attempt to hinder him, bury them in his breast. The blade was too short to penetrate. He struck them in again and again, so many as twenty times. "Accursed heart! cannot I then reach you?" and finally fell in a dead swoon, bathed in his blood.

Which of these men was the victim of the other?

When Sam returned to consciousness, he was in bed, well attended, his wounds carefully bandaged; a humane nurse was about his pillow, and more than one magistrate, who asked him, with the appearance of great interest, "Are you better?"

He had lost a great quantity of blood, but the scissors with which he had wounded himself, had done their duty ill--none of the wounds were dangerous.

The examinations commenced. They asked him if it were he who had killed the director of the work-rooms. He replied, "It was." They asked him why he had done it. He answered--_it was his will._

After this the wounds festered. He was seized with a severe fever, of which he only did not die. November, December, January, and February, went over in recovering him and preparing for his trial; physicians and judges alike made him the object of their care--the former healed his wounds, the latter made ready his scaffold. To be brief, on the 5th of April, 1834, he appeared, being perfectly cured, before the Court of Sessions.

Sam made a good appearance before the court; he had been carefully shaved, his head was bare; he was dressed in the sad prison livery of two shades of gray.

When the trial was entered upon, a singular difficulty presented itself. Not any of the witnesses of the events of the 10th of November, would make a deposition against Sam. The presiding judge threatened them with his discretionary power in vain. Sam then commanded them to give evidence. All their tongues were loosed. They related what they had seen.

Sam Needy listened with profound attention. When one of them, out of forgetfulness, or affection for him, omitted some of the circumstances chargeable upon the accused, Sam supplied them. By this means the chain of facts which has been related was unfolded before the court.

There was one moment when some of the females present wept. The clerk of the court summoned the convict, Heartall. It was his turn to come forward. He entered, staggering with emotion--he wept. The police could not prevent his falling into the arms of Sam. Sam raised him, and said with a smile to the attorney-general, "Here is a villain who shares his bread with those who are hungry." Then he kissed Heartall's hand.

The list of witnesses having been gone through, the attorney-general rose and spoke in these words: "Gentlemen of the jury, society would be shaken to its foundation if public vengeance did not overtake such great criminals as this man, who, etc., etc."

After this memorable discourse, Sam's advocate spoke. The pleader against, and the pleader for, made each in due order, the evolutions which they are accustomed to make in the arena which is called a criminal court.

Sam did not think that all was said that might be said. He arose in his turn. He spoke in a manner which must have amazed all the intelligent persons present on the occasion. It appeared as if there were more of the orator than the murderer in this poor artisan. He spoke in an upright attitude, with a penetrating and well-managed voice; with an open, sincere, and steadfast gaze, with a gesture almost always the same, but full of command. There were moments in which his genuine, lofty eloquence stirred the crowd to a murmur, during which Sam took breath, casting a bold gaze upon the bystanders. Then again, this man, who could not read, was as gentle, polished, select in his language, as a well-informed person--at other moments modest, measured, attentive, going step by step over the irritating parts of the argument, courteous to his judges. Once only he gave way to a burst of passion. The attorney-general had proved in his speech that Sam Needy had assassinated the director without any violence on his part, and consequently _without provocation_.

"What!" exclaimed Sam Needy, "I have not been provoked! Ay--it is very true--I understand you. A drunken man strikes me with his dagger--I kill him, I have been provoked; you show mercy to me, you send me to Botany Bay. But a man who is not drunk, who has the perfect use of his reason, wrings my heart for four years, humbles me for four years, pierces me with a weapon every day, every hour, every minute, in some unexpected point for four years. I had a wife, for whose sake I became a thief--he tortures me through that wife; a child for whom I stole--he tortures me through that child. I have not bread enough to eat--a friend gives it me; he takes away my friend and my food. I ask for my friend back--he condemns me to solitary confinement. I speak to him--him, the spy--respectfully; he answers me in dog's language. I tell him I am suffering--he tells me I wear him out. What would you, then, that I should do? I kill him. It is well--I am a monster; I have murdered this man; I have not been provoked. You take my life for it--be it so."

The debates being closed, the presiding judge made his impartial and luminous summing up. The results were these: a wicked life--a wretch in purpose. Sam Needy had begun by stealing--he then murdered. All this was true.

When the jury were about being conducted to their apartment, the judge asked the accused if he had any thing to say upon the questions before them.

"Little," replied Sam, "only this; I am a thief and an assassin. I have stolen, and have slain a man. But why have I stolen? Why have I murdered? Add these two questions to the rest, gentleman of the jury."

After a quarter of an hour's deliberation on the part of the twelve individuals whom he had addressed as _gentlemen of the jury_, Sam Needy was condemned to death.

Their decision was read to Sam, who contented himself with saying, "It is well--but why has this man stolen? Why has this man murdered? These are questions to which they make no answer."

He was carried back to prison--he supped almost gayly.

He had no wish to make an appeal against his sentence. The old woman who had nursed him entreated him with tears to do so. He complied out of kindness to her. It would appear as if he had resisted till the very last moment, for when he signed his petition in the register, the legal delay of three days had expired some minutes before. The benevolent old nurse gave him a crown. He accepted the money and thanked her.

While his appeal was pending, offers of escape were made him. There was thrown, one after the other, in his dungeon, through its air-hole, a nail, a bit of iron file, and the handle of a bucket. Any of these three tools would have been sufficient to so skillful a man as Sam Needy to cut through his irons. He gave up the nail, the file, and the handle to the turnkey.

On the 10th of June, 1834, seven months after the deed, its expiation arrived. That day, at seven o'clock in the morning, the recorder of the tribunal entered Sam Needy's dungeon, and announced to him that he had not more than an hour to live. His petition was rejected.

"Come," said Sam, coldly, "I have this night slept well, without troubling myself that I should sleep still better the next."

It would appear as if the words of strong men always receive a certain dignity from approaching death.

The chaplain arrived--then the executioner. He was humble to the one, gentle to the other.

He maintained a perfect ease of spirit. He listened to the chaplain with extreme attention, accusing himself of many things, and regretting that he had not been instructed in religion.

At his request they had given him back the scissors with which he had wounded himself. One blade, which had been broken in his breast, was wanting. He entreated the jailor to have these scissors taken to Heartall as from himself.

He besought those who bound his hands to place in his right hand the crown-piece which the good nurse had given him--the only thing which was now remaining to him.

At a quarter to eight he was led out of his prison, with the customary mournful procession which attends the condemned. He was pale; his eyes were fixed on the chaplain--but he walked with a firm step.

He ascended the scaffold gravely. He shook hands with the chaplain first, then the executioner, thanking the one, forgiving the other. The executioner _pushed him back gently_, says one account. At the moment when the assistant put the hideous rope round his neck, he made a sign to the chaplain to take the crown-piece which he had in his right hand, and said to him, "_For the poor_." At that moment the clock was striking eight, the sound from the steeple drowned his voice, and the chaplain answered that he could not hear him. Sam waited for an interval between two of the strokes, and repeated with gentleness, "_For the poor_."

The eighth stroke had scarcely sounded when this noble and intelligent criminal was launched into eternity.

THE ANGEL OF THE SOUL.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.