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.
Una stella, una notte, ed una croce. _Antonio Bisazza._
Silence hath conquered thee, imperial Night!
Thou sit'st alone within her void, cold halls,
Thy solemn brow uplifted, and thy soul
Paining the space with dumb and mighty thought.
The dreary wind ebbs, voiceless, round thy form,
Following the stealthy hours, that wake no stir
In the hushed velvet of thy mantle's fold.
Thy thoughts take being: down the dusky aisles
Go shapes of good, and beckoning ghosts of crime,
And dreams of maddening beauty--hopes, that shine
To darken, and in cloudy height sublime,
The spectral march of some approaching Doom!
Nor these alone, oh! Mother of the world,
People thy chambers, echoless and vast;
Their dewy freshness like ambrosial cools
Life's fever-thirst, and to the fainting soul
Their porphyry walls are touched with light, and gleams
Of shining wonder dazzle through the void,
Like those bright marvels which the travele'rs torch
Wakes from the darkness of three thousand years,
In rock-hewn sepulchres of Theban kings.
Prophets, whose brows of pale, unearthly glow
Reflect the twilight of celestial dawns,
And bards, transfigured in immortal song,
Like eager children, kneeling at thy feet,
Unclasp the awful volume of thy lore.
My soul goes down thy far, untrodden paths,
To the dim verge of being. There its step
Touches the threshold of sublimer life,
And through the boundless empyrean leaps
Its prayer, borne like a faint, expiring cry,
To angel-warders, listening as they pace
The crystal walls of Heaven. Down the blue fields
Of the untraveled Infinite, they come:
Beneath their wings one sweet, dilating wave
Thrills the pure deep, and bears my soul aloft,
To walk amid their shining groups, and call
Its guardian spirit, as an orphan calls
His vanished brother, taken in childhood home:
"White through my cradled dreams thy pinions waved,
Lost Angel of the Soul! thy presence led
The babe's faint gropings through the glimmering dark
And into Being's conscious dawn. Thy hand
Held mine in childhood, and thy beaming cheek
Lay close, like some fond playmate's, to mine own.
Up to that boundary, whence the heart leaps forth
To life, like some wild torrent, when the rains
Pour dark and full upon the cloudy hills,
Thy gentle footsteps wandered near to mine.
Be with me now! Oh, in the starry hush
Of the deep night, that holds the earthly down
In all my nature, bring to me again
The early purity, which kept thy hand
From the entrancing harp it held in Heaven!
Through the warm starting of my hoarded tears,
Let me behold thine eyes divine, as stars
Gleam through the twilight vapors of the sea!
"Not yet hast thou forsaken me. The prayer
Whose crowning fervor lifts my nature up
Midway to God, may still evoke thy form.
Thou hast been with me, when the midnight dew
Clung damp upon my brow, and the broad fields
Stretched far and dim beneath the ghostly moon;
When the dark, awful woods were silent near,
And with imploring hands toward the stars
Clasped in mute yearning, I have questioned Heaven
For the lost language of the book of Life.
Oh, then thy face was glorious, and thy hair
On the white moonbeam floating, veiled thy brow,
But in the holy sadness of thine eye
Which held my spirit, tremblingly I saw,
Through rushing tears, the sign of angel-grief
O'er the false promise of diviner years.
From the far glide of some descending strain
Of tenderest music I have heard thy voice;
And thou hast called amid the stormy rush
Of grand orchestral triumph, with a sound
Resistless in its power. I feel the light,
Which is thine atmosphere, around my soul,
When a great sorrow gulfs it from the world.
"Come back! come back! my heart grows faint, to know
How thy withdrawing radiance leaves more dim
The twilight borders of the night of Earth.
Now when the bitter truth is learned; when all
That seemed so high and good but mocks its seeming--
When the warm dreams of youth come shivering back,
In the cold chambers of the heart to die--
When, with the wrestling years, familiar grows
The merciless hand of pain, desert me not!
Come with the true heart of the faithful Night,
When I have cast away the masquing garb
Of hollow Day, and lain my soul to rest
On her consoling bosom! From the founts
Of thine exhaustless light, make clear the road
Through toil and darkness, into God's repose!"
SCOUTING NEAR VERA CRUZ.
A SKETCH OF THE LATE CAMPAIGN.
BY ECOLIER.
Hours before day, Lieutenant Rolfe and his party were threading the
mazes of the chapparal. The moon glistened upon their bayonets and
bright barrels. Their path lay in a southwesterly direction, near the
old road to Orizava. Here it passed through a glade or opening, where
the moonbeams fell upon a profusion of flowers, there it reëntered
dark alleys among the clustering trees, where the "trail arms" was
given in a half whisper. The boughs met and locked overhead, and the
thick foliage hid the moon from sight. Now a bright beam escaping
through some chance opening in the leaves, quivered along the path,
and scared the wolf in his midnight wanderings. Out again upon the
open track through the soft grass, and winding around the wild maguey,
or under the claw-shaped thorns of the musquit. A deer sprung from his
lair among the soft flowers--looked back for a moment at the strange
intruders, and frightened at the gleaming steel, dashed off into the
thicket. The woods are not silent by night, as in the colder regions
of the north. The southern forest has its voices, moonlit or dark. All
through the livelong night sings the mock-bird--screams the "loreto."
From dark till dawn, you hear the hoarse baying of the "coyote," and
the dismal howl of the gaunt gray wolf. The cicada fills the air with
its monotonous and melancholy notes. In all these sounds there is a
breathing, a wild voluptuousness that tells you you are wandering in
the clime of the sun--amidst scenes like those rendered classical by
the pen of St. Pierre. They who have read the sweet French romance,
will recognize his faithful painting of tropical pictures. The sunny
glades--and shady arbors--the broad green and yellow leaves--the tall
palm-trees, with their long, lazy feathers and clustering fruits
waving to the slightest breeze, and looking the same as in that sea
island where they flung their changing shadows over the loves of Paul
and Virginia. Scouting at night, and to strangers (as were Rolfe and
his men) in the land, was not without its perils. Objects of alarm
were near and around. The nopal rose before you like the picket of an
enemy. Its dark column gleaming under the false light of the moon is
certainly some sentinel on the outpost. A halt is the consequence, and
silent and cat-like one of the party, on his hands and knees, steals
nearer and nearer, through the thorny brambles, until the true nature
of the apparition betrays itself, in the shape of a huge column of
prickly pear. He then returns to his comrades, and the obstacle is
passed, some one as he passes, with a muttered curse, slashing his
sabre through the soft trunk of the harmless vegetable.
The wild maguey grasps you by the leg, as though some hideous monster
had sprung from the bushes. You start and rush forward, only to be
dragged back among the elastic leaves. It is useless to struggle. You
must either return and unwind yourself by gentle means, or leave the
better part of your cloth inexpressibles in the ruthless fangs of the
plant. The ranchero fences his limbs with leather, or with leggings of
tiger-skin. It is not fancy or choice to wear leather breeches in
Mexico. Necessity has something to say in fixing the fashion of your
small clothes.
When day broke, Rolfe and his party were ten miles from camp--ten
miles from the nearest American picket, and with only thirty men! They
were concealed in a thicket of aloes and musquit. This thicket crowned
the only eminence for miles in any direction. It commanded a view of
the whole country southward to the Alvarado.
As the sun rose the forest echoed with sounds and song. The leaves
moved with life, as a thousand bright-plumed birds flashed from tree
to tree. The green parrot screamed after his mate, uttering his wild
notes of endearment. They are seen in pairs flying high up in the
heavens. The troupiale flashed through the dark foliage like a ray of
yellow light. Birds seemed to vie with each other in their songs of
love. Amidst these sounds of the forest, the ear of Rolfe caught the
frequent crowing of cocks, the barking of dogs, and the other
well-known sounds of the settlement. These were heard upon all sides.
It was plain that the country was thickly settled, though not a house
was visible above the tree-tops. The thin column of blue smoke as it
rose above the green foliage proved the existence of dwellings.
At some distance, westward, an open plain lay like an emerald lake.
The woods that bordered it were of a darker hue than the meadow-grass
upon its bosom. In this plain were horses feeding, and Rolfe saw at a
glance that they were picketed. Some of them had dragged their
laryettes and were straying from the group. There appeared to be in
all about an hundred horses. It was plain that their owners were not
far off. A thin blue smoke that hung over the trees on one side of the
meadow gave evidence of a camp. The baying of dogs came from this
direction, mingled with the sounds of human voices. It was evidently a
camp of the "Jarochos," (guerilleros.)
Suddenly a bugle sounded, wild and clear above the voices of the
singing-birds, a few notes somewhat resembling the dragoon
stable-call. The horses flung up their heads and neighed fiercely,
looking toward the encampment. Presently a crowd of men were seen
running from the woods, each carrying a saddle. The few strays that
had drawn their pickets during the night, came running in at the
well-known voices of their masters. The saddles were flung on and
tightly girthed--the bits adjusted and the laryettes coiled and hung
to the saddle-horns, in less time than an ordinary horseman would have
put on a bridle. Another flourish of the bugle, and the troop were in
their saddles and galloping away over the greensward of the meadow in
a southerly direction. The whole transaction did not occupy five
minutes, and it seemed to Rolfe and his party, who witnessed it, more
like a dream than a reality. The Jarochos were just out of musket
range. A long shot might have reached them, but even had Rolfe
ventured this, it would have been with doubtful propriety. Rumor had
fixed the existence of a large force of the enemy in this
neighborhood. It was supposed that at least a thousand men were on the
Alvarado road, with the intention of penetrating our lines, with
beeves for the besieged Veracruzanos.
"They got off in good time, sergeant," muttered Rolfe, "had they but
waited half an hour longer--Oh! for a score of Harney's horses!"
"Lieutenant, may I offer an opinion?" asked the sergeant, who had
raised himself and stood peering through the leafy branches of a
cacuchou-tree.
"Certainly, Heiss, any suggestion--"
"Wal, then--thar's a town," the sergeant lifted one of the leafy
boughs and pointed toward the south-east--a spire and cross--a white
wall and the roofs of some cottages were seen over the trees. "Raoul
here, who's French, and knows the place, says it's Madalin--he's been
to it--and there's no good road for horses direct from here--but the
road from Vera Cruz crosses that meadow far up--now, lieutenant, it's
my opinion them thieving Mexicans is bound for that 'ere place--Raoul
says it's a good sweep round--if we could git acrosst this yere strip
we'd head 'em sure."
The backwoodsman swept his broad hand toward the south, to indicate
the strip of woods that he desired to cross. The plan seemed feasible
enough. The town, although seemingly near, was over five miles
distant. The road by which the guerrilleros had to reach it was much
farther. Could Rolfe and his party meet them on this road, by an
ambuscade, they would gain an easy victory, although with inferior
numbers, and Rolfe wished to carry back to camp a Mexican prisoner.
This was the object of the scout, to gain information of the force
supposed to be in the rear of our lines. The men, too, were eager for
the wild excitement of a fight. For what came they there?
"Raoul," said Rolfe, "is there any path through these woods?"
"Zar is, von road I have believe--oui--Monsieur Lieutenant."
Raoul was a dapper little Frenchman, who had joined the army at Vera
Cruz, where we found him. He had been a sort of market-gardener for
the plaza, and knew the back country perfectly. He had fallen into bad
odor with the rancheros of the _Tierra Caliente_, and owed them no
good-will. The coming of the American army had been a perfect godsend
to Raoul, who was now an American volunteer, and, as circumstances
afterward proved, worthy of the title.
"Close teecket, monsieur," continued the Frenchman, "but there be von
road, I make ver sure, by that tree, vot you call him, big tree."
Raoul pointed to some live-oaks that formed a dark belt across the
woods.
"Take the lead, Raoul."
The little Frenchman sprung out in front and commenced descending into
the dark woods beneath. The party was soon winding through the shadowy
aisles of a live-oak forest. The woods were at first open and easy.
After a short march they came to a small stream, bright and silvery.
But what was the surprise of Rolfe to find that the path here gave
out, and on the opposite bank of the rivulet the trees grew closer
together, and the woods were almost woven into a solid mass, by the
lianas and other creeping plants. These were covered with blossoms. In
some places a wall of snow-white flowers rose up before you. Pyramidal
forms of foliage, green and yellow, over which hung myriads of
vine-blossoms, like a scarlet mantle. Still there was no path--at
least to be trodden by human foot. Birds flew around, scared in their
solitary haunts. The armadilla and the wolf stood at a distance with
glaring eyes. The fearful-looking guana scampered off upon the
decaying limbs of the live-oak, or the still more fearful cobra di
capella glided almost noiselessly over the dry leaves and brambles.
Raoul confessed that he had been deceived. He had never traveled this
belt of timber. The path was lost.
This was strange. A path had conducted them thus far, but on reaching
the stream had suddenly stopped. Soldiers went up and down the
water-course, and peeped through the trellis of vines, but to no
purpose. In all directions they were met by an impenetrable chapparal.
Chafing with disappointment, the young officer was about to retrace
his way, when an exclamation from Heiss recalled him. The backwoodsman
had found a clew to the labyrinth. An opening led into the thicket.
This had been concealed by a perfect curtain of closely woven vines,
covered with thick foliage and flowers. It appeared at first to be a
natural door to the avenue which led from this spot, but a slight
examination showed that these vines had been trained by human hands,
and that the path itself had been kept open by the same agency.
Branches were here and there lopped off and cast aside, and the ground
had the marks of human footsteps. The track was clear and beaten, and
Rolfe ordering his men to follow noiselessly, in Indian file, took the
lead. For at least two miles they traced the windings of this forest
road, through dark woods, occasionally opening out into green flowery
glades. The bright sky began to gleam through the trees. Farther on
and the breaks became larger and more frequent. An extensive clearing
was near at hand. They reached it, but to their astonishment, instead
of a cultivated farm, which they had been expecting to see, the
clearing had more the appearance of a vast flower-garden. The roofs
and turrets of a house were visible near its centre. The house itself
appeared of a strange oriental style, and was buried amidst groves of
the brightest foliage. Several huge old trees spread their branches
over the roof, and their leaves hung around the fantastic turrets.
What should have been fields were like a succession of huge
flower-beds--and large shrubs, covered with sheets of pink and white
blossoms that resembled wild roses. This shrubbery was high enough to
conceal the approach of Rolfe and his party as they followed the
path--apparently the only one which led to the house.
On nearing this, the officer halted his men in a little glade, and
taking with him Heiss and the boy Gerry, (who might return for the men
in case of a surprise,) proceeded to reconnoitre the strange-looking
habitation.
A wall of ivy, or some perennial vine, lay between him and the house.
A curtain of green leaves covered the entrance through this wall. This
appeared to have grown up by neglect. As Rolfe lifted this festoon, to
pass through, the sound of female voices greeted him. These voices
reached his ear in tones of the lightest mirth. At intervals came a
clear ringing laugh from some throat of silver, and then a plunging,
splashing sound of water. Rolfe conjectured that some females were in
the act of bathing, and not wishing to intrude upon them sat down for
a moment outside the wall. The sounds of merriment were still heard,
and among the soft tones the officer imagined that he could
distinguish the coarser voice of a man. Curiosity now prompted him to
enter. Moreover, he reflected that if there were men there already
there could not be much impropriety in his taking a share in the
amusement.
Drawing aside the curtain of leaves he looked in. The interior was a
garden, but evidently in a neglected state. It appeared the ruin of a
once noble garden and shrubbery. Broken fountains and statues
crumbling among weeds, and untrained rose-trees, met the eye. The
voices were more distinct, but those who uttered them were hidden by
a hedge of jessamines. Rolfe stepped silently up to this hedge and
peeped through an opening. The picture presented was indeed an
enchanting one.
A large fountain lay between him and the house filled with crystal
water. In this fountain two young girls were plunging and diving about
in the wildest abandon of mirth. The water was not more than waist
deep, and the arms and bosoms of the young girls appeared above its
surface. They were strikingly alike, in all except color. In this
there was a marked contrast. The neck, arms and bosom of one seemed
carved from snow-white marble, while the other's complexion was almost
as dark as mahogany. There was the same cast of features, the same
expression in both countenances, and their forms, just emerging from
the slender figure of girlhood, were exactly alike. Their long hair
trailed after them, black and luxuriant, on the surface of the water,
as they plunged and swam from one side of the basin to the other. A
huge negress sat upon the edge of the fountain, seemingly enjoying the
bath as much as those who partook of it. It was the voice of this
negress that Rolfe had mistaken for that of a man.
The young officer did not hesitate a moment, but stole gently back and
regained his comrades.
Then striking through the flowery fields that stretched away toward
the wood in the rear, he commenced searching for the path that led
from the woods in a direction opposite to that whence he had come,
without disturbing the inmates of this peaceful mansion. Finding this
path on the other side, the party entered and hastily kept on, in
order to intercept the guerilleros, whom they still hoped to fall in
with. In these hopes they were not disappointed, for emerging from the
woods near Medellin they came upon the guerilleros, with whom they had
a sharp skirmish. Rolfe and his party were successful, killing two of
the guerrilla and taking the same number prisoners.
The young girls continued their pleasant pastime, little dreaming how
near to them had been these strange and warlike visiters.
I WANT TO GO HOME
BY RICHARD COE, JR.
"I want to go home!" saith a weary child,
That hath lost its way in straying;
Ye may try in vain to calm its fears,
Or wipe from its eyes the blinding tears,
It looks in your face, still saying--
"I want to go home!"
"I want to go home!" saith a fair young bride,
In anguish of spirit praying;
Her chosen hath broken the silver cord--
Hath spoken a harsh and cruel word,
And she now, alas! is saying--
"I want to go home!"
"I want to go home!" saith the weary soul,
Ever earnest thus 'tis praying;
It weepeth a tear--heaveth a sigh--
And upward glanceth with streaming eye
To its promised rest, still saying--
"I want to go home!"
THE HUMBLING OF A FAIRY.
BY G. G. FOSTER.
The Princess Dewbell was confessed to be the queen of the ball,
notwithstanding that the beauty and grace and wit of the whole realm
were there, for it was the birth-night festival of the fairy princess,
and her royal father, with all a parent's fond pride, had exhausted
invention, and impoverished extravagance, to give _éclat_ to the
occasion. The walls of his ancestral palace were sparkled all over
with dew-drops, which a troop of early bees had spent all the summer
mornings in collecting and preserving in the royal patent
dew-preserver, invented by one of the native geniuses of the realm.
These brilliant mirrors, flashing in the light of ten thousand
fire-flies of the royal household, whose whole lives had been expended
in learning how to carry their dainty lamps about so as to produce the
finest effects, reflected the forms of the ladies and the dazzling
military trappings of the handsome cavaliers, (there was war at that
time between the glorious empire of Fairydom and the weak and
infatuated republic of Elfland on its southern borders, and the
epaulette and spurs were the only pass to the hearts of the fair,)
imbuing them with an infinitude of prismatic hues, all softened into a
kind of timed starlight, exquisite as the dying voice of music. In
this gorgeous saloon, at the head of which sat, well pleased, the
benevolent old King Paterflor and his modest and still lovely queen
Sweetbine, all were noble and accomplished and beautiful and gay; but
the charms of the Princess Dewbell, just bursting into the richness of
full-grown fairyhood, were so surpassing that none had ever been found
to question, even in their own hearts, her supremacy. This, perhaps,
may appear strange to many of my pretty readers, but they must
remember that mine is a faithful chronicle of fairies--not of women.
The princess was standing lightly touching--it could not be said that
she leaned against--the slender stalk of a garden lily, that rose like
an emerald column of classic mould above her lovely form, and expanded
into a graceful dome of transparent and crimson-veined cornelian above
her head. Her eyes were cast pensively (at the Musical Fund Hall it
would have been called coquettishly) upon the ground, and ever and
anon she tossed her proud head with an imperious gesture, until the
streaming curls waved and parted around her cheek and neck, like
vine-leaves about a marble column as the south wind creeps among them
soliciting for kisses. The lady Dewbell, amid all this scene of
enchantment, which spread out before and around her, as if her own
loveliness had breathed it into existence, still was discontented;
sad, perhaps, at the total absence of care in her bosom, and sighing
for a sorrow. Unhappy lady Dewbell! She had so many hundred times been
told, what she herself believed full well, that she was absolutely
the most beautiful creature in existence, that the tale had lost its
interest. The champagne of flattery, its creaming foam long ago melted
into the brain, stood untasted before her, dull and flat as the
subsided fountain poured by the last rain-shower into the tulip's cup.
And so the fairy princess stood listless and apart from the joyous
revel, her little form swaying lightly to and fro, with the
undulations of the lily-stem against which she more perceptibly
rested. It is well for Root and Collins and Plumbe that the royal
daguerreotyper was laid up in a cowslip, with a broken skylight which
he had received in a rough-and-tumble with a gnat, about the ownership
of a particular ray of light, at last sunsetting.
But if the lady Dewbell were queen of the ball, the noble knight Sir
Timothy Lawn was as undisputedly worthy of the post of honor among her
gallant train of admirers. Indeed, it was universally known, of course
as a profound secret among the gossips of the palace, that Sir Timothy
was the declared lover of the proud Dewbell, and it was even whispered
that she had actually been seen hanging around his neck one bright
June morning, in a sweet clover-nook by the brook-side, while he bent
tenderly over her, his eyes filled with tears of rapture. But as this
story could only be traced to a rough beetleherd, who said he saw the
lovers thus as he was driving his herd of black cattle to water, it
was not generally believed. At any rate, all the ladies were decidedly
of opinion that Sir Timothy was in every way a match for the haughty
beauty, and that if she did not accept him while he was in the humor
she would be very likely to go farther and fare worse. In fact,
several old maids and bluestockings, over their dishes of scandal and
marsh-fog, (both of which they made uncommonly strong,) openly avowed
it as their opinion, that he was a great deal too good for her, and
that, if the truth must be told, the princess was an impertinent,
saucy and irreverent creature, who hadn't the slightest respect for
her superiors. "As to her beauty," said one of these crones, whose
little face was very much of the size and complexion of a dried
camomile-flower, and who was shrewdly suspected of qualifying her
marsh-fog with pale pink-brandy--"As for her beauty, that is all in my
eye. I have seen plenty of your plump, smooth-skinned pieces of paint
and affectation fade in my time, little as I have yet seen of life.
Mark my words--before we have reached our prime, my great lady
princess will be as ugly as--"
"As ugly as yourself, granny! Ha, ha, ha! ho, ho, ho! haw, haw, haw!"
shouted a mirthful voice, while an indescribably comic face, half cat
and half baby, appeared for a single glimpse above the burdock leaf
behind which the spinsters were holding their _conversazione_.
"There's that imp Puck again, as sure as I am a woman!" exclaimed the
gentle Mrs. Mullenstalk, rising hastily and spilling a dish of fog all
over the front of her new green and yellow striped grass dress, as she
ran toward the spot whence the voice had proceeded. "I'll to the
palace this very night, and lay my complaint against that wretch.
We'll see whether virtuous ladies are to be insulted in this manner,
and their helplessness trampled under foot!"
The intruder had already disappeared; but as the amiable Mrs.
Mullenstock got her spectacles adjusted, she just caught sight of him
throwing a somerset into a pumpkin-flower; while his laugh still
sounded faintly upon the air, mingled with snatches of a wild refrain,
of which she could only distinguish these lines:
"Oh ho, Granny Mullenstock, how envious you be;
I'll plague you to death, or the hornets catch me!"
The spinster shook her fist and grinned horribly at the broad-mouthed,
innocent yellow flower, down whose throat the varlet had leaped--but
chancing at that moment to catch a glimpse of her own face in a little
bit of mica, which served her for a toilet-mirror, she uttered the
least bit of a little shriek in the world and fainted--her companions,
who had by this time gathered round her, exchanging sly winks and
malicious looks of gratification as she went off.
But we must return to the ball-room, where the fire-flies have got
sleepy, and many of them had already put out their lamps and retired,
and the brilliant company of dancers and promenaders has dwindled down
to a few sets, composed of those ladies who had not been asked to
dance in the height of the evening, and some sour-looking gentlemen in
very tight coats and pants, who had "got the mitten" from their
sweethearts at the door, and were desperately trying to do the amiable
out of sheer revenge. At length even these disappeared; the saloons
were entirely deserted, save by the beautiful mother moonbeam, who
slept upon the fragrant turf, her babe, the silver starlight, folded
lovingly within her bosom.
Yet no, the scene is not quite solitary. Carefully bending aside the
tall, slender spears of diamond-tipped grass that perpetually guarded
the sacred domain of the imperial palace, a cavalier in full armor
appears, making way for a lady, whose long veil of the finest spider's
web completely conceals her head and form, making her seem like an
exhalation, taking, as its highest gift of grace, the shape of woman.
The two advance slowly and cautiously to the centre of the saloon, and
then the cavalier, throwing himself on his knees, (that's the way
fairies invariably make love,) beseeches his companion to have pity
upon him. The lady throws back her veil with a motion of indescribable
grace, and looking down into the upturned face of her lover, seriously
a moment, then lightly, utters a low laugh, and replies,
"Very well, Sir Timothy Lawn, upon my word! Quite prettily done,
indeed! You must have been taking lessons of Signor Sweetbriar, the
royal parson. Now do run and bring me a glass of geranium-dew--I
protest I have drank scarcely a drop all the evening."
"Not one word, then, for your poor lover and true knight," sighed Sir
Timothy, in a tone of the deepest despondence.
"I did not come here to listen to school-boy nonsense," said the lady
Dewbell, with a haughty and impatient motion of the head. "I came to
get a glass of geranium-water. But, as you decline obliging me to that
extent, I suppose I must e'en get it for myself. Good-night to you,
Sir Timothy! Pleasant dreams!" and she disappeared.
The knight was for a moment confounded; then rising slowly, he pointed
to a bright star that shone directly above him, winking and winking
with all its might, as much as to say, "what a green-horn you are!"
and swore an oath that no fairy should ever henceforth have power over
his heart, till she who had so wantonly scorned and insulted him
should beg to be forgiven. As he was turning sadly away, to seek his
solitary chamber in the upper branch of a bachelor's button, on the
other side of the brook, the elf-clown Puck stood before him, looking
as demure as puss herself.
"Well, fool," said the knight, somewhat impatiently, "how long hast
thou been listening here?"
"As long as my ears, your worship," replied the urchin, undauntedly,
"and they were long enough to hear that your worship's valiancy is a
very much over-praised commodity--since a maiden's dainty veil of
knitted night-air has proved too strong for him.
The knight he sued, and the knight he sighed,
But he went away without supper or bride."
"Silence, imp! or I 'll make thine ears, of which thou hast had such
pestilent service, shorter by a span."
"No, I thank your valiancy! my ears do very well as they are. And I
came to do you a good turn by offering you the use of them. But as
your worship is so high and dry in Dundrum Bay, as we say at sea, I'll
e'en get back to my nap in the hazle copse again."
"Nay, good Puck, I meant thee no harm, as thou knowest well enough.
Since thou knowest my innermost grief, let me hear thy fool's advice
in the matter."
"If I gave thee advice, I were in truth a fool. But I'll very
willingly forgive thee this time, and tell thee what I overheard
to-night at the palace."
"Ah, that's a good Puck!"
"That depends on circumstances, your valiancy. I am somewhat like a
dish of toasted gallinippers--whether it is palatable or not depending
very much in the way it is served. But this is what I heard his
majesty say to her majesty. 'Sweetbine, my dear,' said he, 'don't you
think Dewbell has a fancy for our brave and noble knight, Sir Timothy
Lawn?' 'Why, my love,' replied her majesty, 'I have long been almost
certain that she loved him. But she is such a confirmed flirt I am
afraid she can never be brought to say so. I haven't the least idea
that she would not reject Sir Timothy, were he to propose.' 'We must
cure her of this fatal pride and folly,' replied his majesty, 'and I
think that, with a little of your assistance, I can manage it
capitally.' And then the dear old people passed into the royal
bed-chamber, in the japonica wing, and I heard no more."
"I'll to the king."
"And I'll to a better friend than he; if you permit me, your worship,
I take my _bough_ and _leave_."
"Avaunt, vile punning Puck! Thou hast been to Philadelphia, where all
the streets rhyme, and every corner is a pun upon the next. May the
fiend unquip thee! Away!'
"If thou I kest not jokes, thou hadst best stick to thy
bachelor's-buttonhood. I tell thee, marriage is a capital joke."
"What knowest thou of marriage?"
"I am one of its fruits."
"A bitter jest, indeed, and plucked ere half ripened. St. Bulwer! but
thou wilt be a mother's blessing when thou art fully grown!"
"Better save thy wits, sir knight! Thou wilt have a plentiful lack of
them ere the honeymoon be out of the comb. A pleasant roost in thy
bachelor's hall, and many of them!" and the vagabond sprung upon the
back of a green lizard creeping silently through the grass, and
sticking his heels into his astonished charger, dragoon-fashion,
disappeared down the bank of the brook.
The old king and his good wife, Sweetbine, were very much grieved at
the foolish trifling of their daughter, Dewbell--for they were well
assured that Dewbell loved the noble knight, Sir Timothy, and that it
was only a spirit of mere wantonness that led her to vex and torment
him. Long into the night did the royal couple converse, striving to
devise some means of bringing their wayward daughter to her senses.
They at last hit upon a plan, which they fondly hoped might be the
means of securing the happiness of their child, and settling her
comfortably in life.
The next morning his majesty sent for the dwarf, Puck, to his private
cabinet, and received him with an unusually grave and troubled aspect.
"Venerable sire," said Puck, making a mock reverence, and scarcely
able to suppress a chuckle at the solemn looks of his master, "what
facetious dream hath been playing its mad pranks about thy sacred
pillow? Never saw I kingly face so mirthfully beprankt."
"Come hither, good Puck," said the king, patiently, "and when thou
hast made thy breakfast of fun upon thy poor master, listen to him
seriously."
"Dear prince", said the dwarf, suddenly running up to the king and
casting himself weeping at his feet, "art thou, then, really troubled?
Forgive thy poor slave!" and he began blubbering in the most pitiable
manner, while he looked up into the face of the king with such a look
of wo-begone and ludicrous despair, that Paterflor himself could
scarce refrain from bursting into laughter.
"Thou hast done nothing wrong, good Puck--handsome Puck," said the
king, chucking his favorite under the chin. "I have need of thee.
Here is my signet-ring. Bring me straight hither a young and handsome
peasant, one who has never been seen by the court, nor any inhabitant
of the palace. He must be intelligent, conscientious, and trustworthy.
Dost thou know of such a one?"
"Yes, your majesty, I think I do. My friend, young Paudeen O'Rafferty,
the son of the old forest-keeper, has just returned from Ireland,
where he was carried by the fairies at his christening, and has been
kept ever since until now, trying to get through the rent made by Mr.
O'Connell in the pockets of his relatives. He's as tight an Irish lad
as your majesty ever saw; and as for his honesty, I'll endorse it with
both hands. The O'Raffertys are constitutionally honest."
"Well, bring him hither at once. I shall be ready to receive him."
Puck, with his funny face entirely restored to good humor, left the
palace by a private gate, and running across a beautiful meadow,
disappeared in the dark green forest. Idle lingerer as he was, he felt
a strong inclination, at every hazel-copse he passed, to stop and have
a chat with the rabbits he knew were hid beneath it; and more than
once he was on the point of running up to a friendly deer and kissing
his cold, black nose, just for auld lang syne. But, for a wonder, he
was constant to his errand, and ran straight on--not stopping even to
throw stones at a squirrel by the way--till he came to the forester's
hut.
He found the old forester and his wife alone. They received him
kindly, for, notwithstanding his mad pranks, Puck was a favorite every
where, and especially among the poor and humble, who were always safe
from his mischievous propensities. The young Paudeen was out a little
bit in the forest, but would return directly.
"And what brings good Master Puck from among the great lords and
beautiful ladies of the coort to our poor little shieling, not bigger
nor betther than the mud cabins of ould Ireland itself?" inquired the
old woman, who had grown, with age and toil, wrinkled deaf and sour.
"I'll explain all that as soon as Paudeen comes home," replied the
grave and mysterious Puck; "but, in the meantime, how do you get on
Mr. O'Rafferty, and what is the news in the forest?"
"We get on but poorly," said the old forester, "and the news is, that
the people at the other side of the forest, where the potatoes have
all rotted, and the land is wore down to its bare bones, for want of
rest like, are very bad. Some of the women and childhers have already
starved, and the men have for the most part took to dhrinken and
fighten, till things is in a mighty bad way."
"Yes," chimed in the old woman, who seemed to have caught by instinct
the subject of conversation, "and the poor stharven people say, too,
that there is plenty of money squandhered upon extravagance by the
king and his coort to give them all bread; and that the forests that
is kept for the deers and craythurs to be killed for the spoort of the
big folks, would give every man a bit of fresh land, and that the
potatoes would grow well enough then."
"Auch, Peggy, will ye have us hung for parjery, out and out!"
exclaimed the terrified husband, casting a deprecating look at Puck.
"Poor craythur, she doesn't know what she is saying."
At this juncture the young Paudeen made his appearance, and put a stop
to a conversation that was becoming decidedly stupid. He made his
respects cordially to Puck; and when he heard his errand, seemed
amazed and delighted. After a good deal of difficulty, the old lady
was made to understand what was the desire of the king.
"Hooh!" exclaimed the old crone, leaping from her seat and dancing
about the room, "the dhrame's come true at last! Och, hullybaloo!
didn't I know that the pretty Paudeen wasn't born for the pig-stye!
Bedad, but he'll ruffle the gentles! Wont you, darlint?" and the old
woman fell upon her son's neck, smothering him with kisses, while the
poor youth could hardly keep his legs under the vigor of her maternal
caresses.