"And I alone was cursed and loathed; 'T was in a garden bower I knelt one eve, and scalding tears A frail mimosa at my feet "Alas! how dark my lot if thus The falling leaf, the bird's gay wing, "I climbed the lofty mountain height When every beaming star "I mused beneath the avalanche, And traced the sparkling stream, Till Nature's face became to me Then thirsting for a higher lore I left my childh od'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 "To shadow forth, with lineaments 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 "The threads of life have worn away, Discordantly they thrill, But soon the sounding chords will be I shall aspire with truer aim- 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 mPrisonment 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 w re 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 firmreasoning 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 sha with rare exceptions, discover it to have been blindy 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 kinde 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 mick 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 workroom; 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, s 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 | jealous of him; there was at the bottom of his heart heavy charge to an artisan, and a misfortune to a a secret, envious, implacable hatred against Samprisoner. the hate of a titular for a real sovereign-of a temporal against a spiritual power; these are the worst of all hatreds. 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 feeblelooking, 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. 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 airingground-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 "That you would do me a service," said the young would seem that he must have suffered much at that 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 moment, for he addressed the turnkey-a thing which he had never done before. "Is Heartall sick?" was his question. "No," replied the turnkey. 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 busines," 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." steady voice, and looking the director full in the face, added, "reflect, this is the first of November, I "Mr. Flint," persisted Sam, "the question is my give you till the 10th. life or death, and it depends upon you." "I never revoke my decisions." "Sir, is it because I have given you offence?" "None." 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 "In that case," said Sam, "why do you separate a disdainful smile, "we must be gentle with these 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 hey had taken his dog! The grief of this separation n 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. 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 st 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, be 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-searched in a white wooden box, which stood at the 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 fellowconvicts approached him, and cried out, laughing, "What are you about here, Sam?" 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 has loved-of the mother of his child—of his happy litte || home of other days. Two articles, totally useless to Sam; the scissors could only be of service to woman—the book to a lettered person. Sam coul neither sew nor read. At the time when he was traversing the old bal which serves as the winter walk for the prisoners he approached a convict of the name of Dawar who was looking with attention at the enormou bars of a window. Sam was holding the little par of scissors in his hands; he showed them to Dawson. saying, "To-night I will divide those bars with thes scissors." Dawson began to laugh incredulously. Sam joine him. That morning he worked with more zeal that usual-faster and better than ever before. A line Sam raised his stern head slowly, and said, "I past noon he went down on some pretext or other 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. Flintgive me back my comrade." "Impossible!" said his master. the joiner's workshop, on the ground-floor, under They offered him many to choose from. He t "It must be done though," said Sam, in a low and the smallest of those which were very sharp, hid in his trowsers, and went out. There were twentyseven 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 straightforward-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 badhearted 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 de clared 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 workingframes 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 |