University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MURDERER AND THE MURDERED.

News of the horrid murder of poor Ellen
Douglas, and the arrest of Acton Goldfinch
for the crime, flew like wild-fire over
the city, and created the wildest excitement
and consternation—insomuch, that
citizens of all professions left their business,
and collected in groups at the corners
of the streets, on the pleasure grounds,
and in all public places, to talk the affair
over in low, eager, mysterious tones, ex
press their own opinions, and listen to
comments from others. To fan the flame
of popular excitement and put money in
their own pockets, several of the daily
journals issued extras, setting forth the
affair in the wildest shape of exaggerated
romance, and giving a minute and sicken-detail
of how they supposed the horrid
deed had been perpetrated; and though
each differed essentially from every other,
yet all were received and swallowed with
eager credulity by an excited populace,
ready to gulp down any thing that would
strain their wonder and feed their morbid
passions.

And even had the press been silent,
there was enough of the wild, startling
and romantic in the affair, as it flew from
ear to ear, to put the city in unusual commotion.
In the first place, the father of
the murderer, as a princely millionaire,
was generally known by reputation, if not
personally; and the murderer himself had
moved a bright particular star in the highest
circles of aristocracy and fashion. Connected
with this, the story at once got
abroad of how he had treacherously seduced
poor Ellen, (who was now represented as
all that was once lovely, pure, amiable and
high-minded,) by a sham marriage, and
that being on the point of alliance with
one of the oldest, most respectable and
opulent families in the city, and fearful of
cxposure, had sought to hide his disgrace
with the most heinous and damning of
crimes. This the reader knows was not
strictly correct—as Acton was aware the
exposure he so much dreaded had taken
place—but of this the mass was ignorant,
and consequently surmised as nearly
correct as the public generally does in
such cases. With the majority of the citizens,
or those inferior to him in point of
wealth, Acton was destined to receive no
sympathy—but, on the contrary, their most
bitter curses; and so excited were the vindictive
passions of the lower orders, that
but for a doubly strong and well armed police,
they would have mobbed the Tombs,
broken into his cell, and dragged him forth,
a victim to their wild fury. As it was, not
only Centre street, but all the avenues
leading to the Tombs, were blocked up at

an early hour in the morning, by a furious
multitude, eager to be present at his examination,
or gain the first intelligence of
what was taking place. Even the house
of Madame Costellan was surrounded by
a dense mob, of both sexes, all ages and
colors—drawn thither by that same vile
curiosity which leads persons to witness
an execution—and in consequence,a strong
body of police was required to be in constant
attendance throughout the day, to
protect the premises and guard the body
of the deceased.

It is not our intention to give a detail of
either the examination or trial of Acton
Goldfinch, as our space is limited, and other
matters, more important to cur purpose,
must be brought forward ere we close.—
Let it suffice, then, that the former occupied
two sittings of the magistrate, and
that a large array of witnesses were
summoned before the court, whose evidence,
collectively, was sufficient to cause
the prisoner to be indicted for willful murder.
The Grand Jury, too, returned a
true bill, and his not being a bailable case,
Acton was remanded to prison, to take his
trial at the spring term of the court of Oyer
and Terminer.

During the prisoner's examination, his
half distracted father was present, and exerted
his wealthy influence to the utmost
to get him clear; but this was a case of
too strong circumstantial evidence for his
purpose; and he was forced to retire from
the field—which he did, cursing his own
natal hour and the impotence of his ill-gotten
gains. It was the last desperate
struggle in his wicked career, made on
the very verge of his own terrible overthrow
and ruin, of which more anon.

Meantime, Edgar and his friends came
forward and offered their services to consign
to dust the mortal remains of the
poor, ill-fated Ellen Douglas. Permission
being granted by the authorities, they set
about their mournful task; but so great
was the excitement, and the desire, excited
by curiosity, of hundreds of strangers
to be present, that the police were forced
to interfere, and it was judged advisable to
bury her in the night—which was finally
done—Edgar and Virginia accompanying
the deceased as chief mourners, and dropping
a tear upon her humble grave, at the
recollection of her many kindnesses to
them and the thought of her awful and
untimely fate.

It was a solemn sight, and powerful
moral, to stand, with flaming torches, in
the dead hours of night, around the open
grave of this child of sorrow, cut down in
the bloom of life, and behold her coffin
lowered into the cold, damp earth, with
which its frail tenant soon must mingle,
dust to dust, to come forth never more till
the sound of the Last Trump should summon
it to another life and final judgment;
and remember, withal, that she, erewhile,
was as pure, and lovely, and happy as any
present; and, but for one fatal error, less
her fault, perhaps, than her misfortune,
might even now be exulting in life, and
pride, and hope, and joy—the admired and
loved, extolled and honored of a wide and
brilliant circle of light-hearted friends. It
was a sad and dismal scene, and one calculated
to impress itself on the beholder
so deeply, that time, with all its events
and changing circumstances, might never
erase its solemn and awful vividness!

“Alas!” sighed Morton, as, with his wife
on one hand and his daughter on the other,
he stood on the verge of Ellen's last
earthly home, and heard the hollow sound
of the earth rattling on her coffin: “Alas!
what a creature is man!—here to-day and
gone to-morrow—now in the joy, pride
and exultation of happy life—now in the
cold, dark embrace of death, with weeping
friends around, taking the last parting
look of all that was once so dear to them.
How wise is the Great Infinite, in shutting
from us all knowledge of the future,
that we may the better live in and enjoy
the present—or, with the shining shield of
hope for our defence, do battle bravely
against the `ills we have.' Poor Ellen!—
poor, ill-fated, untimely Ellen Douglas!—
child of misfortune `more sinned against
than sinning'—little could she dream, in
the flowery days of happy youth, that her
first years of blooming maturity would find
her thus! Oh! what a powerful and painful
lesson, to guard us all, my friends, against
the first fatal step from virtue and honor!

She is gone, and thus we bury her forever
from our sight, trusting to God's mercy
she finds that happiness beyond the grave
which sinful earth denied her. God help
us all!—we know not whose turn it next
may be to follow her! Let us go;” and
slowly the small procession moved away
and silently departed to their several
homes.