University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

As the last peal of St. Paul's Church, on a morning in the early part of autumn, about this period
of our story, announced the hour of nine, the usually
desultory occupants of Broadway and Chatham-street
gradually gave place to a more eager and uniform
crowd; and hundreds of persons appeared
hastening with quickened step out of the adjoining
streets, and bending their course towards the pretty
and palace-like looking building which lifted its
white front in the centre of the Park. Two large
and sombre structures, on either side of the just-mentioned
edifice, obtruded themselves on the gaze;
and, from their gloomy appearance, might be recognised
at once as dismal abodes of guilt. Few,
in a philosophical and disinterested mood, can behold
a prison without feeling their horror of the
crime yield for the moment to compassion for the
criminal. It is the dreary tomb of many a hope;

within its walls have been endured nameless and
unimaginable anguish. The enlightened tenderness
of modern legislation prohibits the wheel, the
dagger, or the bowl; yet here the wretched, whose
guilt is sometimes the infirmity of nature, and
sometimes the error of education, have writhed under
the prolonged torments of remorse and fear:
and what are the dagger and the wheel to them?
The massy portals, too, may—nay, considering the
mischances of human affairs, must have sometimes
closed upon the innocent, and returned them to the
scaffold, or disgorged them upon a world whose unthinking
selfishness as often pursues unfortunate
virtue, as it sanctions for a time the triumphs of
successful guilt. Even the sight of vice itself, thus
baffled and chained, without the support of hope or
the consolations of conscience, shrinking from the
aspect of an external world, all threatening and
dark, to the communion of a heart lost in the turbulence
of yet more gloomy horror, and awaiting,
in impotent and illimitable despair, its dismissal
from a dreadful existence to a state yet more thrillingly
appalling, is, perhaps, of all spectacles the
most fearful and ghastly.

The black and revolting buildings, so conspicuously
placed in the heart and gay centre of the city,
had long jarred upon the minds of the inhabitants;
and one, indeed, at the present day, under the wand
of some cunning architect, has assumed a more
lively and lovely shape, and been converted to other
purposes; but at the time of which we write, the
authorities found a certain appropriateness in their
proximity to their graceful neighbour. The latter
is familiar to the New-York reader as the City Hall,
the seat of many public offices, but particularly of
the courts of justice; and at that time both the civil
and criminal courts were held within it. The black

and ugly buildings which flanked it on either side
were used, the one for a jail, where, with the stupid
and useless cruelty of a pagan sacrifice, the unfortunate
debtor was condemned to perpetual idleness
and wo; while the one on the west received criminals,
who there awaited their arraignment or their
execution, within a minute's walk of their place of
trial.

On the present day, the avidity with which all
classes hastened towards the City Hall rendered it
evident that it was about to become the scene of
some interesting judicial proceeding; and the pressure
to procure seats in the criminal court-room
proved that the circumstances of some dark crime
were about to be investigated; probably some reckless
enemy to society exposed to general execration,
and consigned to just punishment, perhaps a
weary and toilsome imprisonment — perhaps to
death. It had been long a custom in America, as
in England, to conduct the convict condemned to
expiate his crime on the scaffold, in broad daylight,
and in full view of the people, to some open spot
in the suburbs of the town, affording space for the
accommodation of the immense multitude generally
drawn together by the occasion; and thus, with the
deliberate pomp of law, and the solemn ceremonies
of religion, to consummate upon the bound and
trembling wretch the tremendous doom. After all,
the spirit which drew the Romans to the amphitheatre
still holds its place in the human breast. Far,
very far, are we yet from true civilization.

Few crimes in the United States are visited with
the punishment of death; and, while older nations
often launch the bolt against the feeble head of ignorance
or poverty for the most trivial errors of
judgment, or sometimes for the cravings of hunger,
let it be recorded to the honour of American legislators,

that the power which society has lodged in
their hands is wielded with more caution.

But in proportion to the infrequency of these
spectacles is the excitement they produce. The
guilty wretch, arrested on a charge of murder, and
thrown into prison to await his trial, becomes at
once a topic of universal, and, among the lower orders,
of intense interest. To feed this appetite for
scenes of carnage, blood, and distress—the peculiar
attribute of human nature—the public press is prolific
of facts, true or false; and in all their harrowing
features, and too often with the exaggeration of
accident, prejudice, or passion, retails the incidents
of the deed, and conjectures the motives of the perpetrator.

It was on the event of one of these long-expected
trials that an immense crowd assembled. Such
violent anxiety had been produced by rumour and
the recitals of the public journals, that before the
doors of the court-room were thrown open, large
throngs had collected on the outside, and, pressing
for entrance, filled the avenues and corridors to
overflowing. At an early hour, when the public
were admitted, the spacious chamber was immediately
crowded almost to suffocation. The space
within the bar, usually allotted only to gentlemen
of the profession, witnesses, jurors in attendance,
and persons connected with the proceedings of the
hour, was also densely filled; and when the judges
assumed their seats, and the cry of “Silence—hats
off!” announced that the court were about to enter
upon the interesting examination, the multitude presented
a slope of heads, back to the farthest reach
of the ample hall, such as had rarely before been
assembled in the apartment.

Among the individuals within the bar were several
who drew peculiar attention and remark from

the auditory. The entrance of Mr. Barton, the district
attorney, occasioned some interest. He was a
young, but distinguished and eloquent man, celebrated
for the force and fire of his appeals, and
whose powers were said to be rarely awakened in
vain. With him came his associate, Mr. Germain,
also a profound, sagacious, and eminent counsellor,
employed, it was said, by those whom the prisoner's
crime had most bereaved, to render his destruction
doubly sure. A more dangerous opponent could
scarcely have appeared against the unhappy object
of all this solicitude; for, a shrewd and practised
lawyer, watchful to avail himself of every accident
and subterfuge, skilful to lead away attention from
a bad point, or to invent a construction favourable
to his views—of a deep foresight, an insidious cunning,
a ready wit, and a presence of mind never at
fault in the examination of witnesses—Germain
knew well how to rise from a defeat, or to press the
moment of triumph. In a just cause, his talents
and acquirements were always sure of delighting.
The wily votary of falsehood, on the witness's stand,
found his mask torn off and his arts baffled. Betrayed
by ingenious artifices into the disproval of
his own testimony, and bewildered and startled by
the clashing contradictions of his own statement,
he at length yielded the conflict, abashed and in
despair; confessed the truth, and was dismissed,
writhing under the lash of ridicule and rebuke.

But the same power, exerted on the wrong side,
was equally fierce, watchful, and uncompromising;
and it must be allowed that the eager lawyer, absorbed
in the excitement of his cause, did not always
stop to inquire into its justice, but used the
same weapons alike on all occasions; bewildered
the honest witness in wiles laid for the deceitful,
and frequently woke all his energies to attack the
innocent or defend the guilty.

By their side sat Mr. Loring, also one of the
most remarkable counsellors of the day; grave,
learned, and eloquent; his fine head, partly bald,
was expressively clothed with the “silver livery of
advised age.” He was the only one who as yet appeared
for the defence.

The three counsel conversed together across the
table with the cool courtesy of the profession; who,
while property, reputation, and life are committed
to their hands with trembling solicitude, find the
exercise of their respective powers but the struggle
of a game which, however tremendously important
to the parties concerned, is by them played with
but transient personal feeling, and to-morrow forgotten.

A gentleman of prepossessing form and appearance
was pointed out to each other by the crowd,
with symptoms of curiosity, as a foreigner of high
rank and unbounded wealth; a casual visiter to this
country, whom accident had rendered necessary in
the present case as one of the witnesses. This was
Count Clairmont. Near him, and frequently exchanging
the sentiments of a brief conversation, sat
a white-headed old man, whose care-worn and griefstricken
countenance was perused by every eye
with extreme interest. He was the father of the
young and lovely girl whose murder, by a brutal
and unparalleled assassin, was the subject of the
present endictment. The hearts of the more enlightened
upon the circumstances of the case were
shocked and agitated with deep and powerful sympathy
on recognising, in the tall and noble figure
of a gentleman—who, though somewhat advanced
in life, was erect and almost haughty in his air—
the father of the culprit. He stood in a recess
within the bar, calm, but pale; and around him
waited, with the most evident marks of respect and

commiseration, a train of the most wealthy and
distinguished inhabitants of the town. These interesting
objects had places reserved for them in
the midst of the uncommon throng of miscellanceous
individuals—lawyers lounging from idleness
and curiosity, witnesses and jurors attending on
subpœnas, and law-students inured to scenes of
iniquity and distress, who made themselves merry
with the various rumours of the case, wagered
with each other on the fate of the accused, and advanced
jests against the sheriff on his approaching
duty.

The outside of the bar was occupied by the
middling classes,—sailors, butchers, bakers, and
other honest tradesmen and good citizens, whose
minds had been highly inflamed by the reports of
the case, without being much instructed as to its
merits; and who were eagerly anxious to behold
the extraordinary ruffian—the cold-blooded seducer
and assassin of an innocent and beautiful girl.
Concerning the manners and appearance, the character,
family, and demeanour of the accused, the
most contradictory rumours were rife. Some declared
him a ferocious and black-browed giant,
with a cruel and malignant countenance, a harsh
voice, and relentless heart. Others asserted that
he had been the most reckless profligate of the day;
that the influence of a wealthy family had already
several times screened him from merited punishment;
that he had once or twice nearly effected his
escape, by the attempted massacre of the officers
who had arrested him; and that the authorities
were obliged to secure his confinement by means
of heavy irons.

A circumstance was observed, too, of a very rare
occurrence in this country—a disposition among the
lower classes to predetermine the guilt of the accused,

and to distrust the integrity of the court.
Several journals had given publicity to articles
darkly intimating the difficulty of finding a jury
sufficiently firm and disinterested to render a true
verdict against a man acknowledged to belong to
so high a circle of society. Some spoke aloud of
the power of wealth and influence; others turned
the affair into a political question; and many (for
such clamorous demagogues did not pass away
with the days of Greece and Rome) openly proclaimed
that, even if the guilty wretch were condemned
by the judge, he would be pardoned by the
governor. As the trial-day approached, these disturbing
influences seemed agitated and fomented
by some secret hand. Singular innuendoes lurked
in the paragraphs of the daily journals, engendering
among the population a fierce and ferocious
spirit. The friends of the prisoner beheld, with
feelings of the deepest alarm, these clouds gathering
around the head of one who had hitherto known
only the balmy pleasures of life's sunniest hours.
The district attorney had moved in the same circle
with the accused in the gay precincts of fashion.
Would he follow to the death his associate? The
very judge on the bench, it was whispered, loved
him like a father, and was endeared to him by family
relations of the most tender nature. Would he
too—thus murmured the thousands, nay, the millions
(for the event had already swept like fire in
the wind), who allowed themselves to be excited by
the absorbing question—would this judge, could he
preside at a trial, thus linked with his own feelings,
with cool and impartial deliberation?

There were not wanting third and fourth rate
journals which grasped the subject with the sole
view of rendering it a party question. The father
of the unhappy criminal was spoken of at the period

for an important office in the gift of the people.
So tempting an engine could not remain unworked,
and the astounded statesman heard denunciations
and anathemas of the most bitter malignity thundered
against him by those who could oppose his
political success with no other means than those
furnished by this domestic tragedy.

On the other hand, a party of his townsmen, and
indeed the most discreet and intelligent, while they
regarded the endictment with wonder, seemed assured
that a trial would establish the innocence of
the accused. All their sympathies and their fears
were now awakened in his behalf, for the public
excitement grew more and more dark and threatening,
and a trial for life and death, even to the innocent,
was not without its perils. Accident might
incline the scales against him. The very trial itself
was a withering anguish; the very suspicion
a gangrene to the heart.

The public indignation and expressions of distrust
exercised too upon the interests of the unhappy
defendant a most unfavourable influence.
Those who really knew Judge Howard, knew that
if it had been his own son instead of his friend's, he
would construe the law, and preside at the trial,
with the sternness of a Roman; and it was feared
that he, as well as the district attorney, might be
insensibly led, by the open charges against their
integrity, to pass to the opposite extreme, and
suffer impartiality to strengthen into severity.

In the thousands that filled the room—stood
waiting on the outside and strove vainly for entrance—what
a variety of opposite emotions! from
the simple curiosity of the indifferent stranger,
stimulated by the mere desire to behold a human
being tried for his life, to the astonishment and
anxiety, the conjectures of the future and the

memories of the past, felt by his acquaintance, and
to the whirl and tempest, the anguish and agony,
in the breasts of those who knew and loved him!
Across the minds, too, even of the most rational,
would sometimes glance the thought—“Is not the
prisoner indeed guilty?” The very apparent impossibility,
by a kind of paradox, rendered it probable.
What but the glaring and fatal truth of
the charge would select him, so far beyond the
reach of ordinary suspicion, as the perpetrator of
the deed? If not he, who was the culprit?

Notwithstanding the immense pressure, perfect
order prevailed, and all seemed settling themselves
in their places, as they best might, like the audience
at the commencement of a celebrated tragedy,
and with the composed satisfaction of listening to
the investigation, and perhaps of soon beholding
the doom of one of the most black, remarkable,
and harrowing crimes that had ever occupied the
attention of a court of justice.

“Place the prisoner at the bar!” exclaimed the
crier, in a loud voice.

There was an instantaneous sensation perceptible
through the mass of people, but it immediately
subsided into a breathless silence, as the side-doors
within the bar were flung open, and the officers
entered in front of the crowd with the prisoner between
them. An impulse of surprise ran again
through the multitude, now also accompanied by
an evident murmur of sympathy, elicited by the
appearance of a very handsome young man, considerably
above the middling size, of an erect and
commanding form, who, with a firm and rather
haughty air, walked to his seat within the prisoner's
box. A single glance discovered that he wore the
dress and possessed the manners of a gentleman;
that his features were mild, intelligent, and uncommonly

prepossessing, but that his face was of a
deadly paleness, and his lips compressed with the
action of one who is the victim of a powerful and
unnatural excitement.

To many of the spectators he was personally
known; and more than one voice murmured, in
tones of the deepest commiseration, “Poor, poor
Leslie!”

On entering the box and seating himself, the
prisoner looked around and continued his gaze, as
if in search of some one within the bar, till he encountered
the full and terrible glance of Mr. Romain,
the father of her of whose death he was accused.
For a moment he met and returned the
fixed gaze of the old man, who actually shook with
the tremours of his increasing emotion; but as if
the forced effort to bear up against his fate and his
feelings exceeded his power, the unhappy youth
suddenly bowed down his head, and covered his
face with his hands. The whole scene had been
of such absorbing interest, that the court, as well as
the prisoner and the spectators, appeared, for the
moment, to abandon themselves to their feelings,
and the young man was the centre of a thousand
warm and bleeding sympathies. But the recollection
of the heinous deed which he was called upon
to answer, and the sight of the aged father of the
murdered girl, awoke sterner thoughts. Nor were
there wanting some who ascribed his emotion not
to the anguish of innocence, but to the remorseful
agonies of guilt.

The court immediately ordered silence. The
voice of the crier resounded through the hall.
The crowd again arranged themselves on their
seats; and though a few handkerchiefs, especially
of females, still hid the faces of the softened own

ers, the cold ceremonials of a legal tribunal at once
resumed their course.

With the numerous and tedious formalities preliminary
to a great trial, incidental to the empannelling
of a jury, &c., we will not detain the reader.
They were, on this occasion, so multifarious and
prolonged, that, upon their final arrangement, the
court dismissed the cause for the day, in order that
it might be fairly commenced on the succeeding
morning. The persons concerned were requested
to be punctual in an early attendance; and the vast
and heterogeneous crowd separated, to carry into
all quarters of the town their new impressions concerning
the appearance of the unhappy prisoner,
who, thus fearfully suspended over eternity, was
remanded back to prison