University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

The morning came—the hour of trial arrived.
The human tide had already rolled into the court-room,
and, amid shuffling and pushing, and the frequent

interference of the police-officers, and all the
agitation and clamour of a mob much excited, the
crowd at length once more occupied, not only every
seat, but every spot where a foot or a shoulder could
be braced, or a hand could cling.

The judges assumed their seats; the jury were
called; silence was ordered by the criers; the agitated
mass at length settled into quiet; the prisoner
again entered, and was placed at the bar; and all
the customary forms and preliminaries being at
length accomplished, the endictment was regularly
read, and the district attorney rose to open the case,
and to explain the circumstances which he expected
to prove. The public were thus put in possession
of all the authentic facts which the industrious investigations
of the state attorney had elicited. The
speaker's youthful zeal and his professional ambition,
the interest which hurries along an ardent lawyer
for the time to make the cause of his client his
own—which warms with its progress and strengthens
by opposition, and which at length renders the
desire of success an absorbing and exclusive passion,
almost resembling the desperate anxiety of
the gambler—combined to inspire him with enthusiastic
eloquence. His recital of the circumstances
which he hoped to prove was conducted with the
art of rhetoric, and coloured with the hues of imagination.
It was a fearful and soul-stirring narrative,
that chilled the blood of the coldest auditor.
With what awful force must it have fallen upon the
ears of the prisoner! The orator did not express
the wary suggestions of one seeking truth, but the
excited and exciting denunciations of a mind fully
predetermined, and highly inflamed with a mere
one-sided view of the case; placing upon every incident
the deepest and guiltiest construction; supposing
the basest motives for every action; disavowing

a belief of whatever tended to exculpate;
magnifying, through the medium of a heated fancy,
every damning proof; overlooking, thrusting aside,
explaining away, or ridiculing, every palliating circumstance;
sketching, with a bold pencil of vindictive
hate, a picture of unparalleled, irredeemable
iniquity, and shedding upon it a glare of poetic light,
calculated to startle and appal every heart. How
far such a course is favourable to the elucidation of
truth, the interests of society, and the spirit of a
court of justice, and how far a more merciful principle
might be incompatible with the safe and beneficial
operation of the legal machinery, I leave to
the determination of the profession itself and of the
world. It is certain, however, that long before the
eloquent counsel had closed his opening speech,
the prisoner, whose doomed head was the single
and unsheltered mark for bolt after bolt, launched
from the hand of one he had never injured, and
against whose fiery assaults he could rear no defence,
found himself the centre of all eyes, and
evidently the object of universal and unmingled
horror. Alone, writhing in unspeakable agony,
—compelled to hear himself, his character, his
thoughts, words, and actions, misrepresented,
blackened, and denounced—forbidden the privilege
of explaining, of denying—without the power either
to resist or to fly—he lay like Prometheus chained
on the cold rock, his heart pierced by the beak of
a fierce foe, and with all the thunders of heaven
rolling over his head.

“You have seen, gentlemen,” continued the orator,
with excited voice and flashing eyes, and, ever
and anon, a glance of lofty and pitiless scorn on
the ghastly face of his victim—“you have seen, in
the perpetrator of this dreadful deed, the aspect of
youth, the outbreak of feeling, a mild and gentle

demeanour, patience, modest silence on the lip,
and cheeks blanched by suffering. You are moved.
Your bosoms soften. You relent. You think of
his heart-broken father: you are fathers yourselves;
you cannot credit the accusation. That
gentle face never glared over the agonies himself
had occasioned; those hands never accomplished
the deed of death. Beneath that youthful bosom,
now heaving with emotion, never lurked the
gloomy fierceness of an assassin. Alas! gentlemen,
that my painful duty should break your
dreams of mercy. Human nature teems with
contrasts and paradoxes like these, and the cunning
devices of Satan are formed at once to delude
the criminal and his fellow-creatures. It is even
in such a form that he too often pours his poison.
It is in such a bosom that he plants his wildest
passions. He secretes the coiled serpent under
a bed of flowers. Sin often lies where men least
suspect its existence. Look not only among the
rude, the uncouth, the deformed, the poor, or the
ignorant, for the perpetrators of crime. The very
passions we most admire lead us astray. Love,
the tenderest of human sentiments, sometimes
guides the dagger and drugs the bowl. It is in
one like the accused that this passion, with all its
frightful consequences, springs with the greatest
facility and attains the most monstrous power. It
is in the specious form of grace, knowledge, and
virtue that the tempter steals upon his victim. A
rich and luxuriant soil, gentlemen, teeming with
fruit and flowers, yields also the most poisonous
plants, in the most remarkable vigour. Has the
prisoner's former life been pure and amiable? has
his character been marked by no atrocity? has he
rather been compassionate and tender, and would
my able opponents thence conclude the impossibility
of his having committed this deed? They
who know human nature will not be deceived by
their eloquent sophistry. Your experience, your
observation, your reading, have already taught you
the fallacy of such reasoning. Nero, one of the
bloodiest tyrants that ever darkened the historic
page, was, like this man, once a youthful votary of
tenderness and refinement; and his heart, which,
when more fully developed, could never sufficiently
sate itself with human sacrifice, melted and recoiled
from attaching his signature to a just death-warrant.
I refer to this well-known inconsistency
in human nature, gentlemen, to guard your minds
against attempts, on the part of my ingenious opponents,
to excite your sympathies in favour of
the character of the accused. Gentlemen, when
God gave the garden of Eden to the beings he had
created, on one condition—the golden fruit was
forbidden to man and beast—who was it that
disobeyed the command? It was none of the
lower class of beings; it was not even man himself.
It was Eve who reached forth her hand,
plucked, and ate—Eve, the fairest, the purest. But
the penalty of crime must fall upon the guilty,
however surrounded with earthly beauty. The
golden tresses of the mother of mankind did not
shield her head from the anger of Heaven; neither
must your hearts be turned away from justice
and your oath, by the eloquence or the subterfuges
of my legal opposers. It is the lot of guilt to suffer;
and in yielding on this occasion to the weakness
of personal feeling, you must remember that
you not only betray the great interests of society,
but you violate your own oaths.”

As the speaker closed, the sudden bustle of the
auditory announced their release from the spell
which he had exercised over them; and the universal

change of position, and the general freedom
of respiration, betrayed that he had held them
almost breathless and motionless.

It may be necessary to inform the reader unacquainted
with the forms of judicial proceedings, that
the counsel for the prosecution possess the right to
open the case; that the witnesses in the support of
the endictment are then examined. The counsel
for the defendant then produce their testimony, and
address the jury in his behalf; and, by a rule of
law, which at first appears contrary to its general
maxims of mercy, the prosecution exercises the important
privilege of advancing the last appeal to
the reason and feelings of the jury. The prisoner
sits, with such suspense as may be best imagined
by the intelligent reader, the silent spectator of the
fiercely-contested conflict, upon the issue of which
he depends for security from death upon the
scaffold.

It was with the calmness of desperate anguish
that the accused turned on his seat, after the address
of the prosecuting attorney, to listen to the
evidence by which it had been elicited, and which
was deemed so abundantly sufficient, in the eyes
of a sagacious lawyer, to stamp upon him the undoubted
odium of this heinous crime.

The limits of the story will not permit us to
detail the extraordinary mass of evidence now
brought forward in support of the endictment; but
we briefly relate the leading facts, sworn to by
many unimpeachable witnesses.

It appeared that the prisoner was of a sanguine
and passionate temperament, prone to act upon impulse—of
liberal education and uncommon talents
—his family wealthy, and his father one of the
most eminent of American statesmen. Notwithstanding,
however, his graceful and gentle manners,

and apparently kind heart, he had several
times exhibited a high-wrought temper, a total disregard
of morality and religion, and an inherent
ferocity—which, argued the counsel, might fully
sanction the probable truth of the present charge.
Count Clairmont was the witness called upon to
describe the difference which formerly took place
between himself and the prisoner; and the extraordinary
barbarity or madness of the latter, who insisted
on either not fighting at all, or else with the
muzzles against each other's breast: in this state the
affair was pending, when arranged by the accidental
interference of friends. He related also the
recent fracas between them, with singular and artful
malice. Both these incidents made a powerful
impression against the accused.

It appeared, by other witnesses, that the prisoner
had conceived an affection for Miss Romain. It
could not be distinctly sworn how far his love was
requited, but plausible and terrible surmises were
entertained on the subject; and the prosecution
attempted to produce evidence leading to the darkest
conjectures; but, as it depended upon hearsay,
the witnesses were either prohibited from answering,
or their answers were set aside by the court,
as not legal proof. They doubtless, however, were
not without effect upon the jury.

It was next proved that a change of sentiments
had taken place between Miss Romain and the
prisoner; after which she expressed herself in bitter
terms against him—spoke of her wrongs, and
her folly in submitting to them; and exhibited, before
a confidential female domestic, keen disappointment
and anguish, great anxiety, and a mysterious
agitation: sometimes bursting forth into
anger, and sometimes settling down into long fits of
melancholy. At length she appeared free from all

embarrassment; and the prisoner, in common with
many other gentlemen, visited the house as usual.
During several days, however, previous to the
afternoon of the murder, she let fall, before Jenny,
frequent expressions by which the faithful maid's
curiosity was greatly awakened, and her affection
alarmed. She commenced several times as if to
reveal an important secret; then suddenly turning
pale, stopped, and, on being interrogated, refused
any explanation, sometimes replying with sighs.
Once, when she thought herself alone, she was
heard to exclaim, “If he but prove honest—if he
but mean well;” and other similar sentences.
Witness, Jenny, slept in a small room immediately
adjoining that of Miss Romain. On the morning
of the fatal day, she was awakened before light by
the sound of her mistress's voice, apparently speaking
to some one below. Her mistress stood at a
window leading out upon a little balcony. Witness
was alarmed, rose, asked what was the matter,
and came to the window—saw the shadow of a
man stealing away. In great alarm and astonishment
asked who it was, and whether it was Mr.
Leslie? The other replied, eagerly, “Yes—yes,
it was Mr. Leslie. He came to tell me something;”
and then added, “but, Jenny, if you ever
breathe a word of this to anybody, I will never
forgive you while I live; and, when I am dead, I
will haunt you.”

A crowd of witnesses testified that the prisoner
had called for the deceased in a gig, on the afternoon
of the murder: from that moment she had
never been seen or heard of. The prisoner was
seen returning in the evening alone. One testified
that, aware of his having driven out with Miss Romain,
he asked why he had left his companion?
that the prisoner exhibited strong signs of embarrassment;

and made a confused and unintelligible
reply. The hat and feathers of the deceased were
found floating upon the East River, near the spot
where she was last traced with the prisoner; an
extraordinary appearance of a scuffle was discernible;
and a handkerchief, stained with blood, marked
with the initials R. R., and pronounced to be
that of Miss Romain, was picked up near the
river-bank.

The circumstance most forcible against the prisoner
was the subsequent discovery of a human
body, which had floated far down with the tide,
upon the shores of Long Island, in a state to preclude
the possibility of identifying it; but in which,
notwithstanding, many undertook to recognise the
remains of the unfortunate Miss Romain. One individual
swore to it positively.

An appalling array of other evidence was adduced,
tending to establish all the points necessary
to the successful prosecution of the endictment;
and when the prosecuting attorney rested his case,
it is probable that very few, amid the vast and various
multitude who had listened with profound
attention to the development of these deeply interesting
incidents, entertained the slightest doubt that
the doomed culprit was about to meet a terrible and
a just fate. All eyes regarded him without the
softness of mercy, or even the interest of doubt.
To all he seemed a victim bound for slaughter.
The populace had long before lost all sense of pity
in wonder and indignation. The broad gaze of
cold curiosity, the exclamation of surprise, the murmur
of horror, the smile of virtue triumphing in the
downfall of a villain—all these were scarcely attempted
to be concealed from the observation of
him who had called them forth.

“Poor Mr. Leslie!” said Jenny, her eyes red

with weeping, and after a long gaze upon his calm
and noble features, till her pretty blue eyes could no
longer see through her tears; “I shall never trust
to man's face again. Oh, Mr. Leslie, forgive me,
forgive me! If you are guilty there is no truth on
earth. I cannot believe it.”

It was now late in the afternoon, and the court
adjourned, to meet again at six in the evening.