The circumstances which I am about to relate, are familiar to many now
living. In some particulars I have varied from the truth; but if in the
relation of an event which excited intense interest, at the time of its
occurrence, I shall succeed in impressing upon any one, the delusive
character of circumstantial evidence, my object will be attained.
Beneath the magnificent sycamores which bordered a lovely stream in the
southwest part of Kentucky, a company of emigrants had pitched their
encampment, for the night. The tents were set up, the night-fire threw
its gleam upon the water, the weary horses were feeding, the evening
repast was over, and preparations were made for repose. The party
consisted of three brothers, with their families, who were wending
their way to the new lands of the distant Missouri. On their visages,
where the ague had left the sallow traces of its touch, few of the
nobler traits of the human character were visible. Accustomed to reside
upon the outskirts of society, little versed in its forms, and as
little accustomed to the restraints of law, or the duties of morality,
they were the fit pioneers of civilization, because their frames were
prepared for the utmost endurance of fatigue, and society was purified
by their removal. Theirs were not the fearless independence, and frank
demeanor which marks the honest backwoodsman of our country; but the
untamed license, and the wiley deportment of violent men, who loved not
the salutary influence of the law, nor mingled of choice with the
virtuous of their own species.
As they stirred the expiring fires, the column of light, mingled with
the smoke and cinder, that rose towards the clear sky of the mild May
night, revealed two travellers of a different appearance, who had
encamped on the margin of the same stream. One was a man of thirty.
Several years passed in the laborious practice of medicine, in a
southern climate, had destroyed his constitution, and he had come to
breathe the bracing air of a higher latitude. The wing of health had
fanned into new vigor the waning fires of life, and he was now
returning to the home of his adoption with a renovated frame. The young
man who sat by him, was a friend, to whom he had paid a visit, and who
was now attending him, a short distance, on his journey. They had
missed their way, and reluctantly accepted a sullen permission of the
emigrants to share their coarse fare, rather than wander in the dark,
through unknown forests. Hamilton, the younger of the two, was,
perhaps, twenty-seven years of age--and was a young gentleman of
prepossessing appearance, of cultivated mind, and of a chivalrous and
sensitive disposition. His parents were indigent, and he had, by the
energy of his own talents and industry, redeemed them from poverty, and
placed them in easy circumstances. In one of his commercial expeditions
down the Mississippi, he had met with Saunders, the physician. An
intimacy ensued, which though brief, had already ripened into mature
friendship.
'Affection knoweth nought of time,
It riseth like the vernal flowers;
The heart pulse is its only chime,
And feelings are its hours.'
Together they had hunted over the flowery barrens, and through the
majestic forests of their native state--had scaled the precipice, and
swam the torrent--had explored the cavern, and visited whatever was
wonderful or curious in the region around them; and both looked
forward, with painful feelings, to the termination of an intercourse
which had been pleasing and instructive.--As they were to separate in
the morning, the evening was spent in conversation--in that copious and
involuntary flow of kindness and confidence which the heart pours out
at the moment when friends are about to sever, when the past is
recalled and the future anticipated, and friendship no longer silent,
nor motionless, displays itself like the beauty of the ocean wave,
which is most obvious at the moment of its dissolution.
Early in the morning, the two friends prepared to pursue their journey.
As they were about to depart, one of the emigrants advanced towards
them, and remarked:
'I reckon, strangers, you allow to encamp at Scottville to-night?'
'Yes,' said Saunders, 'I do.'
'Well, then, I can tell you a chute, that's a heap shorter than the
road you talk of taking--and at the forks of Rushing river, there's a
smart chance of blue clay, that's miry like, and it's right scary
crossing at times.'
Supposing they had found a nearer and better road, and one by which a
dangerous ford would be avoided, they thanked their informant, and
proceeded on their journey.
In some previous conversations, Saunders had learned, that his friend
had recently experienced some heavy losses, and was at this time much
pressed for money, and wishing to offer him assistance, had from time
to time deferred it, from the difficulty of approaching so delicate a
subject. As the time of parting approached, however, he drew the
conversation to that point, and was informed that the sum of five
hundred dollars, would relieve his friend from embarrassment. Having a
large sum in his possession, he generously tendered him the amount
required, and Hamilton, after some hesitation, accepted the loan, and
proposed to give his note for its repayment, which Saunders declined,
under the plea that the whole transaction was a matter of friendship,
and that no such formality was requisite. When they were about to part,
Hamilton unclasped his breast-pin, and presented it to his friend. 'Let
this,' said he, 'remind you sometimes of Kentucky--I trust, that when I
visit you next year, I shall not see it adorning the person of some
favored fair one.' 'I have not so much confidence in you,' laughingly
returned the other; and, handing him a silver-hafted penknife curiously
embossed, 'I am told that knives and scissors are not acceptable
presents to the fair, as they are supposed to cut love, so I have no
fear that Almira will get this--and I know that no other human being
would cause you to forget your friend.' They then parted.
As Hamilton was riding slowly homeward, engaged in thought, and holding
his bridle loosely, a deer sprang suddenly from a thicket, and fell in
the road, before his horse, who started and threw him to the ground. In
examining the deer, which had been mortally wounded, and was still
struggling, some of the blood was sprinkled on his dress, which had
been otherwise soiled by his fall. Paying little attention to these
circumstances, he returned home.
Though his absence had been brief, many hands grasped his in cordial
welcome, many eyes met his own in love, for few of the young men of the
county were so universally beloved, and so much respected as Hamilton.
But to none was his return so acceptable as to Almira ----. She had
been his playmate in infancy, his schoolmate in childhood, in maturer
years their intimacy had ripened into love, and they were soon to be
united in the holiest and dearest of ties. But the visions of hope were
soon to pass from before them, as the _mirage_ of the desert, that
mocks the eye of the thirsty traveller, and then leaves him a
death-devoted wanderer on the arid waste.
A vague report was brought to the village, that the body of a murdered
man was found near Scottville. It was first mentioned by a traveller,
in a company where Hamilton was present; and he instantly exclaimed,
'no doubt it is Saunders--how unfortunate that I left him!' and then
retired under great excitement. His manner and expressions awakened
suspicion, which was unhappily corroborated by a variety of
circumstances, that were cautiously whispered by those, who dared not
openly arraign a person whose whole conduct through life had been
honest, frank, and manly. He had ridden away with Saunders, who was
known to have been in possession of a large sum of money. Since his
return, he had paid off debts to a considerable amount. The penknife of
Saunders was recognized in his hands--yet none were willing, on mere
surmise, to hazard a direct accusation.
The effect of the intelligence upon Hamilton was marked. The sudden
death of a dear friend is hard to be supported--but when one who is
loved and esteemed, is cut off by the dastardly hand of the assassin,
the pang of bereavement becomes doubly great, and in this instance, the
feelings of deep gratitude which Hamilton felt towards his benefactor,
caused him to mourn over the catastrophe, with a melancholy anguish. He
would sit for hours in a state of abstraction, from which even the
smile of love could not awaken him.
The elections were at hand; and Hamilton was a candidate for the
legislature. In the progress of the canvass, the foul charge was openly
made, and propagated with the remorseless spirit of party animosity.
Yet he heard it not, until one evening as he sate with Almira, in her
father's house. They were conversing in low accents, when the sound of
an approaching footstep interrupted them, and the father of Almira
entered the room. 'Mr. Hamilton,' said he, 'I am a frank man--I
consented to your union with my daughter, believing your character to
be unstained--but I regret to hear that a charge has been made against
you, which, if true, must render you amenable to the laws of your
country. I believe it to be a fabrication of your enemies--but, until
it shall be disproved, and your character as a man of honor, placed
above suspicion, you must be sensible that the proposed union cannot
take place, and that your visits to my house must be discontinued.'
'What does my father mean?' inquired the young lady, anxiously, as her
indignant parent retired.
'I do not know,' replied the lover, 'it is some electioneering story,
no doubt, which I can easily explain. I only regret that it should give
him, or you, a moment's uneasiness.'
'It shall cause me none,' replied the confiding girl: 'I cannot believe
any evil of you.'
He retired--sought out the nature of the charge, and to his
inexpressible astonishment and horror, learned that he was accused of
the murder and robbery of his friend! In a state little short of
distraction, he retired to his room, recalled with painful minuteness
all the circumstances connected with the melancholy catastrophe, and
for the first time, saw the dangerous ground on which he stood. But
proud in conscious innocence, he felt that to withdraw at that stage of
the canvass, might be construed into a confession of guilt. He remained
a candidate, and was beaten. Now, for the first time, did he feel the
wretchedness of a condemned and degraded man. The tribunal of public
opinion had pronounced against him the sentence of conviction; and even
his friends, as the excitement of the party struggle subsided, became
cold in his defence, and wavering in their belief of his innocence.
Conscious that the eye of suspicion was open, and satisfied that
nothing short of a public investigation could restore him to honor, the
unhappy young man surrendered himself to the civil authority, and
demanded a trial. Ah! little did he know the malignity of man, or the
fatal energy of popular delusion! He reflected not that when the public
mind is imbued with prejudice, even truth itself ceases to be mighty.
Many believed him guilty, and those who, during the canvass, had
industriously circulated the report, now labored with untiring
diligence to collect and accumulate the evidence which should sustain
their previous assertions. But arrayed in the panoply of innocence, he
stood firm, and confident of acquittal. The best counsel had been
engaged--and on the day of trial, Hamilton stood before the assembled
county--an arraigned culprit in the presence of those before whom he
had walked in honor from childhood.
As the trial proceeded, the confidence of his friends diminished, and
those who had doubted, became confirmed in the belief of the prisoner's
guilt. Trifles light as air became confirmations strong as proofs of
Holy Writ to the jealous minds of the audience, and one fact was linked
to another in curious coincidence, until the chain of corroborating
circumstances seemed irresistibly conclusive. His recent intimacy with
the deceased, and even the attentions which friendship and hospitality
had dictated, were ingeniously insisted upon as evidences of a
deliberate plan of wickedness--long formed and gradually developed. The
facts, that he had accompanied the deceased on his way--that he had
lost the path in a country with which he was supposed to be
familiar--his conduct on hearing of the death of his friend--the
money--the knife--caused the most incredulous to tremble for his fate.
But when the breast-pin of Hamilton, found near the body of the
murdered man, was produced--and a pistol, known to have been that of
the prisoner, was proved to have been picked up near the same spot--but
little room was left, even for charity to indulge a benevolent doubt.
Nor was this all--the prosecution had still another witness--the pale
girl who sate by him, clasping his hand in hers, was unexpectedly
called upon to rise and give testimony. She shrunk from the unfeeling
call, and buried her face in her brother's bosom. That blow was not
anticipated--for none but the cunning myrmidons of party vengeance, who
had even violated the sanctuary of family confidence, in search of
evidence, dreamed that any criminating circumstance was in the
possession of this young lady. At the mandate of the court, she arose,
laid aside her veil, and disclosed a face haggard with anxiety and
terror. In low tremulous accents, broken with sobs, she reluctantly
deposed, that the clothes worn by her brother, on his return from that
fatal journey, were torn, soiled with earth, and bloody! An audible
murmur ran through the crowd, who were listening in breathless
silence--the prisoner bowed his head in mute despair--the witness was
borne away insensible--the argument proceeded, and after an eloquent,
but vain defence, the jury brought in a verdict of _guilty!_ The
sentence of _death_ was passed.
* * * * *
The summer had passed away. The hand of autumn had begun to tinge with
mellow hues the magnificent scenery of the forest. It was evening, and
the clear moonbeams were shining through the grates of the prisoner's
cell. The unhappy man, haggard, attenuated, and heart-broken, was lying
upon his wretched pallet, reflecting alternately upon the early wreck
of his bright hopes, the hour of ignominy that was just approaching,
and the dread futurity into which he should soon be plunged. It was the
season at which his marriage with Almira was to have been solemnized.
With what pride and joy had he looked forward to this hour! And now,
instead of the wedding festivities, the lovely bride, and the train of
congratulating friends, so often pictured in fancy, he realized
fetters, a dungeon, and a disgraceful death! The well-known tread of
the jailer interrupted the bitter train of thought. The door opened,
and as the light streamed from a lantern across the cell, he saw a
female form timidly approaching. In a moment Almira had sunk on her
knees beside him, and their hands were silently clasped together. There
are occasions when the heart spurns all constraint, and acts up to its
own dictates, careless of public opinion, or prescribed forms--when
love becomes the absorbing and overruling passion--and when that which
under other circumstances would be mere unlicensed impulse, becomes a
hallowed and imperious duty. That noble-hearted girl had believed to
the last, that her lover would be honorably acquitted. The intelligence
of his condemnation, while it blighted her hopes, and withered her
health, never disturbed for one moment her conviction of his innocence.
There is an union of hearts which is indestructible, which marriage may
sanction, and nourish, and hallow, but which separation cannot
destroy--a love that endures while life remains, or until its object
shall prove faithless or unworthy. Such was the affection of Almira;
and she held her promise to love and honor him, whose fidelity to her
was unspotted, and whose character she considered honorable, to be as
sacred, as if they had been united in marriage. When all others
forsook, she resolved never to forsake him. She had come to visit him
in his desolation, and to risk all, to save one who was dear and
innocent in her estimation, though guilty in the eyes of the world.
The jailer, a blunt, though humane man, briefly disclosed a plan, which
he, with Almira, had devised, for the escape of Hamilton. He had
consented to allow the prisoner to escape, in female dress, while she
was to remain in his stead, so that the whole contrivance should seem
to be her own. 'I am a plain man,' concluded the jailer, 'but I know
what's right. It 'aint fair to hang no man on suspicion--and more than
that, I am not agoing to stand in no man's way--especially a friend who
has done me favors, as you have. I go in for giving every fellow a fair
chance. The track's clear, Mr. Hamilton, and the quicker you put out,
the better.'
To his surprise, the prisoner peremptorily refused the offer.
'I am innocent,' said he; 'but I would suffer a thousand deaths rather
than injure the fair fame of this confiding girl.'
'Go, Dudley--my dear Dudley,' she sobbed: 'for my sake, for the sake of
your broken-hearted father and sister--'
'Do not tempt me--my dear Almira. I will not do that which would expose
you to disgrace.'
'Oh, who would blame me?'
'The world--the uncharitable world--they who believe me a murderer, and
have tortured the most innocent actions into proofs of deliberate
villainy, will not hesitate to brand you as the victim of a
cold-blooded felon. And why should I fly? to live a wretched wanderer,
with the brand of Cain on my forehead, and a character stamped with
infamy?'--
He would have said more--but the form, that during this brief dialogue,
had sunk into his arms, was lying lifeless on his bosom. He kissed her
cold lips, and passionately repeated her name--but she heard him
not--her pure spirit had gently disengaged itself, and was flown
forever. Her heart was broken. She had watched, and wept, and prayed,
in hopeless grief, until the physical energies of a delicate frame were
exhausted: and the excitement of the last scene had snapped the
attenuated thread of life.
Hamilton did not survive her long. His health was already shattered by
long confinement, and the chaffing of a proud spirit. Almira had died
for him--and his own mother--oh! how cautiously did they whisper the
sad truth, when he asked why _she_ who loved him better than her own
life, had forsaken him in the hour of affliction--she, too, had sunk
under the dreadful blow. His father lived a withered, melancholy man,
crushed in spirit; and as his sister hung like a guardian angel over
his death-bed, and he gazed at her pale, emaciated, sorrow-stricken
countenance, he saw that she, too, would soon be numbered among the
victims of this melancholy persecution. When, with his last breath, he
suggested that they would soon meet, she replied: 'I trust that God
will spare me to see your innocence established, and then will I die
contented.' And her confidence was rewarded--for God does not
disappoint those who put their trust in him. About a year afterwards, a
wretch, who was executed at Natchez, and who was one of the three
persons named in the commencement of this narrative, confessed that he
had murdered Saunders, with a pistol which he had found at the place
where the two friends had slept. 'I knew it would be so,'--was the only
reply of the fast declining sister--and soon after she was buried by
the side of Dudley and Almira.--Reader, this is not fiction--nor are
the decisions of God unjust--but his ways are above our comprehension.