THE TRIAL FOR MURDER.
It is a wrong and monstrous thing,
That from young hearts where love is deep
Justice herself the words should sing
That sends a kindred soul to sleep.
The day of trial came at last. Such cases are frequent in New York, and,
unless there is something in the position or history of the criminal to
excite public attention, they pass off almost unnoticed. Still there is
not a single case that does not sweep with it the very heart-strings of
some person or family, linked either to the prisoner or his victim;
there is not one that does not wring tears from some eyes and groans
from some innocent bosom. We read a brief record of these things; we
learn that a murderer has been tried, convicted, sentenced; we shudder
and turn away without being half conscious that the history thus briefly
recorded embraces persons innocent as ourselves, who must endure more
than the tortures of death for the sin that one man is doomed to
expiate.
Old Mrs. Warren and her grand-daughter stood at the prison doors early
that morning. It was before the hour when visitors could be admitted,
but they wandered up and down in sight of the entrance with that
feverish unrest to which keen anxiety subjects one. All was busy life
about the neighborhood. It was nothing to the multitude that passed up
and down the steps, that a fellow being was that morning to be placed on
trial for his life. A few remembered it, but with the exception of old
Mrs. Gray and her nephew, it passed heavily upon the heart of no living
being save those two helpless females.
How strange all this seemed to them! With every thought and feeling
occupied, they looked upon the indifferent throng with a pang; the
smiling faces, the bustle, the cheerfulness, all seemed mocking the
heaviness of their own hearts.
The hour came at last, and they entered the prison. Old Mr. Warren
received them affectionately as usual; he exhibited no anxiety, and
seemed even more cheerful than he had been for some days. The Bible lay
open upon the bed, and there was an indentation near the pillow, as if
his arms had rested heavily there while reading upon his knees.
He spent more than an hour conversing gently with his wife and
grand-daughter, striving to give them consolation rather than hope; for,
from the first, he had believed and expressed a belief that the trial
would go against him. With no faith in his counsel, and no evidence to
sustain his innocence, how could he doubt it? Perhaps this very
conviction created that holy composure, which seemed so remarkable in a
man just to be placed on a trial of life and death.
When the officers came to conduct him to the City Hall he followed them
calmly, solemnly, as a good man might have gone up to a place of
worship. It was a bright, frosty morning, and he had been some weeks in
prison. Still his heart must have been wonderfully at ease when the
clear air, and the busy life around could thus kindle up his eye and
irradiate his face. A crowd gathered around the prison to see the old
murderer come forth, but the people were disappointed. Instead of a
fierce haggard being, wild with the terrors of his situation, ready to
dart away through any opening like a wild animal from its keepers, they
saw only a meek old man, neatly clad, and walking quietly between the
officers with neither the bravado or the abject humility of guilt. The
fresh air did him good; you could see that in his face, and so grateful
was he for this little blessing, that he almost forgot the gaze and
wonder of the crowd.
"This is very beautiful," he observed to one of the officers, and the
man stared to see how simple and unaffected was this expression of
enjoyment. "Had I never been in prison, how could I have relished a
morning like this?"
"You expect to be acquitted?" answered the man, unable to account for
this strange composure in any other way.
"No," replied the old man, a little sadly--"no, I think they will find
me guilty--I am almost sure they will!"
"You take it calmly, upon my honor--very calmly!" exclaimed the man.
"Have you made up your mind, then, to plead guilty at once?"
"No, that would be false--they must do it--I will not help them. All in
my power I must do to prevent the crime they will commit in condemning
me. Not to do that would be suicide!"
There was something in this reply that struck the officer more than a
thousand protestations could have done. Indeed the entire bearing of his
charge surprised him not a little. Seldom had he conducted a man to
trial that walked with so firm a step, or spoke so calmly.
"Have you no dread of the sentence--no fear of dying, that you speak so
quietly?"
The old man turned his head and looked back. Two females were following
him a little way off. They had gone across the street to avoid the crowd
of men and boys that hung like a pack of hounds about the prisoner, but
were gazing after him with anxious faces, that touched even the officer
with pity, as his glance fell upon them. The old man saw where his eyes
rested, and answered very mournfully--
"Yes, I have a dread of the sentence. It will reach _them_! Besides, it
is a solemn thing to die--a very solemn thing to know that at a certain
hour you will stand face to face with God!"
"Still, I dare say, you would meet death like a hero!"
"When death comes, I will try and meet it like a Christian," was the
mild answer.
As the old man spoke, they were crossing Chambers street to a corner of
the Park, but their progress was checked by a carriage, drawn by a pair
of superb horses, and mounted by two footmen in livery, that dashed by,
scattering the crowd in every direction.
Mrs. Warren and her grand-daughter were on the opposite side, and had
just left Centre street to cross over. Julia uttered a faint scream, and
attempted to draw her grandmother back, for the horses were dashing
close upon them, and the old woman stood as if paralyzed in the middle
of the street. She did not move; the horses plunged by, and the wheels
made her garments flutter with the air they scattered in passing. The
old woman uttered a cry as the carriage disappeared, and ran forward a
step or two, as if impelled by some wild impulse to follow it; Julia
darted forward and caught hold of her arm.
"Grandmother, grandmother, where are you going? What is the matter?"
"Did you see that?" said the old woman.
"What, grandmother?"
"That face--the lady in the carriage. Did you see it?"
"No, grandmother; I was looking at you. It seemed as if the horses
would trample you down."
The old woman listened, evidently without comprehending. Her eyes were
wild, and her manner energetic.
"Where is your grandfather?--I must tell him. It was _her_ face!"
"Whose face, grandmother?"
"Whose! Why, did you not see?" The old woman seemed all at once to
recollect herself. "But how should you know--you, my poor child, who
never had a mother?"
"Oh! grandmother, has trouble driven you wild?" cried the poor girl,
struck with new terror, for there was something almost insane in the
woman's look.
"No, I am not wild; but it was her--see how I tremble. Could anything
else make me tremble so?"
"I have been trembling all the morning," said Julia.
"True enough, but not deep in the heart--not--oh! where is your
grandfather? They have taken him off while we are standing here. Come,
child, come--how could we lose sight of him?"
They hurried into the Park, and across to the City Hall, which they
reached in time to secure a single glance of the prisoner as he was
conducted up the staircase, still followed by the rabble.
The court-room became crowded immediately after the prisoner was led in,
and it was with considerable difficulty that an officer forced a passage
for the unhappy pair to the seats reserved for witnesses. Mrs. Gray was
already in court, a little more serious than usual, but still so
confident of her protégé's innocence, and filled with such reverence for
the infallibility of the law, that she had almost religious faith in his
acquittal. She smiled cheeringly when Mrs. Warren and Julia came up, and
her black silk gown rustled again as she moved her ponderous person that
they might find room near her. Mrs. Warren was a good deal excited. She
even made an effort to reach her husband, as they were conducting him
through the court, but the crowd was too dense, and, spite of herself,
she was borne forward to the witnesses' seats, without obtaining an
opportunity to whisper a word of what was passing in her heart. The
judges were upon the bench; the lawyers took their places, and all the
preliminaries of an important trial commenced. The prisoner remained
calm as he had been all the morning, but there was nothing stupid or
indifferent in his manner. When informed of his right of challenge to
the jury, he examined each man as he came up; with a searching glance,
and two or three times gave a peremptory challenge. He listened with
interest to the questions put by the court, and sunk back in his seat,
breathing deeply, as if an important duty was over, when the jury was at
length empannelled.
The district attorney opened his case with great ability. He was a keen,
eloquent man, who pursued his course against any person unfortunate
enough to be placed before him, with the relentless zeal of a
bloodhound, yielding nothing to compassion, feeling no weakness, and
forgiving none. His duty was to convict--his reputation might be
lessened or enhanced by the decision of a jury--that thought was ever in
his mind--he was struggling for position, for forensic fame. The jury
before him was to add a leaf to his yet green laurels, or tear one away.
What was a human life in the balance with this thought?
To have watched this man one might have supposed that the feeble old
prisoner, who sat so meekly beneath the fiery flash of his eyes, and the
keen scourge of his eloquence, had been his bitterest enemy. Even in
opening the case, where little of eloquence is expected, he could not
forbear many a sharp taunt and cruel invective against the old man, who
met it all with a sort of rebuking calmness, that might have shamed the
dastardly eloquence which was in no way necessary to justice.
You should have seen dear Mrs. Gray, as the lawyer went on. No winter
apple ever glowed more ruddily than her cheek; no star ever flashed more
brightly than her fine eyes. The folds of her silken dress rustled with
the indignation that kept her in constant motion; and she would bend
first to old Mrs. Warren, and then to Julia, whispering--
"Never mind, dears--never mind his impudence! Our lawyer will have a
chance soon, then won't that fellow catch it! Don't mind what he says;
it's his business; the State pays for it--more shame for the people. Our
man will be on his feet soon. I ain't the State of New York, but then
he's got a fee that ought to sharpen his tongue, and expects more when
it's over. Only let him give that fellow his own again with
interest--compound interest--and if I don't throw in an extra ten
dollars, my name isn't Sarah Gray. Oh, if I could but give him a piece
of my mind now! There, there, Mrs. Warren, don't look so white! it's
only talk. They won't convict him--it's only talk!"
Mrs. Gray was drawn from this good-natured attempt to cheer her friends
by the proceedings of the court, that each moment became more and more
impressive.
The prosecution brought forth its witnesses, those who had appeared in
the preliminary trial, with many others hunted out by the indefatigable
attorney. Never was a chain of evidence more complete--never did guilt
appear so hideous or more firmly established. Every witness, as he
descended from the stand, seemed to have thrown a darker stain of guilt
upon that old man. The sharp cross-examinations of the prisoner's
counsel, only elucidated some new point against him. His acute wit and
keen questioning brought nothing to light that did not operate against
the cause--a better man might have been excused for abandoning his case
in despair.
It seemed impossible that anything could overthrow all this weight of
evidence; even the desperate plea of insanity would be of no avail. No
one could look on the solemn, and yet serene face of that old man,
without giving him credit for a steadiness of mind that no legal
eloquence could distort.
Among the last witnesses brought up was Julia Warren. Her determination
not to give evidence, which had just escaped legal censure on the
examination, had been reasoned away by her grandfather who, believing,
himself that the laws should be obeyed in all things, leaving the result
with God, had succeeded in convincing the mind of this young girl that
her duty was obedience. She arose, therefore, when summoned to the
stand, turned her eyes upon her grandfather, as if to gather courage
from his strength, and moved forward tremulously, it is true, but with
more fortitude than might have been expected in a creature so young and
so delicately sensitive.
With her usual good sense, Mrs. Gray had taken care that her protégé
should be neatly dressed, but spite of the little cottage bonnet with
its rose-colored lining, that face was colorless as a snow-drop.
A thrill of sympathy passed through the crowd, as this young girl stood
up in the public gaze. She was known as the grandchild of the accused,
and to possess knowledge that could but deepen the charges against him.
This of itself was enough to enlist the generous impulses of a people,
more keenly alive than any on earth, to the claims and dependencies of
womanhood. But the shrinking modesty of her demeanor--the exquisite
purity of her loveliness--her youth, the innate refinement that breathed
about her like an atmosphere, all conspired to make her an object of
generous pity. There was not a face present, even to the officers, that
did not exhibit some sign of this feeling when the first view of her
features was obtained. The face in which this tender compassion beamed
most eloquently was that of the old prisoner. For the first time that
day tears came into his eyes, but when her glance was turned upon him
with a look that pleaded for strength and for pardon, eloquently as eyes
ever pleaded to a human soul, the grandfather answered it with a smile
that kindled up her pale face, as if an angel had passed by, which no
one had the power to see, save her and the old man.
She touched her lips to the sacred volume, and turned with a look of
angelic obedience toward the judges. When the prosecuting attorney
commenced his examination, she answered his questions with a degree of
modest dignity that checked any desire he might have felt to excite or
annoy her with useless interrogations. Nothing could be more absorbing
than the attention paid to every word that dropped from her lips. She
spoke low, and faltered a little now and then; but the tones of her
voice were so sadly sweet, the tears seemed so close to her eyes without
reaching them, that even the judges and the jury leaned forward to catch
those tones, rather than break them by a request that she should speak
louder.