Passin’ the corner of Canal Street and Broadway the other day, and stoppin’ for a moment near the entrance of the Brandreth House, I was reminded of the terrible, yet romantic, murder which took place on these very hotel steps, and in which a fine-lookin’ fellow called MacDonald played his part of a murderer. This MacDonald was a Southerner, but was all the time visitin’ New York. He was a cotton broker from North Carolina, and had lots of money. When in New York he stopped at the Metropolitan, which was then the swellest of all swell hotels, and was a great friend of Sim. Leland, who was the prince of hotel keepers.
For two or three days and nights before the tragedy I’m alludin’ to, MacDonald kept on drinkin’, and drinkin’, and drinkin’. He was one of those men that didn’t get the jim-jams or anythin’ of that kind, but one who got “ugly” when he got drunk, and was all the more “dangerous” because he didn’t appear to be drunk at all.
One mornin’ MacDonald chanced to drop in at Taylor’s famous saloon, corner of Franklin street and Broadway, the high-toned place of places for all the swells, male and female, when down-town. He sat down at one of the tables and called for somethin’ to eat and drink–more drinkin’ than eatin’, though–and while the waiter was fillin’ his order, looked about him.
He saw a lady he knew at one of the tables–a beautiful young girl, elegantly attired. She was seated some distance off with another lady, and did not see MacDonald; but he never took his eyes off her. She was a tall blonde, very graceful and slender, with large blue eyes, and was very, very haughty, as well as handsome.
MacDonald paid a good deal more of attention to her than he did to his lunch; drank up all his wine, however, and, when he saw the two ladies about to go out, he got up and went out ahead of ‘em, waitin’ outside.
As she passed out, the beautiful blonde saw MacDonald. She started when she saw him. She recognized him and knew him well, that was certain; but she curled her pretty lip in scorn at him, and wouldn’t speak. MacDonald made some gesture or other, kind of implorin’ her to notice him; but she drew up her filigreed skirts carefully over her small feet, the crossin’ bein’ a little muddy, and walked on with her friend towards Canal street.
When she reached the corner of Canal street and Broadway she bade her lady friend good-bye, and turned towards the entrance of the Brandreth House. Just as she was about to enter the Brandreth House MacDonald stepped up to her, and said:
“Won’t you see me now? I must have a talk with you. I came all the way here to New York just because I heard that you were here.”
“No, I will not see you.” said that beautiful blonde. “You have been drinking again, as usual, and I will have nothin’ more to do with you.” And she stepped near the entrance of the Brandreth House.
MacDonald gettin’ more excited, got closer to her and said: “They tell me you love and live with some other man. Is that so?”
The beautiful blonde didn’t even reply to this question at all, but stepped on towards the Brandreth House.
Then MacDonald, gettin’ still more excited, put his hand into his breast pocket and drew out a pistol–a Colt’s navy revolver. It was broad day, all around him were men, women and children, passin’ and repassin’, but he drew his pistol all the same.
The beautiful blonde saw the pistol, and shouted out: “Help! Save me!” and then stumbled toward the door of the hotel. But MacDonald jumped faster and farther than she did, put himself at a bound between her and the hotel entrance, put his pistol close to her pretty head, held it there pointed at her for a few seconds, and then pulled the trigger.
There was a shot, a shout from some men who hadn’t been yet able to interfere–surprised, actually astounded and stupefied, by the darin’ and the suddenness of the thing–some smoke, the whizzin’ and crashin’ of a bullet into a woman’s brain, and the beautiful blonde fell on the steps of the Brandreth House entrance, senseless, her beautiful blonde hair all covered with her own blood.
MacDonald looked at the woman he had shot; looked at her for half a minute, it couldn’t have been more; and then he raised the pistol, still in his hand, once again, and pointed it at his own head.
But by this time one of the men lookin’ on managed to find strength and opportunity to interfere. A gentleman named Van Raust, who had been standing alongside of the Brandreth House entrance, rushed up to MacDonald and seized his pistol, strikin’ it down before he could discharge it. If too late to prevent murder Van Raust made up his mind to prevent suicide, so he grappled with MacDonald.
MacDonald fought like a tiger with this man Van Raust; fought harder to take his own life than most men fight to save their own lives. It was an excitin’ scene, and nobody liked to come between two men fightin’ for the possession of a loaded pistol.
At one time it seemed as if before they got through MacDonald would shoot Van Raust as well as himself, but a big burly fellow from the crowd around took a hand in the row, others then followed the example of the big, burly fellow, and in a short time MacDonald was overpowered and handed over to the police, who took him to the Tombs.
It was as much as the police could do to keep MacDonald quiet on his way to prison. His blood was in a ferment, and he was ready to kill the whole world if he could.
As for the beautiful blonde, she was lifted up as tenderly as possible, and some women in the crowd tended to her the best they could. A carriage was sent for, and the wounded woman was carried in it to the New York Hospital.
This attempt at murder and suicide naturally enough caused a great stir in New York, and all the facts in the case soon came out.
The beautiful blonde was a Miss Virginia Stewart, or Stuart, and MacDonald had met her years before in the South. He had loved her, and she had at first loved him, but she had got disgusted with his drinkin’, had left him on that account, and settled in New York. The poor girl lay six or seven days dyin’ in the hospital, most of the time unconscious. She would fancy herself down South, in her delirium, and raved about everybody and everythin’, except MacDonald himself. Even in her maddest moods she never mentioned the name of her murderer. The mother, a Boston woman, was sent for, and came on to nurse her. But she never knew her mother, and died in a stupor.
When MacDonald heard of her death, he was for a while terribly affected, but he got over the shock of the news very rapidly, and seemed from that time to be determined to take things easy. He had plenty of money and spent it freely on himself. He engaged a colored waiter from the Metropolitan to wait upon him in prison, and his meals were sent to him from the Lelands’ larder every day.
He always dressed well and was as careful about his appearance in his cell as if he was goin’ out for a stroll on Broadway. He was a good deal like what Ned Stokes was afterwards, and like Ned Stokes he had a good many ladies who called upon him in prison. Altogether he acted as if the Tombs was a hotel in Centre street, at which he was for the while stoppin’ and occupyin’ the best room.
He engaged the best counsel to defend him, and seemed to think that his lawyers would get him off. But when he saw that things were goin’ against him and that he was likely to be hung, he didn’t lose any of his nerve or break down in his spirits, but he made up his mind that he would never “swing.” He said openly that the gallows was never built to hang him, but people thought this kind of talk all bounce and brag. But he meant business. He had tried to commit suicide once in hot blood, when he was wild with excitement and didn’t know what he was doin’, just after he shot Virginia Stewart; but now he set to work to kill himself calmly, coolly, accordin’ to a regular plan. He hired and attendant at the Tombs to get him some strychnine. The attendant got the poison, but afterwards got frightened and told the warden about the strychnine. The warden told the attendant to give up the poison to the gatekeeper of the Tombs, and then tell MacDonald that the gatekeeper had taken the poison away from him by force, so as to keep MacDonald from suspectin’ the attendant. A watch was now kept upon MacDonald day and night. He was carefully searched and every precaution taken against his killin’ himself.
One day a lady presented to the warden of the Tombs a letter of introduction from a very influential person–a person of the very highest position. The lady said that she was a friend of MacDonald’s and desired to have a brief interview with him. The request was granted.
Shortly after this interview MacDonald was found unconscious and breathing heavily, in his cell, with an empty bottle lyin’ on the floor close beside him. The bottle contained Muir’ elixir of opium, and MacDonald had swallowed enough of it to put half a dozen men to sleep forever.
He never woke. The doctors were sent for and for seven hours they tried to revive him, but he was past all revival. He had gone to meet Virginia Stewart.
They searched his person, and in one of his pockets was found a letter directed to a friend in Mobile, which he hadn’t been able to send away. In this letter he said he was goin’ to do what would astonish all his friends. Then he made some arrangements about money matters and about his funeral expenses, winding up with, “Give my love to Harry and the rest of the boys.” His principal worry seemed to be about his burial. He was particularly desirous of bein’ “laid out” carefully, and gave particular instructions as to his beard. “Bury me with my beard on,” he wrote in the postscript of the letter.
His wishes were obeyed. He was buried with his beard on.
[Editor’s notes: While the above column get the basics of this murder story correct, it leaves out some notable particulars. Virginia Stewart was a courtesan that MacDonald had a lengthy affair with, and bore him children (who died in infancy). She left him due to his abusive behavior while drinking. One New York paper cast her as a temptress who had ensnared the weak-willed MacDonald.
The main notoriety of this murder was due to it being committed in broad daylight, on Broadway.
Most newspaper accounts were critical of the delays and liberties that MacDonald was allowed while awaiting trial, thanks to his wealth and influential friends. The New York Tribune implied that he was even allowed to leave the Tombs with a police escort to visit bordellos and saloons. The above column darkly hints of support from “a person of the very highest position.”
MacDonald’s body was sent to his family in Frankfort, Kentucky. The column mentions North Carolina, but that appears to be an error. One account suggests he was related to the late President Zachary Taylor.]
