No. LXXVII.

I verily believe, that ghosts are the most punctual people in the world, especially if they were ever sextons, after the flesh. The last stroke of twelve had not ceased ringing in my ears, when that icy palm was again laid upon my shoulder; and Martin Smith stood by the side of my bed.

“Well, Martin,” said I, “since you have taken the trouble to come out again, and upon such a stormy night withal, I cannot refuse your request.”—It seemed to me, that I rose to put on my garments, and found them already on; and had scarcely prepared to go, with my old friend, to the Chapel, before we were in the middle of the broad aisle. Dreams are marvellous things, certainly—all this was a dream, I suppose—for, if it was not—what was it?

There seemed to be an oppressive weight, upon the mind of my old friend, connected, doubtless, with those explanations, which he had proposed to make, upon the spot. We sat down, near Governor Shirley’s monument. “Abner,” said he, “I wish, before I am buried, to make a clean breast, and to confess my misdeeds.”—“I cannot believe, Martin,” I replied, “that there is a very heavy, professional load upon your conscience. If there is, I know not what will become of the rest of us. But I will hearken to all you may choose to reveal.”—“Well,” resumed the old man, with a sigh, “I have tried to be conscientious, but we are all liable to error—we are are all fallible creatures, especially sextons. I have been sexton here, for six and thirty years; and I am often painfully reminded, that, in the year 1815, I was rather remiss, in dusting the pews.”—“Have you any other burden upon your conscience?”—“I have,” he replied; and, rising, requested me to follow him.

He went out into the yard, and walked near the northerly corner, where Dr. Caner’s house formerly stood, which was afterwards occupied, as the Boston Athenæum, and, more recently, gave place to the present Savings Bank. “Here,” said he, “thirty years ago, Dinah Furbush, a worthy, negro woman, was buried. The careless carpenter made her coffin one foot too short; and, to conceal his blunder, chopped off Dinah’s head, and, clapping it between her feet, nailed down the lid. This scandalous transaction came to my knowledge, and I grieve to say, that I never communicated it to the wardens.”—“Well, Martin,” said I, “what more?”—“Nothing, thank Heaven!” he replied. Giving way to an irresistible impulse, I broke forth into a roar of laughter, so long and loud, that three watchmen gathered to the wall, and seeing Martin Smith, whom they well knew, with the bottom of his shroud, exhibited below his great coat, they dropped their hooks and rattles, and ran for their lives. Martin walked slowly back to the church, and I followed.

He walked in, among the tombs—thousands of spirits seemed to welcome his advent—but, as I crossed the threshold, at the tramp of a living foot, they vanished, in a moment.

“How many corpses have you lifted, my old friend, in your six and thirty years of office?” “About five thousand,” he replied, “exclusive of babies. It is a very grateful employment, when one becomes used to it.”

“I have heard,” continued Martin, “that the office of executioner, in Paris, is highly respectable, and has been hereditary, for many years, in the family of the Sansons. I have done all in my power, to elevate our profession; and it is my highest ambition, that the office should continue in my family; and that my descendants may be sextons, till the graves shall give up their dead, and death itself be swallowed up in victory.” I was sensibly touched, by the enthusiasm of this good old official; for I honor the man, who honors his calling. I could not refrain from saying a few kind and respectful words, of the old man’s son and successor. He was moved—“The eyes of ghosts,” said he, “are tearless, or I should weep. You have heard,” continued the old man, in a low, tremulous voice, “that, when the mother of Washington was complimented, by some distinguished men, upon the achievements of her son, she went on with her knitting, saying, ‘Well, George always was a good boy’—now, I need say no more of Frank; and, in truth, I can say no less. I knew he would be a sexton. He has forgotten it, I dare say; but he was not satisfied with the first go-cart he ever had, till he had fashioned it, like a hearse. Hetook hold right, from the beginning. When I resigned, and gave him the keys, and felt, that I should no more walk up and down the broad aisle, as I had done, for so many years, I wept like a child.”

“Yours has been a hale old age. You have always beentemperate, I believe,” said I.—“No,” the old man replied, “I have always beenabstinent. Like yourself, I use no intoxicating drink, upon any occasion, nor tobacco, in any of its forms, and we have come, as you say, to a hale old age. I have seen drunken sextons squirt tobacco juice over the coffin and pall; and let the corpse go by the run; and I know more than one successor of St. Peter, in this city, who smoke and chew, from morning to night; and give the sextons great trouble, in cleaning up after them.”

We had advanced midway, among the tombs.—“It is awfully cold and dark here, Martin,” said I, “and I hear something, like a mysterious breathing in the air; and, now and then, it seems as if a feather brushed my cheek.”—“Is it unpleasant?” said the old man.—“Not particularly agreeable,” I replied.—“The spirits are aware, that another is added to their number,” said he, “and even the presence of one, in the flesh, willscarcely restrain them from coming forth. I will send them back to their dormitories.” He lighted a spirit lamp, not in the vulgar sense of that word, but a lamp, before whose rays no spirit, however determined, could stand, for an instant.

There is comfort, even in a farthing rush light—I felt warmer. “What a subterraneous life you must have had of it,” said I, “and how many tears and sighs you must have witnessed!” “Why yes,” he replied, with a shake of the head, and a sigh, “the duties of my office have given to my features an expression of universal compassion—a sort of omnibus look, which has caused many a mourner to say—‘Ah, Mr. Smith, I see how much you feel for me.’ And I’m sure I did; not perhaps quite so keenly as I might, if I had been less frequently encored in the performance of my melancholy part. Yes,” continued the old man—“I have witnessed tears and sighs, and deep grief, and shallow, and raving—for a month, and life-long; very proper tears, gushing from the eyes of widows, already wooed and won; and from the eyes of widowers, who, in a right melancholy way, had predetermined the mothers, for their orphan children. But passages have occurred, now and then, all in my sad vocation, pure and holy, and soul-stirring enough, to give pulse to a heart of stone.”

The old man took from his pocket a master key, and beckoned me to follow. He opened an ancient tomb. The mouldy shells were piled one upon another, and a few rusty fragments of that flimsy garniture, which was in vogue of old, had fallen on the bricks below.

“Sacred to the memory!” said the old man, with a sad, significant smile, upon his intelligent features, as he removed the coffin of a child. I looked into the little receptacle, as he raised the lamp. “This,” said he, “was the most beautiful boy I ever buried.” “This?” said I, for the little narrow house contained nothing but a small handful of grayish dust. “Aye,” he replied, “I see; it is all gone now—it is twelve years since I looked at it last—there were some remnants of bones then, and a lock or two of golden hair. This small deposit was one of the first that I made, in this melancholy savings bank. Six-and-thirty years! So tender and so frail a thing may well be turned to dust.

“Time is an alchymist, Abner, as you and I well know. If tears could have embalmed, it would not have been thus. Ihave never witnessed such agony. The poor, young mother lies there. She was not seventeen, when she died. In a luckless hour, she married a very gentlemanly sot, and left her native home, for a land of strangers. Hers was the common fate of such unequal bargains. He wasted her little property, died of intemperance, and left her nothing, but this orphan boy. And all the love of her warm, young heart was turned upon this child. It had, to be sure, the sweetest, catching smile, that I ever beheld.

“Their heart strings seemed twisted together—the child pined; and the mother grew pale and wan. They waned together. The child died first. The poor, lone, young mother seemed frantic; and refused to part with her idol. After the little thing was made ready for the tomb, she would not suffer it to be removed. It was laid upon the bed, beside her. On the following day, I carried the coffin to the house; and, leaving it below, went up, with a kind neighbor, to the chamber, hoping to prevail upon the poor thing, to permit us to remove the body of the child. She was holding her little boy, clasped in her arms—their lips were joined together—‘It is a pity to awaken her,’ said the neighbor, who attended me—I put my hand upon her forehead—‘Nothing but the last trump will awaken her,’ said I—‘she is dead.’”

“Well, Martin,” said I, “pray let us talk of something else—where is old Isaac Johnson, the founder of the city, who was buried, in this lot, in 1630?”—“Ah”—the old man replied—“the prophets, where arethey! I believe you may as well look among the embers, after a conflagration, for the original spark.”

“You must know many curious things, Martin,” said I, “concerning this ancient temple.”—“I do,” said he, “of my own knowledge, and still more, by tradition; and some things, that neither the wardens nor vestry wot of. If I thought I might trust you, Abner, in a matter of such moment, but”—“Did I ever deceive you, Martin,” said I, “while living; and do you think I would take advantage of your confidence, now you are a ghost?”—“Pardon me, Abner,” he replied, for he saw, that he had wounded my feelings, “but the matter, to which I allude, were it made public, would produce terrible confusion—but I will trust you—meet me here, at ten minutes before twelve, on Sabbath night—three low knocks upon the outer door—at present I can reveal no more.”—“No postponement, on account ofthe weather?” I inquired.—“None,” the old man replied, and locked up the tomb.

“Did you ever see Dr. Caner,” I inquired, as we ascended into the body of the church.—“That,” replied Martin Smith, “is rather a delicate question. In the very year, in which I was born, 1776, the Rev. Doctor Henry Caner, then an old man, carried off the church plate, 2800 ounces of silver, the gift of three kings; of which not a particle has ever been recovered: and, in lieu thereof, he left behind his fervent prayers, that God would “change the hearts of the rebels.” This the Almighty has never seen fit to do—so that the society have not only lost the silver, but the benefit of Dr. Caner’s prayers. No, Abner, I have never seen Dr. Caner, according to the flesh, but—ask me nothing further, on this highly exciting subject, till we meet again.”

I awoke, sorely disturbed—Martin had vanished.

I know not why, but the idea of another meeting with Martin Smith, notwithstanding my affectionate respect, for that good old man, disturbed me so much, that I resolved, to be out of his way, by keeping awake. But, in defiance of my very best efforts, strengthened by a bowl of unsugared hyson, at half past eleven, if I err not, I fell into a profound slumber; and, at the very appointed moment, found myself, at the Chapel door. At the third knock, it opened, with an almost alarming suddenness—I quietly entered—and the old man closed it softly, after me.

“In ten minutes,” said he, “the congregation will assemble.”—“What,” I inquired, “at this time of night?”—“Be silent,” said he, rather angrily, as I thought; and, drawing me, by the arm, to the north side of the door, he shoved me against the Vassal monument, with a force, that I would not have believed it possible, for any modern ghost to exert. “Be still and listen,” said he. “In 1782, my dear, old pastor, Dr. Freeman, came here, as Reader; and became Rector, in 1787. Dr. Caner was inducted, in 1747, and continued Rector, twenty-nine years; for,as I told you, he went off with the plate, in 1776. There were no Rectors, between those two. Brockwell and Troutbeck were Caner’s assistants only: the first died in 1755, and the last left, the year before Dr. Caner.”

“Well,” continued the old man, “never reveal what I am about to tell you, Abner Wycherly—the Trinitarians have never surrendered their claims, upon this Church; and, precisely at midnight, upon every Sabbath, since 1776, Dr. Caner and the congregation have gathered here; and the Church service has been performed, just as it used to be, before the revolution. They make short work of it, rarely exceeding fifteen minutes—hush, for your life—they are coming!”

A glare of unearthly light, invisible through the windows, as Martin assured me, to all without, filled the tabernacle, in an instant—exceedingly like gas light; and, at the same instant, I heard a rattling, resembling the down-sitting, after prayers, in a village meeting-house, where the seats are clappers, and go on hinges. Observing, that my jaws chattered, Martin pressed my hand in his icy fingers, and whispered, that it was nothing but Dr. Caner’s congregation, coming up, rather less silently, of course, than when they were in the flesh.

Being the first Sunday in the month, all the communion plate, that Caner carried off, was paraded, on the altar. I wish the twelve apostles could have seen it. It glittered, like Jones, Ball & Poor’s bow-window, viewed from the old, Donnison corner. The whole interior of the Chapel was marvellously changed. I was much struck, by a showy, gilt crown, over the organ, supported by a couple of gilt mitres. This was the famous organ, said to have been selected by Handel, and which came over in 1756.

At this moment, a brief and sudden darkness hid everything from view; succeeded, instantly, by a brighter light than before; and all was changed. The organ had vanished; the monuments of Shirley and Apthorp, and the tablet of Price, over the vestry door, were gone; I looked behind me, for the Vassal monument, against which I had been leaning; it was no longer there. Martin Smith perceived my astonishment, and whispered, that Dr. Caner was never so partial to the Stone Chapel, which was opened in 1754, as he was to the ancient King’s Chapel, in which he had been inducted in 1747, and in which we then were.

The pews were larger than any Hingham boxes I ever saw; but very small. The pulpit was on the north side. In front of it was the governor’s pew, highly ornamented, lined with China silk; the cushions and chairs therein were covered with crimson damask, and the window curtain was of the same material. Near to this, I saw an elevated pew, in which were half a dozen fine looking skeletons, with their heads up and their arms akimbo. This pew, Martin informed me, was reserved, for the officers of the army and navy. A small organ was in the western gallery, said to be the first, ever heard in our country. From the walls and pillars, hung several escutcheons and armorial bearings. I distinguished those of the royal family, and of Andros, Nicholson, Hamilton, Dudley, Shute, Belcher, and Shirley.

I had always associated thehour-glasswith my ideas of a Presbyterian pulpit, in the olden time, when the very length of the discourse gave the hearer some little foretaste of eternity. I was rather surprised to see an hour-glass, of large proportions, perched upon the pulpit, in its highly ornamented stand of brass. The altar-piece was at the easterly end of the Church, with the Glory, the Ten Commandments, the Lord’s Prayer, the Creed, and some texts of Scripture.

The congregation had taken their seats; and a slender, sickly looking skeleton glided into the reading desk. “Dr. Caner?” said I. “Brockwell, the assistant,” replied Martin, in a whisper, “the very first wardens, of 1686, are in the pew, tonight, Bullivant and Banks. They all serve in rotation. Next Sabbath, we shall have Foxcroft and Ravenscroft. Clerke Hill, and Rutley are sextons, tonight.”

The services were very well conducted; and, taking all things into consideration, I was surprised, that I comprehended so well, as I did. The prayer, for the royal family, was very impressively delivered. The assistant made use, I observed, of the Athanasian creed, and every one seemed to understand it, at which I was greatly surprised. Dr. Caner seemed very feeble, and preached a very short discourse upon the loss of Esau’s birthright, making a pointed application, to the conversion of King’s Chapel, by the Unitarians. He made rather a poor case of it, I thought. Martin was so much offended, that he said, though being a ghost, he was obliged to be quiet, he wished I would call the watch, and break up the meeting. I told him, that I did not believe Dr. Caner’s arguments would have anyvery mischievous effect; and it seemed not more than fair, that these ancient worshippers should have the use of the church, at midnight, so long as they conducted themselves orderly—consumed no fuel—and furnished their own light.

One of the sextons, passing near me, accidentally dropped a small parcel. I was seized with a vehement desire of possessing it; and, watching my opportunity, conveyed it to my pocket. When Dr. Caner pronounced his final amen, light was instantly turned into darkness—a slight noise ensued—“the service is over!” said Martin, and all was still. I begged Martin to light his lamp; and, by its light, I examined the parcel the sexton had dropped. It was a small roll, containing some extracts from the records. They were not without interest. “Sept. 21, 1691.—It must not be forgot that Sir Robert Robertson gave a new silk damask cushion and cloth pulpit-cover.” “1697.—Whit Sunday. Paid Mr. Coneyball, for buying and carting Poses and hanging the Doares 8s.” “Dec. 20.—Paid for a stone Gug Clark Hill broak.” “March 29, 1698.—Paid Mr. Shelson for Loucking after the Boyes £1.” “1701, Aug. 4.—Paid for scouring the brass frame for the hour-glass 10s.” “1733, Oct. 11.—Voted that the Brass Stand for the hour-glass be lent to the church of Scituate, as also three Diaper napkins, provided Mr. Addington Davenport, their minister, gives his note to return the same to the Church wardens of the Church, &c.” “April 3, 1740.—Rec’d of Mr. Sylvester Gardner Sixteen Pounds Two Shills, in full for wine for the Chapple for the year past. John Hancock.”

I was about to put this fragment of the record into my pocket—“If,” said Martin, “you do not particularly covet a visit from Clark Hill, or whichever of the old sextons it was, that dropped that paper, leave it, as you found it.” I did so, most joyfully.

“If you have any questions to ask of me,” said the old man, “ask them now, and briefly, for we are about to part—to meet no more, until we meet, as I trust we shall, in a better world.” “As a mere matter of curiosity,” said I, “I should like to know, if you consider your venerable pastor, now dead and gone, Dr. Freeman, as the successor of Saint Peter?” “No more,” said Martin Smith, with an expression almost too comical for a ghost, “than I consider you and myself successors of the sexton, who, under the directions of Abraham, buried Sarah, in the cave of the field of Machpelah, before Mamre.” “Do you consider theApostolical succession broken off, at the time of Dr. Freeman’s ordination?” “Short off, like a pipe stem,” he replied. “And so you do not consider the laying on of a Bishop’s hand necessary, to empower a man to preach the Gospel?” “No more,” said he, “than I consider the laying on of spades, necessary to empower a man, to dig a grave. We were a peculiar people, but quite as zealous for good works, as any of our neighbors. The Bishop of New York declined to ordain our pastor, because we were Unitarians; and we could not expect this service from our neighbors, had it been otherwise, on account of our adherence to the Liturgy, though modified, and to certain Episcopal forms—so we ordained him ourselves. The senior warden laid his hands upon the good man and true—said nothing of the thirty-nine articles—but gave him a Bible, as the sole compass for his voyage, in full confidence, that, while he steered thereby, we should be upon our course, to the haven, where we would be. We have never felt the want of the succession, for a moment, and, ever since, we have been a most happy and u——.”

Just then a distant steam whistle struck upon the ear, which Martin, undoubtedly, mistook, for cock-crowing—for his lamp was extinguished, in an instant, and he vanished.

If my confidence in dreams needed any confirmation, nothing more could be required, than a careful comparison of many of these incidents, with the statements, in the history of King’s Chapel, published by the late, amiable Rector, seventeen years ago. A copy is, at this moment, beneath my eye; and, upon the fly leaf, in the author’s own hand writing, under date Jan. 1, 1843, I read—“Presented to Martin Smith, for many years, a sexton of this church, from his friend F. W. P. Greenwood.” Aye; every one was thefriendof good old Martin Smith. Here, deposited among the leaves of this book, is an order, from that excellent man, my honored friend, Colonel Joseph May, then junior warden. It bears date “Saturday, 18 June, 1814.” It is laconic, and to the point. “Toll slow!” This also is subscribed “Your friend.”

Yes, every one was the friend of Martin Smith. He was a spruce, little, old man—especially at Christmas.

Nothing can be more entirely unfounded, than the popular notion, that circumstantial evidence is an inferior quality of proof. The most able writers, on the law of evidence, have always maintained the contrary.

Sir William Blackstone and Sir Matthew Hale, it is true, have expressed the very just and humane opinion, that circumstantial evidence should be weighed with extreme caution; and the latter has expressly said, that, in trials, for murder and manslaughter, no conviction ought ever to be had, until the fact is clearly proven, or the body of the person, alleged to have been killed, has been discovered; for he stated, that two instances had occurred, within his own knowledge, in which, after the execution of the accused, the persons, supposed to have been murdered, had reäppeared alive.

Probably, one of the most extraordinary cases of fatal confidence in circumstantial evidence, recorded, in the history of British, criminal jurisprudence, is that, commonly referred to, as the case of “Hayes and Bradford.” In that case, a murder was certainly committed; the body of the murdered man was readily found; the murderer escaped; and, after many years, confessed the crime, in a dying hour; and another person, who had designed to commit the murder, but found his intended victim, already slain, was arrested, as the murderer; and, after an elaborate trial, suffered for the crime, upon the gallows.

There is a case in the criminal jurisprudence of our own country, in all its strange particulars, far surpassing the British example, to which I have referred; and attended by circumstances, almost incredible, were the evidence and vouchers less respectable, than they are. I refer to the case of Stephen and Jesse Boorn, who were tried, for the murder of Russell Colvin, and convicted, before the Supreme Judicial Court of the State of Vermont, in October, 1819. In this remarkable case, it must be observed, that the Judges appeared to have acted, in utter disregard of that merciful caution of Sir Matthew Hale, to which I have alluded; and that these miserable men were rescued, from their impending fate, in a most remarkable manner.

It is my purpose to present a clear and faithful account of this occurrence; and, to enable the reader to go along with me, stepby step, with perfect confidence, in a matter, in which, from the marvellous character of the circumstances, to doubt would be extremely natural, I will first exhibit the sources, from which the elements of this narrative are drawn. I. The public journals of the day, published in Vermont. II. “Mystery developed, &c., by the Rev. Lemuel Haynes, Hartford, 1820.” III. A sermon, on the occasion, by the same. IV. “A brief sketch of the Indictment, Trial, and Conviction of Stephen and Jesse Boorn, for the murder of Russell Colvin, by S. Putnam Waldo, Hartford.” V. “A Collection of remarkable events, by Leonard Deming. Middlebury, 1825.” VI. “Journals of the General Assembly of the State of Vermont, for 1819, October session,” in which, page 185, may be found the minutes of the testimony, taken on the trial, and certified up, by Judge Chace, to the Legislature, by request, on petition, for a commutation of punishment. VII. Law Reporter, published in Boston, vol. v. page 193. VIII. Trial of Stephen and Jesse Boorn, Rutland, 1820. IX. Remarks thereon, N. A. Review, vol. x. page 418. X. Greenleaf’s Treatise on Evidence, vol. i. page 320, note 2. XI. Cooley’s Memoir of Rev. Lemuel Haynes, N. Y., 1839.

In the village of Manchester, Bennington County, and State of Vermont, there resided in 1812, an old man, whose name was Barney Boorn, who had two sons, Stephen and Jesse, and a daughter Sarah, who had married Russell Colvin. Like the conies of the Bible, these people werea feeble folk—their mental powers were slender—they grew up in ignorance—their lot was poverty. Colvin, in particular, was, notoriously, animbecile. He had been, for a long period, partially deranged. He was incompetent to manage the concerns of his family. He moved about in an idle, wandering way, and was perfectly inoffensive; and the wilful destruction of such a man would have been the murder of aninnocent.

In May, 1812, Russell Colvin was missing from home. This, in consideration of his uncertain habits, occasioned, at first, but little surprise. But his continued absence, for days, and weeks, and months, produced very considerable excitement, in the village of Manchester. This excitement naturally increased, with the term of his absence; and the contagion began, ere long, to catch upon the neighboring towns; until the most exciting topic of the day, throughout that portion of the Hampshire Grants, in the absence of mad dogs and revivals, was the mysterious disappearance of Russell Colvin.

Rumors began to spread, from lip to lip. Suspicion, like a hungry leech—“a German one”—fastened upon the Boorns. Nor was this suspicion groundless. Thomas Johnson, a neighbor of all the parties, a credible witness, who swore to the facts, seven years after, on the trial, reported, that the last time he saw Russell Colvin was immediately before his remarkable disappearance, and that he and the Boorns were then quarrelling, while engaged in picking up stones.

Lewis Colvin, the son of Russell, with manifest reluctance, stated, that, just before his father’s disappearance, a quarrel took place, between his father and Stephen—that his father struck Stephen first—that Stephen then knocked his father down twice with a club—that he, the boy, was frightened and ran away—that Stephen told him never to mention what had happened—and that he had never seen his father since.

Here, doubtless, was legitimate ground, for suspicion, and the village of Manchester, on the Battenkill, was in a state of universal fermentation—the very atmosphere seemed redolent of murder. It is marvellous, in what manner the Boorns escaped from being lynched, without trial; and, more especially, how Stephen was preserved, from the fate of his namesake, the martyr. A shortlived calm followed this tempest of popular feeling—parties were formed—some were sure the Boorns were the murderers of Colvin—some were inclined to believe they were not. The Boorns continued to dwell in the village,without any effort to escape; and the evidence against them was not deemed legally sufficient then, even to authorize their arrest.

It appeared, upon the statement of Mrs. Colvin, that Stephen and Jesse, her brothers, had told her, upon a certain occasion, that she might be satisfied her husband was dead, and thatthey knew it. This additional fact gave fresh impulse to the popular excitement.

In such miserable society, as may be supposed to have remained to these suspected men, it is not wonderful, that they should often have encountered the most unsparing allusions, and vulgar interrogatories—nor that they should have met this species of persecution, with equally vulgar and unflinching replies. It became well established, ere long, upon the declarations of a Mr. Baldwin and his wife, that, when asked where Colvin had gone, one of the Boorns replied, that he had “gone to hell”—andthe other that he had “gone where potatoes would not freeze.”

It is not wonderful, that, upon such evidence, the daughters of Manchester should begin to prophecy, and the young men to see visions, and the old men to dream dreams. In the language of one, who has briefly described the condition of that village, during this period of intense excitement—“Every house was haunted with the ghost of Colvin.”

At length, a respectable man, a paternal uncle of the Boorns, began to dream, in good earnest. The ghost of Colvin appeared to him, and told him, upon his honor, that he had been murdered; and indicated the place, with unmistakable precision, where his body lay concealed. Like a bill, which cannot pass to enactment, until after a third reading, the declarations of a ghost are not entitled to the slightest regard, until after a third repetition. Every sensible ghost knows this, of course. The ghost of Colvin seems to have understood his business perfectly; and he manifested a very commendable delicacy, in selecting one of the family, for his confidant. Three times, in perfect conformity with acknowledged precedent, the ghost of Colvin announced the fact of his murder, and indicated the place, where his body was concealed.

To put a slight upon a respectable ghost, in perfectly good standing, who had taken all this trouble, was entirely out of the question. Accordingly, the uncle of the Boorns summoned his neighbors—announced these revelations—gathered a posse—proceeded to dig in the hole, so particularly indicated by the ghost—and, after digging to a great depth, succeeded completely, in discovering nothing of any human remains. Indeed he was as unsuccessful, as our worthy friend, the Warden of the Prison, in his recent search for hidden treasure—excepting, that it does not appear, that the ghost made the slightest effort to bury him alive.

This movement was productive, nevertheless, of additional testimony, against the Boorns. In the hole, were found a jack-knife and a button, both which Mrs. Colvin solemnly declared to have belonged to her husband.

In regard to the location of the body, the ghost was certainly mistaken; perhaps Mr. Boorn, the uncle, being dull of hearing, might have misunderstood the revelation; and perhaps the memory of the ghost was treacherous. Evidence, gathered up by piecemeal, was, nevertheless, gradually enveloping the fate ofthese miserable men—evidence of a much more substantial material, than dreams are made of.

Thomas Johnson, the witness, above referred to, having purchased the field, where the quarrel took place, between Colvin and the Boorns, the children of Johnson found, while playing there, an old mouldy hat; which Johnson asserted, at the time, and afterwards, at the trial, swore, positively, had belonged to Colvin.

Nearly seven years had passed, since the disappearance of Russell Colvin. Stephen Boorn had removed from Manchester, about five years after the supposed murder; and resided in Denmark, Lewis County, New York; at the distance of some two hundred miles. Jesse still continued in Manchester; andneither of these wretched men, upon any occasion, appears to have attempted flight, or concealment.

Stephen Boorn, who, as the sequel will abundantly show, seems not to have been entirely deficient, in natural affection, had discovered, after a bitter experience of five long years, that the burden of his sins was not more intolerable, than the oppressive consciousness of the tenure, by which he lived, and moved, and had his being; which tenure was no other, than that, by which Cain walked upon the earth, after the murder of Abel. Stephen Boorn gathered up the little, that he had, and went into a far country—not hastily, nor by night—but openly, and in the light of day.

Jesse, who was, evidently, the weaker brother—the poorer spirit—remained behind; deeming it easier, doubtless, to endure the continued suspicion and contempt of mankind, than to muster enough of energy, to rise and walk.

Well nigh seven years, as I have stated, had passed, since the disappearance of Colvin. A discovery was made, at this period, which left very little doubt, upon the minds of the good people of Manchester, that the Boorns were guilty of the murder of this unhappy man, and of attempting to conceal his remains, by cremation.

At this period, about seven years after the disappearance of Russell Colvin, a lad, walking near the house of Barney Boorn, was attracted, by the movements of a dog, that seemed to have discovered some object of interest, near the stump of an ancient tree, upon the banks of the Battenkill river. This stump was about sixty rods from the hole, in which, upon the suggestion of the ghost, the uncle of the Boorns, and his curious neighbors had sought for the body of Colvin. The lad examined the stump, and discovered the cavity to be filled with bones!

Had the magnetic been then in operation, the tidings could not have been telegraphed more speedily. The affair was definitively settled—the bones of Colvin were discovered; and the ghost appeared to have been only sixty rods out of the way, after all. Murder will find a tongue. Manchester found thousands. The village was on fire. Young men and maidens, old men and children came forth, to gaze upon the bones of the murdered Colvin; and to praise the Lord, for this providential discovery! Whatever the value of it might be—the merit seemed clearly to belong, in equal moieties, to the dog and the ghost.

How prone we are—the children of this generation—to reason upon the philosophy, before we weigh the fish! This was a case, if there ever was a case, for the recognition of the principle,cuique in sua arte credendum est. Accordingly the medical magi of Manchester and of its highly excited neighborhood were summoned, to sit in judgment, upon these bones. The question was not—“can these dry bones live?”—but are they the bones of the murdered Colvin? One, thoughtful practitioner believed there was a previous question, entitled to some little consideration—are these bones the bones of a man, or of a beast? Never were scruples more entirely out of place. Imagine the indignation of the good people of Manchester, at the bare suggestion, that they had wasted so much excellent sympathy, upon the bones, peradventure, of a horse or a heifer!

The doubter, as might have been expected, stood alone: but he sturdily persisted. The regular faculty, with the eyes of their well-persuaded patients riveted, encouragingly, upon theirs, expressed their clear conviction, that the bones were humanbones, and, if human bones, whose—aye whose—but the murdered Colvin’s! This gave universal satisfaction, of course.

It was evident, that some of these bones had been broken and pounded—the quantity was small, for an entire skeleton—some few bones had been found, beneath a barn, belonging to the father of the Boorns, which had been, previously, consumed by fire—and some persons may have supposed, that the murderers, having deposited the dead body there, had destroyed the barn, to conceal their crime—and, finding a part of the body unconsumed, after the conflagration, had deposited that part, in the hollow stump, to be disposed of, at some future moment of convenience.

A very plausible theory, beyond all doubt. But the doubting doctor continued to turn over these bones, with an air of provoking unbelief; now and then, perhaps, holding aloft, in significant silence, the fragment of a cranium, of remarkably sheepish proportions.

This was not to be endured. Anatomical knowledge appears not to have made uncommon strides, in that region, in 1819; for, when it was finally decided to compare these bones with those of the human body, there actually seems to have been nothing in that region, which would serve the purpose of the faculty, but the leg of a citizen, long before amputated, and committed to the earth. I will here adopt the words of the Rev. Mr. Haynes—“A Mr. Salisbury, about four years ago, had his leg amputated, which was buried, at the distance of four or five miles. The limb was dug up, and, by comparing, it was universally determined that the bones were not human.” This was a severe disappointment, undoubtedly; but not absolutely total: for two nails, or something, in the image thereof, were found, amid the mass, which nails, says Mr. Haynes, “were human, and so appeared to all beholders.”

Let us now turn to the murderers, or rather to Jesse, for Stephen was two hundred miles away, entirely unsuspicious of the gathering cloud, which was destined, ere long, to burst upon his devoted head.

When the discovery of these bones had excited the feelings and suspicions of the people, to the utmost, it was deemed proper to take Jesse into custody. An examination took place, on Tuesday, May 27, 1819, and continued, till the following Saturday. This examination was conducted, in the meeting-house, as it appears, from the testimony of Truman Hill, uponthe subsequent trial; who says of Jesse, that—“when the knife was presented to him, in the meeting-house, and also when the hat was presented to him, his feelings were such, as to oblige him to take hold of the pew, to steady himself—he appeared to be much agitated—I asked him what was the matter—he answered there was matter enough—I asked him to state—he said he feared, that Stephen had killed Colvin—that he never believed so, till the spring or winter, when he went into William Boorn’s shop, where were William and Stephen Boorn—at which time he gained a knowledge of the manner of Colvin’s death; and that he thought he knew, within a few rods, where Colvin was buried.”

Such was the evidence of Truman Hill, upon the trial; and he related the facts, very naturally, at the time, to his neighbors. The statement was considered, by the community, as tantamount to a confession. At this time, the examination of Jesse Boorn had nearly closed—no ground for detention appeared against him—the bones, discovered in the stump, were acknowledged to have belonged to some brute animal—it was the general opinion, that Jesse should be released; when this declaration of his to Truman Hill, turned the tide of popular sentiment entirely; and Jesse Boorn was remanded to prison.

Truman Hill was the jailer; or, in his own conservative phraseology, he “kept the keys of the prison.” Jailers are rather apt to look upon their prisoners, as great curiosities, in proportion to the crimes, with which they are charged, and themselves as showmen. Most men are sufficiently willing to be distinguished, for something or other:—to see Jesse Boorn—to catechise the wretched man—to set before him the fear of death, and the hope of pardon—to beg him to confess—nothing but the truth, of course—these were privileges—favors—and Truman Hill had the power of granting them. Thus he says—he “let in” Mr. Johnson; and, when Mr. Johnson came out, he went in himself, and found Jesse “in great agitation”—and then he, himself, urged Jesse to confess—the truth of course—if he said anything—assuring him, that every falsehood he told, would sink him deeper in trouble. It must have been evident to the mind of Jesse, that a confession of the murder would be particularly agreeable to the public, and that a continued protestation of his innocence would disappoint the reasonable expectations of his fellow-citizens.

Jesse confessed to Judge Skinner, that Stephen had, probably, buried Colvin’s body in the mountain; and that the knife, found with the button, in the hole, indicated to his uncle by the ghost, was, doubtless, Colvin’s; for he had often seen Colvin’s mother use it, to cut her tobacco. Judge Skinner and Jesse took an edifying walk up the mountain, in search of the body—they did not find it, which is very surprising.

About the middle of the month of May, 1819, Mr. Orange Clark, a neighbor of Stephen Boorn, in the town of Denmark, some two hundred miles from Manchester, entered his dwelling, in the evening. He took a chair, and commenced a friendly conversation with Stephen and his wife—for Stephen had married a wife—the sharer of all his sorrows—his joys, probably, were few, and far between, and not worth the partition. Shortly after, a Mr. Hooper, another neighbor, dropped in. He had scarcely taken his seat, before another entered the apartment, Mr. Sylvester, the innkeeper, who, upon some grave testimony, then recently imported into Denmark, had arrived at the solemn conclusion, that there was something rotten there.

Stephen and his helpmate were, doubtless, somewhat surprised, at this unusual gathering, in their humble dwelling. Their surprise was greatly increased, of course, by the appearance, almost immediately after, of Messieurs Anderson and Raymond, worthy men of Manchester. If the ghost of Russell Colvin had stalked in, after them, Stephen Boorn could not have been more astonished, than he was, when he beheld, closing up the rear of all this goodly company—no less a personage, than Captain Truman Hill, the jailer of Manchester—the gentleman, I mean, who “kept the keys of the prison.”

To Stephen there must have been something not wholly incomprehensible in this. His ill-starred partner was not long left in doubt. The very glances of the party were of evil omen. Their business was soon declared. The gentleman, thatkept the keys, kept also thehandcuffs. They were speedily produced. Stephen Boorn must go back to the place, from whence he came—and from thence—so opined the men, women and children of Manchester—to the place of execution. But, when the process commenced, of putting the irons upon that wretched man—the poor woman—the wife of his bosom—for he had a bosom, and a human heart therein, full of tenderness, as the sequel will demonstrate, for her; however inconceivable to the gentleman, that“kept the keys”—and to those learned judges, who, in the very teeth, and in utter contempt, of the law, so clearly laid down by Sir Matthew Hale, of glorious memory, would have hanged this miserable man, but for the signal Providence of Almighty God—this poor woman was completely overwhelmed with agony.

The estimate of many things, in this nether world, is a vastly relative affair. That, which would be in excellent taste, among a people, without refinement, however moral, will frequently appear to the enlightened portion of mankind, as absolutely barbarous.

The idea of allaying the anguish of a wife, produced by the forcible removal of her husband, in chains, on a charge of murder, bymaking her presents, hurries one’s imagination to the land of the Hottentots, or of the Caffres; where the loss of a child is sometimes forgotten, in the contemplation of a few glass beads—and no consolation proves so effectual for the loss of wife, as a nail or a hatchet.

And yet it is impossible—and it ought to be—to read the short and simple statement of that good man, the Rev. Mr. Haynes, without emotion—“The surprise and distress of Mrs. Boorn, on this occasion, are not easily described: they excited the compassion of those, who came to take away her husband; and they made her some presents.”

“The prisoner,” continues Mr. Haynes, “was put in irons, and brought to Manchester, on the 15th of May. He peremptorily asserted his innocence, and declared he knew nothing about the murder of his brother-in-law. The prisoners were kept apart, for a time. They were afterwards confined in one room. Stephen denied the evidence, brought against him by Jesse, and treated him with severity.”

These men, imprisoned in May, 1819, were not tried, until October of that year. Theevidence, upon which they were convicted of murder, in the first degree, lies now before me,certified up to the General Assembly of the State of Vermont, upon their request, by Judge Dudley Chace, Nov. 11, 1819. Let us now turn fromon dits, and dreams, and ghosts, and doubtful relics, to theduly certified testimony, upon which these men were sentenced to be hung.

The grand jurors of Bennington County found a bill of indictment, against Stephen and Jesse Boorn, September 3, 1819, for the murder of Russell Colvin, May 10, 1812, charging Stephen, as principal, in the first count, and Jesse, in the second.

The facts, proved, upon the trial, by witnesses, whose testimony was unimpeached, and which facts appear, in the minutes of evidence, certified by Judge Dudley Chace to the General Assembly, November 11, 1819, were, substantially, these. Before the time of the alleged murder, Stephen had complained that his brother-in-law, Colvin, was a burden to the family; and Stephen had said, if there was no other way of preventing him from multiplying children, for his father-in-law, Barney Boorn, to support, he would prevent him himself.

At the time of the alleged murder, Stephen and Jesse Boorn had a quarrel with Colvin. The affair, in part, was seen and heard, by a neighbor, from a distance. Lewis Colvin, then ten years old, the son of Russell, was present; and, when seventeen, testified at the trial, that the last time he saw his father was, when the quarrel took place, which arose, at the time they were all engaged, in picking up stones—that Colvin struck Stephen first, with a small stick—that Stephen then struck Colvin, on his neck, with a club, and he fell—that Colvin rose and struck Stephen again—that Stephen again struck Colvin with the club, and knocked him down—whereupon the witness, being frightened, ran away; and was afterwards told, by Stephen, that he would kill him, if he ever told of what had happened. The witness further stated, that he ran, and told his grandmother.

Stephen appears to have been gifted with a lively fancy. It was testified, that, before this occurrence, speaking of his sister and her husband, he had said he wished Russell and Sal were both dead; and that he wouldkick them into hell if he burnt his legs off. This piece of evidence, after having produced the usual effect upon the jury, was rejected.

Upon another occasion, four years after the alleged murder, Stephen stated to Daniel D. Baldwin, and Eunice, his wife, that Colvin went off very strangely; that the last he saw of him was when he, Stephen, and Jesse were together, and Colvin went off to the woods; that Lewis, the son of Colvin, upon returningwith some drink, for which he had been sent, asked where his father was, and that he, Stephen, replied, that Colvin had gone to hell; and Jesse, that they had put him where potatoes would not freeze; and Stephen added, while making this statement to the Baldwins, that it was not likely he or Jesse would have said this to the boy, if they had killed his father.

When the body was sought for, before the bones were discovered, which were mistaken for human remains, a girl said to Stephen, “they are going to dig up Colvin for you; aren’t they?” He became angry, and said, that Colvin often went off and returned—and that, when he went off, the last time, he was crazy; and went off without his hat.

About four years after his disappearance, an old mouldy hat was discovered, in the field, where the quarrel took place; and was identified, positively, as the hat of Colvin, by the witness who had seen the quarrel, from a distance, as I have stated.

Stephen denied, to Benjamin Deming, that he, Stephen, was present, when Colvin went off, and stated, that he was then, at a distance.

To Joseph Lincoln he said, that he never killed Colvin—that he, and Colvin, and Jesse were picking up stones, and that Colvin was crazy, and went off into the woods, and that they had not seen nor heard from him since.

To William Wyman, Stephen reäffirmed his statement, made to Benjamin Deming—called on Wyman to clear up his statement, that he, Stephen, had killed Colvin—asserted, that he knew nothing of what had become of Colvin; and that he had never worked with him an hour.

The minutes of the Judge furnish other examples of similar contradiction and inconsistency, on the part of Stephen Boorn.

But the reader will bear constantly in mind, that, through a period of seven years, during which the suspicion of the vicinage hung over them, like an angry cloud, sending forth occasional mutterings of judgment to come, and threatening to burst upon their heads, at any moment;neither of these miserable men attempted flight or concealment. Two years before his arrest, Stephen removed from Manchester, as I have related; but, in an open manner. There was not the slightest disguise, in regard to his abode; and there, when it was thought proper to arrest him, he was readily found, in the bosom of his family.

In 1813, Jesse Boorn was asked, by Daniel Jacobs, whereRussell Colvin was; and replied, that he had enlisted, as a soldier in the army.

Thus far, the evidence, certified by Judge Chace, appears to have proceeded from perfectly credible witnesses. Silas Merrill,in jail, on a charge of perjury, testified to the following confession—that, when Jesse returned to prison, after his examination, he told Merrill, that “they” had encouraged him to confess,with promise of pardon, and that he, Merrill, had told him, that, perhaps, he had better confess the whole truth, andobtain some favor. In June, 1819, Jesse’s father visited him in jail—after he went away, Jesse seemed much afflicted. After falling asleep, Jesse awoke, and shook the witness, Merrill—told him that he, Jesse, was frightened—had seen a vision—and wished the witness to get up, for he had something to tell him. They both arose; and Jesse made the following disclosure. He said it was true, that he, and Stephen, and Colvin, and Lewis were in the lot, picking stones—that Stephen struck Colvin with a club—that the boy, Lewis, ran—that Colvin got up—that Stephen struck him again, above the ear, and broke his skull—that his, Stephen’s father came up, and asked if Colvin was dead; and that he repeated this question three times—that all three of them carried Colvin, not then dead, to an old cellar, where the father cut Colvin’s throat, with a small penknife of Stephen’s—that they buried him, in the cellar—that Stephen wore Colvin’s shoes, till he, Jesse, told him it would lead to a discovery.

Jesse, as the witness stated, informed him, that he had told his brother Stephen, that he had confessed. When Stephen came into the room, witness asked him, if he did not take the life of Colvin; to which he replied, that “he did not take the main life of Colvin.” Stephen, as the witness stated, said, that Jesse’s confession was true; and that he, Stephen, had made a confession, which would only make manslaughter of it. The witness, Merrill, then proceeded to say, that Jesse further confessed, that, eighteen months after they had buried the body, they took it up, and placed it under the floor of a barn, that was afterwards burnt—that they then pounded the bones, and put them in the river; excepting a few, which their father gathered up, and hid in a hollow stump.

At this stage of the trial, the prosecuting officer offered the written confession of Stephen Boorn, dated Aug. 27, 1819. The document was authenticated. An attempt was made by theprisoners’ counsel, to show, that this confession was made, under the fear of death and hope and prospect of pardon. Samuel C. Raymond testified, that he had often told the prisoner to confess,if guilty, but not otherwise. Stephen said he wasnot guilty. The witness then told himnot to confess. The witness said he had heard Mr. Pratt, and Mr. Sheldon, the prosecuting officer, tell Jesse, that, if he would confess,in case he was guilty, they would petition the legislature in his favor. The witness had made the same proposition to Stephen himself, andalways told him he had no doubt of his guilt; and that the public mind was against him.

The court, of course, rejected thewritten confessionof Stephen, made, obviously, under the fear of death, and the hope and prospect of pardon. William Farnsworth was then produced, to prove theoral confessionof Stephen, much to the same effect. To this the prisoners’ counsel objected, very properly, as it occurred after the very statement and proposal, made to the prisoner, by Mr. Raymond.The court, nevertheless, permitted the witness to proceed.Mr. Farnsworth then testified, that, about two weeksafterthe date of the written confession, Stephen confessed, that he killed Russell Colvin—that Russell struck at him; and that he struck Russell and killed him—hid him in the bushes—buried him—dug him up—buried him again, under a barn, that was burnt—threw the unburnt bones into the river—scraped up some few remains, and hid them in a stump—and that the nails found he knew were Russell Colvin’s. The witness told him his case looked badly; and, probably, gave him no encouragement. Stephen then said they should have done well enough, had it not been for Jesse, and wished he “had back that paper,” meaning the written confession.

After Mr. Farnsworth had been, thus absurdly, permitted to testify, there was no cause for withholding the written confession; and the prisoners’ counsel called for its production. This confession embodies little more, with the exception of some particulars, as to the manner of burying the body; but is entirely inconsistent with the confession of Jesse. It is a full confession, that he killed Russell Colvin, and buried his remains. But, unlike the confession of Jesse, there is not the slightest implication of their father.

The evidence, in behalf of the prisoners, was of very little importance, excepting in relation to the fact, thatthey werepersuaded, by divers individuals, that the only chance of escaping the halter was, by an ample confession of the murder. They were told to confessnothing but the truth—but this was accompanied, by ominous intimations, that their case “looked dark”—that they were “gone geese”—or, by the considerate language ofSquire Raymond—as he is styled in the minutes—that he “had no doubt of their guilt;” and if they would confessthe truth—that is,what the Squire had no doubt of—he would petition the legislature in their favor! What atrocious language to a prisoner, under a charge of murder!

It would be quite interesting to read the instructions of Judge Dudley Chace, while submitting the case of Stephen and Jesse Boorn to the jury; that we might be able to comprehend the measure of his respect, for the law, touching the inadmissibility of such extra judicial confessions, and for the solemn, judicial declaration of Sir Matthew Hale, thatno conviction ought ever to take place in trials, for murder or manslaughter, until the fact was clearly proven, or the dead body of the person, alleged to have been killed, was discovered.

In “about an hour,” the jury returned a verdict of guilty, against Stephen and Jesse Boorn. And, in “about an hour” after, the prisoners were brought into court again, and sentenced to be hung, on the twenty-eighth day of January, 1820. Judge Chace is said to have been “quite moved,” while passing sentence on Stephen and Jesse Boorn. It would have been well, for the cause of humanity, and not amiss, for the honor of his judicial station, if he had shed tears of blood, as the reader of the sequel will readily admit.

Sentenced, on the last day of October, 1819, to be hung, on the 28th of January following, the Boorns were remanded to their prison, and put in irons.

From this period, their most authentic and interesting prison history is obtained, from the written statement of the clergyman, who appears to have performed his sacred functions, in regard to these men, with singular fidelity and propriety. This clergyman,the Rev. Lemuel Haynes, belonged to that class of human beings, commonly denominatedcolored people—a term, to which I have always sturdily objected, because drunkards, who are often a highly-colored people, may thus be confounded with temperate and respectable men of African descent.

[2]Mr. Haynes was, in part, of African parentage; and the author of the narrative, and occasional sermon, to which I have referred, at the commencement of these articles. There flourished, in this city, some five and thirty years ago, a number of very respectable, negro musicians, associated, as a band; and Major Russell, the editor of the Centinel, was in the habit of distinguishing the music, by the color of the performers. He frequently remarked, in his journal, that the “black music” was excellent. If this phraseology be allowable, I cannot deny, that the black, or colored, narrative of Mr. Haynes is very interesting; and that I have seldom read a black or colored discourse, with more satisfaction; and that I have read many a white one, with infinitely less.

Previously to their trial, and after the arrest of Stephen, the Rev. Mr. Haynes expressly states, that Jesse, having had an interview with Stephen, positively denied his own former statement, that Stephen had admitted he killed Colvin. These are the words of Mr. Haynes—“During the interval, the writer frequently visited them, in his official capacity; and did not discover any symptoms of compunction; but they persisted, in declaring their innocence, with appeals to Heaven. Stephen, at times, appeared absorbed in passion and impatience. One day, I introduced the example of Christ, under sufferings, as a pattern, worthy of imitation: he exclaimed—‘I am as innocent, as Jesus Christ!’ for which extravagant expression I reproved him: he replied—‘I don’t mean I am guiltless, as he was, I know I am a great sinner; but I am as innocent of killing Colvin, as he was.’”

The condition of the Boorns, immediately after sentence, cannot be more forcibly exhibited, than in the language of this worthy clergyman—“None can express the confusion and anguish, into which the prisoners were cast, on hearing their doom. They requested, by their counsel, liberty to speak, which was granted. In sighs and broken accents, they asserted their innocence. The convulsion of nature, attending Stephen, at last, was so great, as to render him unable to walk, and he was supported to the prison.”

Compassion was excited, in the hearts of some—doubts, peradventure, in the minds of others. A petition was presented to the General Assembly; and the punishment of Jesse was changed to imprisonment, for life. Ninety-seven deadly noes, against forty-two merciful ayes, decided the fate of Stephen.

On the 29th of October, 1819, Jesse bade Stephen a last farewell; and was transferred to the State prison, at Windsor.

“I visited him—Stephen”—says Mr. Haynes, “frequently, with sympathy and grief; and endeavored to turn his mind upon the things of another world; telling him, that, as all human means had failed, he must look to God, as the only way of deliverance. I advised him to read the Holy Scriptures; to which he consented, if he could be allowed a candle, as his cell was dark. This request was granted; and I often found him reading. He was at times calm, and again impatient.”

Upon another occasion, still nearer the day of the prisoner’s doom—“the last of earth”—Mr. Haynes remarks, that Stephen addressed him thus—“‘Mr. Haynes, I see no way but I must die: everything works against me; but I am an innocent man: this you will know, after I am dead.’ He burst into a flood of tears, and said—‘What will become of my poor wife and children; they are in needy circumstances; and I love them better than life itself.’—I told him, God would take care of them. He replied—‘I don’t want to die. I wish they would let me live, even in this situation, somewhat longer: perhaps something will take place, that will convince people I am innocent.’ I was about to leave the prison, when he said—‘will you pray with me?’—He arose with his heavy chains on his hands and legs, being also chained down to the floor, and stood on his feet, with deep and bitter sighings.”

On the 26th day of November, 1819—two brief months before the time, appointed, for the execution of Stephen Boorn, thefollowing notice appeared in the Rutland Herald—“Murder.—Printers of Newspapers, throughout the United States, are desired to publish, that Stephen Boorn of Manchester, in Vermont, is sentenced to be executed for the murder of Russell Colvin, who has been absent about seven years. Any person, who can give information of said Colvin, may save the life of the innocent, by making immediate communication. Colvin is about five feet five inches high, light complexion, light hair, blue eyes, about forty years of age. Manchester, Vt., Nov. 26, 1819.”

This notice, published by request of the prisoner, was, doubtless, prepared, by one of his counsel:—by whomsoever prepared, it bears, in its very structure, unmistakable evidence of the writer’s entire confidence, in the innocency, of Stephen Boorn, of themurderof Russell Colvin. No man, who had a doubt upon his mind, could have put these words together, in the very places, where they stand. Had it been otherwise, some little hesitancy of expression—some conservative syllable—one little if,ex abundanti cautela, to shelter the writer from the charge of a most miserably weak and merciful credulity, would have characterized this last appeal—this short, shrill cry for mercy—as the work of a doubter, and a hireling.

There may have been a few, whose strong confidence, in the bloodguiltiness of Stephen Boorn, had become slightly paralyzed, by his entire and absolute retractation of all his confessions, made before trial. There may have been a few, who believe, that they, themselves, might have confessed, though innocent, in the same predicament—assured by thesquires, themagnatesof the village, whom they supposed powerful to save, thatno doubt existed of their guilt—that they weregone geese—and who proffered an effort in their favor—to save them from the gallows—if they would confessthe truth, whichtruthcould, of course, be nothing, but theirguilt. If they would confess a crime, though innocent, they might still live! If not, they must be deemed liars, and murderers, and die the death!

The prisoner, Stephen Boorn, even supposing him to be innocent, but of humble station in society, and of ordinary mental powers—oppressed by the chains he wore, and, more heavily, by the dread of death—clinging to life—not only because it is written, by the finger of God, in the members of man, that all a man hath will be given for his life—but because, as the statement of Mr. Haynes convincingly shows, poor degraded outcast as Stephenwas, he was deeply and tenderly attached to his wife and children—might well fall under the temptation, so censurably spread before him.

There may have been a few, who were compelled to doubt, if Stephen were a murderer, upon hearing the simple narrative, spread through the village, by the worthy clergyman, of the fervent and awful declaration of Stephen Boorn, in a moment of deep and energetic misery—“I am as innocent of the murder of Russell Colvin, as Jesus Christ.”

But the strong current of popular indignation ran, overwhelmingly, against him. By a large number, the brief notice, published in the Rutland Herald, was, undoubtedly, accounted a mere personal, or professional attempt, to produce an impression of the murderer’s innocence, in the hope of commutation, or of pardon—and, with many, it certainly tended to confirm the prejudice against him. Days of unutterable anguish were succeeded, by nights of frightful slumber. The cell was feebly lighted, by the taper allowed him—with unpractised fingers, the prisoner turned over the pages of God’s holy word—but a kind, faithful guide was at his elbow—the voice of fervent prayer, amid the occasional clanking of the prisoner’s fetters, went up to that infallible ear, that is ever ready to hear.—The Judicial power had consigned this victim to the gallows—the general sense had decided, that Stephen Boorn ought not to live—to prepare him to die was the only remaining office, for the man of God.

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