No. LXXXIV.
After a little reflection, the true explanation of this apparent mystery appears to be exceedingly simple. Colvin had become an object of contempt and hatred to the Boorns; and especially to Stephen. His mental feebleness had produced their contempt—the burdensomeness of himself and his family had begotten their hatred. The poor, semi-demented creature happened, in a luckless hour, to boast, most absurdly, no doubt, of his great importance and usefulness, as a member of this interesting family. This gave a doubly keen edge to the animosity of Stephen; and he berated his brother-in-law, in terms, almost as vulgar and abusive, as those we daily meet with, in so many of our leading political journals, of all denominations.
Forgetful of his inferiority, this miserable worm exemplified the proverb, and turned upon his oppressor, in a feeble way. He struck Stephen with “a small riding stick.” This was accounted sufficient provocation by Stephen; and, in the language of the witness, “Stephen then struck Russell on his neck with a club, and knocked him down.” He rose, and made a slight effort to renew the battle, and then Stephen again knocked him down. Upon this, Colvin rambled off, towards the mountain, and was seen in that region, no more, till he was brought back, after the expiration of seven years, in December, 1819.
He went off without his hat and shoes; whether, in his effort to shake off the dust of that city, he unconsciously shook off his shoes, is unknown. The discovery of the hat, some years after, formed a part of that wretched rope of sand, for it is not worthy of being called a chain of evidence, upon which Stephen and Jesse were sentenced to death. Colvin had, doubtless, long been aware, that he was an object of hatred to the Boorns. The blows, inflicted upon this occasion, undoubtedly, aggravated his insanity; yet enough remained of the instinctive love of life, to teach him, that his safety was in flight. How he found his way to that part of New Jersey, which lies near the Atlantic Ocean, is of little importance. He was, notoriously, a wanderer. It was the spring of the year. He moved onward, without plan, camping out, among the bushes, or sleeping in barns; the world before him, and Providence his guide. He, probably, rambled from Manchester, which is in the southwest corner of Vermont, into the State of New York, which lies very near; and, wandering, in a southerly direction, along the westerly boundary lines of Massachusetts and Connecticut, he would, before many days, have entered the northerly part of New Jersey.
Accustomed to his occasional absences, the Boorns, undoubtedly, expected his return, for weeks and months, even though the summer had past, and the harvest had ended. But, after the snows of winter had come, and covered the mountains; and the spring had returned, and melted them away; and Colvin came not; then Stephen Boorn, doubtless, began to fear, that he had, unintentionally, killed him—that he had wandered away, and died of the effects of the blows he had received—and that his bones were bleaching, in some unknown part of the mountain, whither he had wandered, immediately after the occurrence.
Upon this hypothesis, alone, can we explain one remarkable word, in the answer of Stephen to Merrill’s question, in the jail, as certified, by Judge Chace, in his minutes—“I asked him, if he did take the life of Colvin.—He said he did not take the main life of Colvin. He said no more at that time.”
Does any reflecting man inquire—what could have induced these men to confess the crime, with such a particular detail of minute, and extraordinary, circumstances? The answer has already been given, in part.—Stephen, doubtless, believed it to be quite probable, that he had been the means of Colvin’s death. To explain the motive for confession, more fully, it is only necessary to stand, for one moment, in the prisoner’s shoes. He was assured, by “Squire Raymond,” and others, in whom he confided, that no doubt was entertained of his guilt—that his case was dark—and that his only hope lay in confession.
His mind was brought to the full and settled belief, that he should be hung, before many days, unless he confessed. If he had confessed the simple truth—the quarrel—the blows—the departure of Colvin—all this would have availed him nothing. It was not this, of which “Squire Raymond,” and others, had no doubt he was guilty. They had no doubt he was guilty of the murder of Colvin. No confession of anything, short of the murder of Colvin, would satisfy “Squire Raymond,” and induce him to “petition the legislature in favor” of the prisoner! Stephen well knew, that, if he confessed the murder of Colvin, it would be immediately asked—where he had buried the body—a puzzling question, it must be confessed, for one, who had committed no murder. But it was a delicate moment, for Stephen. It was necessary for him to stand, not only rectus in curia—but rectus with “Squire Raymond,” and all his other attentive patrons. He therefore, to save his life, and secure the patronage of the “Squire,” strung together a terrible tissue of lies, too manifestly preposterous and improbable, even for the credulous brain of Cotton Mather, in 1692. He relieved himself of all embarrassment, in regard to the dead body of the living Colvin, by confessing, that he first buried it, in the earth—then took it up and reburied it, under a barn—and, after the barn had been burnt, took up the bones again, and cast them into the Battenkill river.
The confession of Jesse was made, when he was aroused from sleep, at midnight, under the impression, as he stated, at the time, that “something had come in at the window, and was on the bed beside him”—somewhat extra-judicial, this confession, to be sure. This Jesse appears to have been a most unfilial scoundrel; for, instead of confessing, as Stephen had confessed, that Stephen himself killed Colvin, single-handed and alone; Jesse catered, more abundantly, to the popular appetite for horrors, by confessing that his old father, Barney Boorn, “damned” his son-in-law, Colvin, very frequently, and “cut his throat with a small penknife.” All this clotted mass of inconsistent absurdity, extorted by hope and fear, his honor, Judge Chace, received, as legal evidence, and gravely certified up to the General Assembly of Vermont.
It is true, Judge Chace, as we have stated, rejected the written confession of Stephen, because Raymond swore, as follows—“I have heard Mr. Pratt and Mr. Sheldon tell Jesse Boorn, that if he would confess, in case he was guilty, they would petition the legislature for him—I have made the same proposition to Stephen myself, and always told him I had no doubt of his guilt, and that the public mind was against him.” It is needless to expatiate on the gross impropriety of addressing such language to a prisoner, under such circumstances.
But the witness, Farnsworth, was then produced to prove Stephen’s oral confession, that he killed Colvin. It appears, by the minutes, certified by Judge Chace, that he put the preliminary questions, and that the witness swore, “that neither he nor anybody else, to his knowledge, had done anything, directly or indirectly, to influence the said Stephen to the talk he was about to communicate.” In vain, the prisoners’ counsel protested, that the evidence was inadmissible, because the “talk” between Stephen and Farnsworth was subsequent to the proposition made to Stephen by Raymond. In vain they pressed the consideration, that if, on this ground, the written confession had been rejected, the oral confession should also be rejected. In vain they offered to prove other proposals and promises, made to the prisoners, at other times, before the conversation, now offered to be proved. Nothing, however, would stay their honors, from gibbetting their judicial reputation, in chains, which no time will ever knock off. They suffered Farnsworth to testify; and he swore, that Stephen told him, “about two weeks after the written confession, that he killed Colvin,” &c. This must have been about September 10, 1819, and, of course, before the trial, when he was still relying on the promises of Squire Raymond, and others.
The prisoners’ counsel very judiciously moved, for the reception of the written confession, and it was read accordingly. Unable to restrain the judicial antics of the Court, it appeared to be the only course, for the prisoners’ counsel, to throw the whole crude and incongruous mass before the jury, and leave its credibility, or rather, its palpable incredibility, to their decision. It would be desirable, as a judicial curiosity, to possess a copy of Judge Chace’s charge. Of his instructions to the jury he says nothing, in his certified statement to the General Assembly.
Now, apart from the confessions of these men, extorted, so clearly, by the fear of death, and the hope of pardon, there was evidence enough to excite suspicion, and there was no more: but, the law of our country convicts no man of murder, or manslaughter, upon suspicion. I shall conclude my remarks, upon this interesting case, in the following number.