Dealings with the Dead, Volume 1 (of 2)

by Lucius M. Sargent

Let us now go to the dungeon, taking with us, of course, the newspaper, containing these living lines—these tidings of exceeding great joy. But the details of all that occurred within the prison, are related with great simplicity and power, by the good clergyman, who stood by Stephen Boorn, in his deepest need. Let Mr. Haynes, himself, describe in a few words, the effect of this communication, upon the prisoner—“Mr. Chadwick’s letter was carried to the prison, and read to Stephen. The news was so overwhelming, that, to use his own language, nature could scarcely sustain the shock; but, as there was some doubt as to the truth of the report, it tended to prevent an immediate dissolution. He observed to me, that, if Colvin had then made his appearance before him, he believed it would have caused immediate death. Even now a faintness was created, that was painful to endure.”

Not a few very charitable people, who shrink, instinctively, from the very thought of giving pain, marvelled at the cruelty of those, who presumed to raise the poor prisoner’s hopes, upon such frail and improbable grounds.

Soon, intelligence arrived in Manchester, that a Mr. Whelpley, of New York, formerly of Manchester, who knew Colvin well, having seen Mr. Chadwick’s letter, had gone to New Jersey, to settle the question of identity. This, according to Mr. Deming’s account, was done, at the instance of the city authorities of New York.

Doubt fell, fifty per cent., in the market of Manchester, when a brief letter, in the well known handwriting of Mr. Whelpley, was received, in that village, immediately upon his return to New York, containing these vital words—“I have Colvin with me!” This letter was immediately followed by another from a Mr. Rempton, who knew him well, in which he says—“while writing, Russell Colvin is before me!” The New York journals now published the notice, that Colvin had arrived, and would soon proceed to Vermont. Doubt dies hard, in the bosoms of those, whose pride of opinion forbids them to recant. Squire Raymond, and his tail, as the Scotch call a great man’s followers, could not believe the story. Their honors, who sentenced the Boorns to death, in one hour, after the verdict had been delivered—were very naturally inclined to take a longer time, for consideration, before they sentenced themselves to merited reproach, for their rash and unjustifiable conduct. Bets were made, says Mr. Haynes, that the man, on his way to Vermont, notwithstanding the positive averments of Whelpley and Rempton, was not the true Colvin, but an impostor.

Whoever he was, he was soon upon his way. He passed through Albany. The streets, says Mr. Deming, were literally crowded to get a glimpse of the man, who was dead and alive again. He passed through Troy. The Trojan horse could not have produced a greater measure of amazement, in the days of Priam. Dec. 22, he arrived with Mr. Whelpley, at Bennington. The court then in session, suspended business, to look upon him, for several hours.

Towards evening, upon that memorable day, Dec. 22, 1819, the stage was seen, driving into Manchester, and the driving was like the driving of Jehu, for it drove furiously. When the dust cleared away, sufficiently, to enable the excited population to obtain a clearer view, an unusual signal was observed floating above the advancing vehicle. A shout broke forth from the crowd—Colvin has come! Hundreds ran to their houses to communicate the tidings—Colvin has come! The stage drove up to the tavern door; and a little man, of mean appearance, and wild, disordered look, came forth into the middle of the eager multitude. His bewildered eyes turned, rapidly and feverishly, in all directions, encountering eyes innumerable, that seemed to drink him in, with the strong relish of wonder and delight. Hundreds upon hundreds pressed forward, to grasp this poor, little, demented creature, by the hand; and enough of sense and memory remained, to enable him, feebly, to return the smiles of his former neighbors, and to call them, by their names. All was uproar and frantic joy. The people of Manchester believed it to be their bounden duty to go partially mad; and they did their duty to perfection. Guns were fired, amid wild demonstrations of excitement; and Colvin was tumultuously borne to the cell of the condemned. The meeting shall be described by Mr. Haynes—“The prison door was unbolted—the news proclaimed to Stephen, that Colvin had come! The welcome reception, given it by the joyful prisoner, need not be mentioned. The chains, on his arms, were taken off, while those on his legs remained. Being impatient of an interview with him, who had come to bring salvation, they met. Colvin gazed upon the chains, and asked—‘What is that for?’—Stephen answered—‘Because, they say, I murdered you’—‘You never hurt me’—replied Colvin.”

Colvin recognized his children; but marvelled how they came in Manchester, asserting, that he left them, at the house of his kind benefactor, Mr. Polhamus, in New Jersey. Of his wife, who came to see him, he took little notice, asserting, that she did not belong to him. There may have been enough of method, in his madness, to enable him to appreciate, correctly, the value of his marital relation. The breath of Manchester may have blown the truth into his ear. An ingenious person may find some little resemblance between the wanderings of Ulysses and those of Colvin the Oudeis of Manchester—but the testimony, upon the trial, peremptorily forbids the slightest comparison, between Penelope and Mrs. Colvin, who appears not to have embarrassed her suitors, with the preliminary ordeal of the bow.

There is an admirable painting, in the Boston Athenæum, by Neagle, of Patrick Lyon, the blacksmith, who was long imprisoned, in Philadelphia, for the robbery of a bank, of which crime he was perfectly innocent, as it finally appeared, to the entire satisfaction of the government, by whom he was, consequently, discharged. Lyon is represented, at his forge; and he desired the artist to introduce the Walnut Street prison in the rear, where he had suffered, so unjustly, and so long.

The graphic hand of a master might do something here. I would pay more than I can well afford, for a couple of illustrative paintings—I. The Judges, with tears in their eyes, sentencing Stephen and Jesse to be hanged, for the murder of Colvin—the best books on evidence, before them, and open at the pages where it is expressly stated that extra-judicial confession, under fear of death, and hope of pardon, shall never be received—and the leaf turned down, at the authority of Sir Matthew Hale, that no conviction ought ever to take place, upon trials for murder and manslaughter, till the fact be clearly proven, or the dead body be discovered.

II. The dungeon, Dec. 22, 1819, just thirty-six days, before the time, appointed for the execution of Stephen—the murderer and the murdered man, standing face to face, in full life—Squire Raymond still avowing his conviction of Stephen’s guilt, and holding aloft his written confession—Judge Chace seen in the distance, burying the “certified minutes of evidence” in the very hole, pointed out, to Nathaniel Boorn, by Colvin’s ghost—and Judge Doolittle evidently regretting, that he had not done less, in this unhappy transaction, which came so near the consummation of judicial murder.