In the succeeding number, I shall endeavor to present a simple version of the motives and conduct of the parties—and some brief remarks, upon this extraordinary trial.
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.