Newspaper Page Text
From the Home Journal.
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.
BY MRS. BELL SMITH.
One Saturday afternoon, some years
since, about the bar-room of the only public
house in the little village of S , on
Lake Erie, were gathered a number of gos
siping idlers, sea-faring men and farmers.
Although early in the afternoon, the heavy
clouds of an approaching storm so darkened
the shore, that candles were lit, and in their
dim-light the gathered crowd listened to the
beating of the waves upon the beach, and the
distant roll of thunder that announced the
coming strife. It was one of those scenes
that occur when a mighty tempest comes
down on Erie’s inland sea, and the dullest
seemed struck with its impressive grandeur. ]
Sailors drank from their poisoned cups with
less noise, and the village politicians were
less absorbed in the presidential election.
One of the number seemed more uneasy than
the rest. A young man, of mild, prepos
sessing appearance, with a rifle in his hand,
and a powder horn slung over his shoulder,
for he had but a few minutes before coine in
from gunning, paced to and from the door,
looked at the troubled bay and cloudy sky,
and frequently asked an old captain of a
schooner when he would be able to sail—to
night?
“To-night? No, sir!” lie responded to
one of these inquiries; “nor to-morrow—nor
next day, 1 expect. This ’ere storm looks
as if it was goin’ to lead oft a dance for a
good many flirtin’ ones, and I don’t believe j
in puttin’ out in sich company—it corrupts
good maimers, as the savin’is. You seem to
be in a great hurry, comrade ?”
“I am. The .Spa Gull brought me ill
news from home this morning, and I will
double your passage money it you will run
me down to G to-night.”
“Not I. I wouldn’t undertake it for four
times the money.”
Silenced by this reply, the young man re
turned sadly into the house; and, sitting :
down, thrust his hands into his pockets, with
the dogged air of one who makes up his
mind to be content with a positive evil.
M W had been in S but a
few weeks, and although a stranger, had im
pressed its inhabitants favorably—so quiet, j
retiring, and, as all thought, kind was he in j
manner and disposition. The business that!
brought him to the place was by no means
settled, and the intelligence he had received |
must have been of a very pressing nature to j
make one naturally so timid anxious to brave I
a storm that caused the hardiest sailor to !
shrink from duty. He had been sitting with j
a look of gloomy discontent but a short
time, when the clatter of horses’ feet was
heard in the street, and a man, pale and trem- !
bling, stood within the door-way. His first
discordant, utterance was the word “Murder!” j
No expression of pain or terror can send the
same deathly chill to the heart as that one j
word of terrible import; and, paralyzed with j
stupid-surprise, the gathered crowd inquiring
ly gazed at the breathless messenger of evil. I
Before ho could relate what seemed to choke
Lis utterance, the sheriff of the county has
tily entered and arrested M W .
“For what?” faltered the young man.
“The murder of Millie Woods,” was the
stern reply.
It wanted only this to swell the horrible
sensation that had fallen upon the crowd.
Millie \\ oods, a little girl ten or twelve years
of age, was the only child of respectable pa
rents living within a mile of S , and in
her sprightly loveliness had won the affec
tion of all the villagers. The circumstances
attending her death were as follows: The
parents, as was frequently their custom, left
the house under the charge of Millie, and
had been, the greater part of the day, making
purchases and visiting in the village. Hurry- ■
ing home before the coming storm, the agoniz- I
ed parents found their house robbed, and their
only child brutally murdered. The news
Spread rapidly, and soon the curious and cool
er neighbors were looking carefully on all
marks the violence bad left in the premises.
The house, a large frame one, stood some
distance from the road. The front door was
found open, all the inner doors unlocked or
broken, every drawer, chest, press or cup
board forced, and their contents scattered
over the floor. In the garret, to which place
the poor little creature had probably fled,
Millie was found covered- with blood that
flowed from a stab in her side, her little hand !
grasping an old bed-post, while around her
neck a white handkerchief was slightly knot
ted.
Upon the floor of the hall, one of the
neighbors picked up a squirrel with one fore
paw gone, and its head scalped by a rifle
ball. A young man who had been chopping
wood in a neighboring grove immediately re
cognized it as one W had shot that af
ternoon ; he was by, and picking it up, re
marked to W the excellent shot. W
left him in the direction of Woods’ house,
with the squirrel in his hand. The handker
chief unwound front Millie’s neck had the
letters >i. w. in one corner. True these were
the initials of Millie’s own name, but her
mother positively avowed she owned no such
article. Satisfied with these circumstances
the officer at once arrested W . From
the time the murder was discovered to that of
W ’s arrest was just two hours.
The prisoner was hurried to the nearest
magistrate, and the evidence l have detailed,
given before him. In addition to this, spots
of fresh blood were found on his coat sleeve,
and as \\ oods had been nibbed of some gold
and silver coin, of a peculiar character, two
or three of the pieces were found upon the
unfortunate man’s person. This riveted the
final link and the crowd grew furious. Little
Millie, so good, solovedand loving,all remem
bered as a child of their own, and she to be
butchered for gold—the law seemed too slow
and mild for vengeance; and the great crowd,
now swelled to hundreds, swayed to and fro
shouting angrily for Mood.
A convict hut lately from prison, hasten
ed forward with a rope, threw it over a post,
while some of the citizens in answer to this
mute suggestion, hurried the unfortunate pris
oner towards the impromptu gallows.
“Oh, gentlemen!” screamed the young
man, frightened at what appeared his invisi
ble fate. “Have mercy upon me—l am inno
cent—indeed I am—have mercy.”
His voice was drowned in a roar from the
crowd. “Who had mercy on little Millie?
kill him, kill him!” and again they pushed
him towards the fatal post.
“Oh, God!” cried the unhappy man iq bit
ter anguish and trembling like a child ; “will
no one pity me! I have a widowed mother—
mercy, mercy—wait a little while—only a
little while.”
One alone answered this last appeal. A
young lawyer of eminent ability, and person
al popularity, sprang forward", severed the
rope, and then in a clear, silvery voice that
rung high above the tumult, said :
“My friends, be careful of your acts. You
are about to do what in this man you con
demn—an awful murder. Chain him down,
do what you will to secure the criminal, but
respect the law —”
“And give Squire B —a chance to clear
him,” interrupted the convict I have men
tioned.
“To that man, fresh from the cells, I have
nothing to say. But to you, my companions,
neighbors, I appeal—earnestly appeal. Mby |
will you do this cruel thing? What right
have you to commit a murder ? How will
you answer to the great Giver of all good for
this ? Where is your authority ?”
“He whoso sheddeth man’s blood by man
shall liis blood be shed,” responded a harsh,
solemn voice, and the crowd turning, saw, j
where a torch waved over a stem, unfeeling
face, the countenance of their preacher ! It
was a time when the gathered feeling, check
ed by some great obstacle, pauses in its rash
career, and for a moment there seems a doubt
which way the tide will flow. The awful
passage so solemnly quoted, fell on the crowd
at that moment, when the - slightest word
would have turned them from their b ur P ose > i
and, stimulated as it seemed to them by a
command from Heaven, they once more seiz
ed their trembling captive, when the old cap
tain whom W had importuned for a pas
sage, claimed to he heard:
“Comrades,” said he, “Squire B thinks
we hadn’t ought to hang this fellow. W ell.
I’ll tell you what we’ll do. He wanted to sail
with me this day. He shall do so. We’ll !
take him outside the Bay—lay him in an open
boat, and set him adrift. Then the Lord have
mercy on him. What say you ?”
A shout of approbation was the response,
and they hurried YY to the shore. In
the* meanwhile the storm grew loud, and
when, in the dark night, their torches beaten
out by wind and rain, the great crowd heard the j
angry waves dashing over the rude pier, their
courage failed, and seven only were found ;
ready for the enterprise. Clambering upon
the deck, with their victim in their midst, the
cables were cut and the little bark, like a
frightened bird, flew out to sea.
Perhaps no scene ever painted itself on the
canvass of real life so startling, weird and
strange as this. While the stout-hearted
skipper steered the bark, the convict, assisted j
by four of his companions, tied W to :
the open boat, and the preacher, kneeling up
on the deck, was heard between the pauses
of the thunder, far above waves and wind, j
calling upon Heaven to bless their unholy ;
act.
The open lake was gained and the wretch- :
ed man, regardless of his entreaties and
screams, was given to the foaming waters.
In a glare of lightning, that was followed by
a deafening [teal of thunder, they saw their j
victim rise upon a huge wave, then plunge in- j
to darkness and death beyond.
Short time had the executioners to dwell
upon their ruthless deed. Their lives were j
in jeopardy. A storm so violent has seldom ;
been equalled, and the little craft was work- j
ed, save the skipper, by unskillful hands, j
Desperate efforts were made to regain the
Bay, but the entrance was narrow and intri
cate, while commands, grossly misunderstood,
were promptly executed, so that the bark ran
upon a ledge of rocks and quickly went to
pieces. Two only of its strange crew were
saved—the clergyman and the convict to
gether reached the shore.
Some three years after these strange events,
the Rev. Mr. II was awakened one night
by a request to come immediately, and ad
minister religious consolation to a prisoner,
who, in attempting an escape from jail, had
been mortally wounded by the sentinel on du
ty. The Rev. gentleman folding his cloak
about him, and accompanied by the jailor,
threaded his way through snow and sleet to
the prison.
They found the prisoner writhing in pain
upon his bed in the gloomy cell, lit by a diin
candle, and alone, for the surgeon had pro
nounced his case hopeless.
“You’ve come at last,” he growled, as the
clergyman, approaching his bed, took from
beneath his cloak a book# and began the du
ties pertaining to his sacred mission. “You’ve
come at last; I thought I’d go down before
you got here.”
“May you be spared for repentance; let
us lose no time.” •
.“Noyou don’t! I’m bound to go down—
down. Don’t be fooling—l didn’t send for
that.”
“The sands of life are running fast. In a
few moments you will he in the presence of
your Judge, and repentance then will be of
no avail.” . ;
“It will not avail me now,” said the criminal. 1
“Think of your past life—think of the pun
ishment that is to follow.”
The answer to this was a frantic roar of
laughter, that made even the jailor’s blood
tingle with alarm.
“I will not remain,” said Mr. II stern
ly, “and hear this awful mockery. 1 warn
you now—beware !”
“Well, listen then—don’t you know me ?”
The clergyman held the candle to the con
vict’s face, and started frith astonishment. j
“Oh! you know me, do you ? You re
member the night we tossed W over
board—how he prayed ? Oh, ho! look to I
yourself!”
“I did mv duty.”
“Ha, ha! you did, did you? You did
your duty in drowning a poor fellow for a
murder he never committed!”
A tremor like an ague ran through the lis
tener’s frame, and there he stood as one dis
mayed.
“He never did the deed; I murdered Mil
lie Woods—l chased her to the garret and
killed her. I was there robbing the house I
when \\ came. I heard him speak
cheerily to the child, give her the squirrel,
and then leave. A minute after that, she was
a dead baby, and W had the blame.”
“Lord, have mercy upon me!” groaned the
divine, in an agony of spirit.
“1 slipped the gold pieces into his pocket.
How he prayed and begged for mercy ! It’s
our turn now ! L don’t beg—l won’t—l’ll
die as I have lived—but you can howl. He
had a widowed mother. We all went under—
but you and I, parson, came up together— !
now we go down—down—down!” The
voice ceased—a shudder ran through his iron
frame, and the wretched criminal was no
more. * * * * * *
In time, the village of S grew to a
city. Many of its old citizens had emigrated,
or were dead, and among the remaining, the
events I have narrated had faded almost into
an uncertain legend, when, one sunny after
noon, an elderly gentleman of staid, respect
able appearance, accompanied by his wife
and children, made his way from the evening
steamer, to one of the principal hotels. Af
ter securing rooms he walked into the streets.
He earnestly scanned the signs as he passed.
He stopped belore one that read “Attorney
at-law he paused, and then, with a start as
if the determination had a spice of the desper
ate in it, he ascended the stairs and entered
the olfice. An elderly man, with a bald
head and wrinkled face, was seated at a ta
ble surrounded by books and papers. Invi
ting the new comer to be seated, lie peered at
him through his spectacles, and inquired his
l business.
“Mr. B , you do uot remember me ?”
“I cannot say that I do,” answered the at
torney, slowly, as if in doubt.
“Do you not remember pleading in behalf
of a poor fellow, about being lynched tor a
murder some thirty years since I”
“Mr. M—*— W !” exclaimed the law
yer joyfully. “Can it be possible ? I never
forget a face, and yours I saw in a frame- j
work that night that ought to impress it upon
my memory forever. But I thought you dead
years ago. Sit down—sit down, and tell me
all.”
“After I was thrown from the vessel that
night,” said W , seating himself, “I was
so frightened that for some time I had no con
sciousness of what occurred. On becoming
more collected, I found my little boat, half
filled with water, riding the short heavy
waves, and every second I expected to go un
der, or be capsized, and so drown. This not
occurring, I began to look about me. I
found the cord by which I was tied passed
over my shoulder. I managed to get it in my
mouth, and soon gnawed it apart. This
loosened my hands, so that in a few minutes
I freed myself and sat up. With an old cup
that I found in the boat, I baled out the wa
ter, and then breaking up one of the seats I
managed the little affair so as to ship no
more of the waves, and in this way rode out
the storm and the night.
“By morning the wind had somewhat sub
sided, but so exhausted was I by fear and fa
tigue, that I was forced to lie down, and
soou was sound asleep. When I awakened
the sun was setting, and as far as I could see
on every side, was a dreary waste of waters.
Strange as it may sound, I was greatly re
lieved” I feared nothing so much as falling
again into the hands of that terrible mob.
“The full moon came out, making the scene
light almost as day, and, a gentle breeze
springing up, I took my coat, fastened it on
the broken seat, and with this for a sail, drif
ted, near as I could make out by the stars, in
a north-easterly direction. I knew, sooner
or later, I must strike the Canada shore, but
how I had been carried in the storm, I could
not of course determine. Through that long
night f floated on. I saw the moon go down
and the stars fade into the cold gray light of
morning, and then the sun came up with the
clear, calm day, but no land could be seen—
nothing but glittering water. I imagined at
one time seeing in the dim distance a sail,
but if one, it immediately disappeared. About
noon I noticed something floating near me,
and on paddling my boat along side, found it
a bale of goods carefully corded together. 1
fastened it, almost without motive, to my
boat, and again lying down was soon asleep.
1 was awakened by a shout, and starting up,
found I was running in close to a wooded
shore, and a number of men staring in won
der at my appearance. In answer to my re
quest, one of them waded in and pulled my
boat to the land. I learned, to my great re
lief, that I had reached the Canada side, with
in a few miles of . It was supposed
that I had been shipwrecked, to which my
bale of goods at once gave coloring, and se
cured for me a kind reception. On open
ing this bale next day, I found it filled with
costly silks and velvets, and so admirably
packed the water had not damaged them.
This had probably been lost from some
wreck in the late storm, and noting the ad
dress with intention of repayment some day,
1 sold the contents, and with the proceeds
made my way to New York, where I, after
my mother’s death, joined an expedition fit
ting out for ,in South America. In this
new home I married, and engaged in mer
chandise. There I lived until I learned, a
I few months since, my innocence of that cru
: cl deed had been made known by the confes
sion of the real criminal.”
When he had finished recounting his
strange escape, the lawyer rising abruptly
caught him by the arm and pointed to the
open window. They looked and saw a gaunt
figure, with sunken eyes, pale cheeks and
long gray hair, in the gloom of the evening,
move silently along.
“That,” said the lawyer, “is Mr. II .
Since the night of the criminal’s confession
his intellect, never very strong, has been a
complete wreck. Every evening he wan
ders to the lake. If stormy, no entreaties
: can induce him to seek a shelter, but, hour
after hour, he paces the shore, as if every mo
ment he expected some revelation from its
troubled waters.”
j Expounding the Law.—A Scotchman
called at the house of lawyer Fletcher, of Ly
don, \ ermont, to consult that legal gentle
man professionally. “Is the Squeer at
home ?” he enquired of the lawyer’s lady,
who opened the door at his summons, lie
was answered negatively.
Disappointment was now added to the tri
als of Scotia’s son, but after a moment’s con
sideration, anew thought relieved him.
“Mebby yourself can gie me the necessary in
formation as weel as the Squeer—seein’ as
ye’re his wife.”
The kind lady readily promised to do so,
j if, on learning the nature of his difficulty, she
; found it in her power, and the other proceed
ed to state the case as follows:
“Spoae ye was an auld white mear, and I
should bony ye te gang to mill, with a grist
on yer back, an’ we should get no farder
than Stair hill, when, all at woonce, ye should
back up, and rear up, and pitch up, and keel
down backwards, and break year darned old
neck, who’d pay for ye ? not I, dearn me if I
would!”
The lady smilingly told him, as she closed
the door, that as he had himself passed sen
tence on the case, advice would be entirely
superfluous.
A Quiet Mediator. —A young English
man, while at Naples, was introduced at an
Assembly of one of the first ladies, by a Nea
politan gentleman. While he was there, his
snuff-box was stolen from his pocket. The
next day, being at another house, he saw a
person taking snuff out of liis box. He ran
i to his friend.
’ “There,” said he, “that man in blue, with
gold embroidery, is taking snuff’ out of the
box stolen from me yesterday. Do vou
know him ? Is he not a sharper ?”
“Take care,” said the other, “that man is
of the first quality.”
“I do not care for his quality,” said the
Englishman, “I must have my snuff-box
again. I will go and ask for it.”
“Brav, be quiet,” said his friend, “and
leave it to me to get back your box.”
Upon this answer the Englishman went
away, after inviting his friend to dine with
him the next day. He accordingly came,
and as he entered, said:
“There, I have brought you your snuff
box.”
“Well, how did you obtain it ?”
“Why, I did not wish to make any noise
about it, and so I picked his pocket of it!” ’
Os all the melancholy sights, a bachelor’s
home is the most so. A house without a woman,
is like a world without a sky, or a sky without a
star—dark, desolate and dreary. With the ex
j ception of the lady who “milked the cow with
I the crumpled horns,” we know of nothing more
forlorn and melancholy.
THE WEBSTER TRIAL..
It was our intention, to have resumed this week, the
narration of the most of the testi
mony in this painfully interesting case, hut its termin
ation in the conviction of the Prisoner, as well as the
press of other matter,’ induces us to omit it. Speak
ing of the trial, the Baltimore Sun says:
Few can contemplate this remarkable case, one of
the most startling in the annals of American Juris
prudence, without an appalling sense of the terrible
consequence of crime. Our pity fur the victim and
the afflicted family deprived of his love and care, is
almost totally absorbed by the extraordinary develope
ments attending the detection of the murderer ; and
here again, the utterances of indignant reproach against
the perpetrator of the fearful crime, are restrained by
those sympathies of our nature which are awakened
amidst the deep anguish in which an amiable family
is involved.
But the law, that law without which society would
recede into barbarism, is above our sympathies. It
exacts the penalty of life for life, on the conviction of
guilt. The jury in the present case have declared
that the guilt is proved as charged in the indictment.
The court approves the finding of the jury, and the
law will take its course.
Speaking of the verdict, the same paper says: The
combination of chances upon which alone we could
predicate the innocence of the prisoner, would almost
j ustify a conclusion that the formation of the world
was the effect of chance. To admit the vague possi
bility of innocence in the face of such a consistent
and methodical array of facts as that presented by the
prosecution, would be to afflict society with painful
uncertainty in relation to the force of evidence and the
power of truth.
We give below the closing scenes of this trial. Af
ter the argument by counsel had been concluded, the
prisoner obtained permission to address the court and
jury-
He commenced in rather a confused manner with
out addressing, directly, either bench or jury, and said:
I have desired to enter into an explanation of
the complicated net-work of circumstances
which by my peculiar position, the Government
has thrown around me, and which in nine cases
out of ten, are completely distorted, and prob
ably nine-tenths of which could be satisfactorily
explained. All the points of the testimony have
been placed in the hands of my counsel, by whom
my innocence could have been firmly estab
lished.
Acting entirely under their direction, I have
sealed my lips during my confinement, trusting
myself entirely to them—they have not deemed
it necessary, in their superior wisdom, to bring
forward the evidence which was to exonerate
me from a variety of these acts. The Govern
ment have brought whatever consummate ingen
uity could suggest against me, and I hope it will
not have an undue influence upon the jury. I
will not allude to many of the charges. There
is one which touches me, and that is the letter
which has been produced, stating that I had, af
ter the disappearance of Dr. P., purchased a
quantity of oxalic acid to remove the stains of
blood, and it instantly occurred to me that this
parcel might be saved and produced when neces
sary.
For several days Mrs. W. had requested me
to purchase some acid for domestic use, and my
wife had repeatedly laughed at me because I
had not purchased it. I had borne it in mind that
afternoon, and had gone into Thayers store un
der the Revere House, made the purchase,
waited till the Cambridge Hourly came along,
and then jumped into the omnibus with the bun
dle. I went home and gave the bundle to my
wife, and when afterward, I heard so much said
about the bundle, it flashed on my mind in a mo
ment that this must be it. It was not to this bun
dle, and not to any document that I referred in
the direction of my wife.
As regards the nature of copper—in the usual
lectures preceding my arrest, 1 had occasion to
use the influence of chemical agents in produ
cing changes of various subjects—among others,
upon gases. I prepared a large quantity of ox
alic acid gas, a gallon jar was filled with gas in
order to produce the changes from dark color to
orange, and also in air, on great heat being ap
plied to the jar. The gas was drawn through
water. As to the nitrate of copper spilt on the
stairs and floor of the laboratory, it was spilt ac
cidentally from a quantity, and by me, in my
lectures between the day of Dr. P.’s disappear
ance and my own arrest. So I might go on in
explaining a variety of circumstances which
have been distorted.
My counsel have pressed me to keep calm—
my very calmness has been made to hear against
j me; but my trust has been in my God and my
j own innocence. In regard to the money I must
i say a word. The money which I paid Dr. P. on
■ the afternoon of Friday, Nov. 23d, I had saved
j up from time to time and kept it in a trunk in
| my house in Cambridge, but, unfortunately, no
; one ever saw me take it; therefore, I can only
! give my word that such is the fact. Several
: years ago I had students, who were in the habit
| of being in my laboratory, and who injured my
| apparatus; therefore, I prepared every thing for
my own use in my lectures with my own hands
—and that is the reason why I excluded persons
from my laboratory.
As regards my whereabouts from the hour of
Dr. P.’s disappearance, 1 have put into my coun
sel’s hands satisfactory information, which will
account for every day I had spent during that
week, for every day and every hour. I never
was absent from home. As to being seen by Mr.
1 Sanderson, I was at home every evening.
One thing that has been omitted by my counsel
was that on the Friday on which the alleged
murder was said to have been committed, I had
purchased Humboldt’s new work, “Cosmos,” and
while waiting for an omnibus, stepped into
Brigham’s to take a mutton chop, and on com
ing-out to take the omnibus, had forgotten my
book, but after my arrest, remembered the place
j where I left it, and mentioned it to my counsel.
1 They sent to Mr. Brigham’s, and the book had
| been found.
I He then took his seat, but in a moment rose
i and said:
I will say one word more; I have felt very
much distressed by, the of those an-
I onymous letters; nukes* than by any thing that
has occurred during I call my God to
witness, that if it of my life, I
would say that I never wrote tlrose letters.
Since the trial commenced, a letter has been
received from this very “Civis” by one of my
counsel. If the person has a spark of humanity,
I call upon him to come forward—a notice to this
effect has been put in the papers.
Prof. W. having said this, sat down. A deep
impression was made upon the jury, the court,
and the spectators, by the solemn earnestness
exhibifed by the prisoner in his remarks.
The Verdict.
At twenty minutes before 11 o’clock there was
a movement at the door of the Supreme Court
Room, and presently a number of gentlemen
came in, and among them the counsel for the
prisoner, Charles Summer, Chas. T. Jackson,
Judge Bigelow, N. J. Bowditch, and a number
! of members of the Bar, Policemen and Clergy
men. The galleries being crowded to excess.
In about five minutes after, Prof. Webster
came in, in charge of a constable, and took his
seat in the dock. His appearance was un
changed, except that serious dejectedness was
apparent in the contraction of the muscles about
the mouth.
The court came in in five minutes after. The
clerk of the court, Mr. Willard, then said, ad
dressing the Jury, “Mr. Byron, foreman, have
you agreed upon your verdict?” Mr. Byron,
foreman of the jury, bowed assent The Clerk
“John W. Webster, hold up your right hand.”
The prisoner arose and looked steadily and in
tently upon the foreman of the jury. The Clerk
‘Air. Foreman, look upon the prisoner; prisoner,
look upon the jury.”
Prof. W ebster still maintained his intense look
upon the foreman of the jury. The Clerk con
tinued, “Y\ hat do you say, Mr. Foreman—is the
prisoner at the bar Guilty or Not Guilty ?”
“GUILTY!” was the solemn response.
The hand of the prisoner, which had hitherto
been held erect, fell to the bar in front of him
with a deadly sound, as if he had lost all muscu- \
lar action, and his head dropped upon his breast. !
He soon sat down, his limbs seeming to give evi
deuce of failing. He put his hands to hie face,
and was observed to rub his eyes.
He then closed his eyelids and bowed his
head down towards the court. Mr. Byron, the
foreman of the jury, at the same time held his
hand before his eyes, as if overcome by the pain
ful duty he had” to perform. An unbroken si
lence ensued, in which the court, the jut) and
spectators seemed to be absorbed in their own
reflections.
The appearance of the prisoner at this time
was painful to contemplate; his eyes were closed,
and a deep sigh denoted the load of inexpressi
ble anguish on his soul, and the crushing blow
that had fallen upon him.
Chief Justice Shaw broke the silence and sus
pense by dismissing the jury in a voice trembling
with emotion, and requested their attendance
on the court at 9 o’clock on Monday morning.
Mr. Merrick, the prisoner’s counsel, then went
into the prisoner’s dock, and spoke a few words
in his ear, and soon after the order was given by
the court that the prisoner should be remanded;
which was done, after the gallery had been clear
ed by the officers. The whole proceedings did not
occupy more than twelve minutes, and was a
scene never to be forgotten by those who were
present.
The verdict was received by the crowd out
side with not a few expressions of regret Af
ter the spectators had been dispersed from the
court house, the prisoner was removed by the
officers to the Leverett street jail, to await his
sentence.
Monday, April 1.
At 5 minutes past 9 o’clock the prisoner was
brought into the court room by officer Jones.
His appearance indicated much mental suffer
ing, but he attempted to appear calm.
The Attorney General moved that the sen
tence of the law be pronounced upon the priso
ner. His language was feeling and pathetic.
Chief Justice Shaw then asked the prisoner if
he had any thing to say why the sentence of the
law should not be pronounced. The prisoner
signified that he had nothing to say. The
Judge then in a very feeling manner proceeded
to give the sentence of the law as follows:
The Sentence.
John \V. Webster: In meeting you here for
the last time, to pronounce that sentence which
the law has affixed to this high offence of which
you stand convicted, it is impossible for lan
guage to give utterance to the “deep conscious
ness of responsibility, to the keen sense of sad
ness and sympathy with which we approach
this solemn duty. Circumstances, which all
who hear me will duly appreciate, and which it.
may seem hardly fit to allude to more in detail, j
render the performance of this duty on the pre- ;
sent occasion unspeakably painful.
At all times, and under all circumstances, a j
feeling of indescribable solemnity attaches to the
utterance of the stern voice of retributive justice,
which consigns a fellow being to an untimely
and ignominious death, but when we consider
all the circumstances.*)!’ your past life, your va
rious relations to society, the claims upon you
by others, the hopes and expectations you have
cherished, with your present condition and the
ignominious death which awaits you, we are
oppressed with grief and anguish, and nothing
but a sense of imperative duty imposed on us
by the law whose officers and ministers we are,
could sustain us in pronouncing such a judg
ment against the crime of wilful murder, of
which you stand convicted; a crime at which
| humanity shudders; a crime every where, and
under all forms of society, regarded with the
deepest abhorrence.
The law has pronounced its severest penalty
in these few and simple but solemn and im
pressive words. “Every person who shall com
mit the crime of murder shall suffer the pun
ishment of death for the same.”
The manifest object of this law is the protec
tion and security of human life, the most impor
tant object of a just and paternal government.
It is made the duty of this Court to declare this
penalty against any one who shall have been
found guilty in due course of the administration
of justice, of having violated the law.
It is one of the most solemn acts of judicial
power which an earthly tribunal can be called
upon to exercise. It is a high and exemplary
manifestation of the sovereign authority of the
law, as well in its stern and inflexible severity, i
as in its protecting and paternal benignity.
It punishes the guilty with severity in order
i that the right to the enjoyment of life, the most
| precious of all rights, may be more effectually
j secured.
j By the record before us, it appears that you
j have been indicted by the grand jury of this
j count y for the crime of murder, alleging that on
! the 23d of November last, you made an assault
1 on the person of Dr. George Parkman, and by
| acts of violence, deprived him of life, with mal
i ice aforethought.
This is alleged to have been done within the
j apartment of a public institution in this city—
I the Medical College—of which you were pro
j fessor and instructor, upon the person of a man
l of mature age, well known, and of extensive
connexions in this community, and a benefac
tor of that institution.
The charge of an offence so aggravated, un
der such circumstances, in the midst of a peace
ful community, created an instantaneous out
burst of surprise, alarm and terror, and was fol
lowed by a universal and intense anxiety to
learn, by the results of a judicial proceeding,
whether this charge rvas true.
The day of trial came. A Court was organ
ized to conduct it. A jury, almost of your own
choosing, was selected in a manner best calcu
lated to insure intelligence and impartiality.
Counsel were appointed to assist you in con
ducting your defence, and who have done all
that learning, eloquence and skill could accom
plish in presenting your defence in its best as
pects.
Avery large number of witnesses were care
fully examined, and after a very laborious trial
of unprecedented length, conducted as we hope,
with patience and fidelity, that jury have pro
nounced you guilty. To this verdict, upon a
careful revision of the whole proceedings, I am
constrained to say, in behalf of the Court, that
they can see no just or legal ground of excep
tion.
Guilty! How much, under all these thrilling
circumstances which cluster around the case,
and throng our memories in the retrospect, does
this single word impart! The wilful, violent
and malicious destruction of the life of a fellow
man, in the face of God and under the protec
tion of the law. Yes, of one in the midst of
life, with bright hopes, warm affections, mutual
attachments, strong, extensive and numerous
friends, making life a blessing to himself and
others. ,
We allude thus to the injury you have inflict
! ed, not for the purpose of awakening one unne
cessary pang in a heart already lacerated, but
to remind you of the irreparable wrong done to
the victim of your cruelty. In sheer justice to
him whose voice is now hushed in death, and
whose wrong can only be vindicated by the liv
ing actions of the law.
If, therefore, you may at any moment think
your case a hard one, and your punishment too
; heavy—if one repining thought arises in your
| mind, or one murmuring word seeks utterance
from your lips, think, oh think, of him instantly
j deprived of life by your guilty hand; then, if
not lost to all sense of retributive justice, if you
have any compunctious visitmgs of conscience,
i you may be ready to exclaim, in the bitter an
; guish of truth, “I have sinned against heaven
and my own soul. My punishment is just. God
i be merciful to me, a sinner.”
God grant that your example may afford a
j solemn warning to all, especially to the young.
! May it impress on every mind the salutary les
son it is intended to teach ; to guard against the
i indulgence of unhallowed or vindictive passions, ,
; and to resist temptation to any and every sel
j fish, sordid and wicked purpose—to listen to j
the warning of conscience and yield to the plain j
dictate of duty; and while they instinctively ;
shrink with abhorrence from the first thoughts j
of assailing the life of another, may they learn j
i to reverence the laws of God and of society, de- 1
; signed to secure protection to their own.
We forbear, for obvious considerations, from j
j adding such words of adxdce as may be some
j times thought appropriate on occasions like this.
It has commonly been our province, on occa
sions like the present, to address the illiterate,
the degraded, the outcast, whose early life has
been cast among the vicious, the neglected, the
abandoned, who have been blessed with no 1
moral or religious culture, who have never re- ! <
ceived the benefits of cultivated society, nor the
sweet and ennobling influences of home. 1
To such a one a word of advice upon an oc- 1
casion so impressive, may be a word fitly spo- i ■
ken, and turned to good account; but in a case
like this, when those circumstances are all re-j
moved, no word of ours could be more effica
cious than the suggestions of your own better
thoughts, to which we commend you. But, as
w'e appioach this last sad duty of pronouncing
sentence, which is indeed the voice of the law”,
and not our own, in giving it utterance we can
not do it with a feeling of indifference as a for
mal and official act.
God forbid that we should be prevented from
indulging and expressing these irrepressible feel
ings of interest, sympathy and compassion which
arise spontaneously in our hearts, and we do
most sincerely and cordially deplore the distress- j
ing condition into which crime has brought you; j
and though we have no word of present conso
lation, or one earthly hope to offer you, in this
hour of your affliction, yet we devoutly com
mend you to the mercy of our Heavenly Father,
with whom is abundance of mercy, and from
whom we may all hope for pardon and peace.
And now nothing remains but the solemn du
ty of pronouncing the sentence which the law
affixes to the crime of murder, of which you
! stand convicted; which sentence is, that you,
John W. Webster, be removed from this place,
and detained in close custody in the prison of
this county, and be thence taken, at such time
as the Executive Government ot this eommon-
I wealth may by their warrant appoint, to the
j place of execution, and there be hung by the
j neck until you are dead—And may God, in his
j infinite goodness, have mercy upon your soul.
Upon hearing the last of the above words, the
j prisoner sunk heavily upon his seat, and incli
! ned his head upon the bar. He wept in agony.
His emotions were extremely violent, and his
j sobs could be distinctly heard in any part of the
Court room; but in a few moments he summon
ed his usual fortitude and became more calm.
A large number of those present were deeply
affected, even to tears. An awful silence reign
ed for a few moments in the room, and the eyes
of hundreds were bent upon the prisoner; who
now sat upright with fixed gaze upon the bench.
A suppressed whisper went through the crowd,
in anxious enquiry respecting the prisoner, but
silence being gained, the Judge placed the pris
j oner in charge of the sheriff. At half past nine j
| the prisoner was ordered to be remanded, and !
j was led from the room by officer Jones.
The main body of the Courthouse, the galle- j
ries, the halls and entries were crowded by an j
anxious concourse of people who rushed from j
the building, anxious to get another look at the
prisoner.
Dining the delivery of the sentence, the crowd
were remarkably quiet, and retired deeply im
pressed with the awful solemnity of the scene. ;
A telegraphic despatch to the Sun says:
It is understood that the jury after going out
on Saturday night, at first deliberated in silence
for ten minutes, then voted on the question
whether the remains were those of Dr. Park
man. There was a unanimous yea.
On the second whether. Webster
committed the murder ap'hefe were eleven yeas
and one nay. The narcame from Mr. Benj. 11.
Greene lie stated his point of doubt, and after
some discussion, he declared it was removed.
The family of Webster was not informed of
the A'erdict on the night it was rendered. Some
friends, however, undertook the task of prepar
ing their minds tor it. The awful disclosure
was made to them on Sunday morning, by Mrs.
Win. E. Prescott. The scene was most heart
rending. Every effort has been made by their
friends to assuage the grief of the afflicted wife
1 and daughters, who, up to a late hour, confident
ly expected an acquittal.
A letter of condolence was presented to them or.
Sunday afternoon, signed by the heads of all the
: principal families of Cambridge, including Hon.
! Edward Everett, Jared Sparks, Prof. Morton,
: Judge Fay, &c. Judge Fay gave it up, that his
friend Webster was a guilty man , after hear
ing his own speech on Saturday evening.
From the Alabama Planter.
Varieties of Cotton.
Messrs. Editors:—The vast importance
of Cotton as the great leading staple of
Southern product, has created an interest in
the different varieties of the plant, and some
| considerable pains have been taken to pro
duce new kinds, or introduce into notice and
use those that have been discovered, and
among these efforts some little humbug has
no doubt crept in also. From what has oc-
I curred, we may safely consider the middle
1 and southern portions of Alabama and the
; corresponding latitudes of this continent
; along the Atlantic and the Gulf, at a small
i distance from and parallel to them, as the
true land of the short staple cotton in its va
j rieties of Green Seed, Mexican, Petit Gulf,
: Mastodon, and their cognate varieties, yet,
j from causes I think not at till difficult, at
i least in part, to explain, till are satisfied, who
j have not noticed the subject, that instead of
i improvement, there is a manifest tendency
!to deterioration in the article, both in pro
; duct and quality.
I propose to suggest a few of the reasons
| and some of the remedies, and among them,
! perhaps, stands first the use of defective seed.
We rarely succeed even in picking a lot of
j superior early cotton separately into one
house, and even if we do it, it has all the
; small defective lower bolls of inferior quali
ty, both as to size and staple, in it. But
when we come to ginning, the evil is still
: further increased by the ginning together in
one heap, most commonly, early and late,
good and bad, and then from this mixture of
j all sorts our seed is promiscuously taken up bv
a negro who neither knows nor cares anything
! about the subject, and were he ever so capa
! ble, it would be impossible for him to make
any judicious selection. To this is added the
fact, that very frequently, especially in early
planted cotton, the most full and perfect seeds
j that vegetate soonest and send up the most
early and vigorous plants are, by frost, cold,
wet and insects, destroyed, and to get a stand,
we must fain content ourselves with any poor,
sickly plant we can get. Thus, from year to
year, we propagate a still more sickly and a
1 still more weak and degenerate race of plants,
1 until it is a wonder that it does not run out
entirely. True it is, that some few planters
do take a little pains to keep separate some
particular lot of cotton for planting seed, and
this plan, with all its defects, is amply reward
ed, but it is very defective still, as is evinced
by its results.
But this is not all. It is not sufficient that
we pay no attention to where the seed we
plant is grown, what its quality—whether im
mature or perfect, degenerated or improved.
We add to the absurdities and errors on this
subject, still another gross one. From year
to year we plant cotton on the same land, re
gardless ot the well known fact, that in time, j
the qualities in any soil adapted to the best
development ot any plant are so exhausted
that they can no longer be procured by it in
sufficient quantity for that purpose, and the
plant must degenerate; the soil being, by the
lessened quantity of the necessary ingredi- j
ents, unfit for the perfection of that plant, it
ceases to thrive upon it. This is familiarly ;
illustrated by the appearance at times upon 1
the commons and open plaees, of certain
weeds that for a time cast all others out, and
usurp the domain exclusively, and to appear
ance, have fixed their abode permanently
upon it, to the exclusion of all others. In a
year or two, from the highest luxuriance, we
see them dwindle and soon disappear, giving
place to one requiring other substances for
its nourishment. Probably it is much weak
er than its predecessor, but the characteris
tics of the soil favor it, and it roots out the
stronger, and occupies the place of it for Un
allotted time, when it must give way to an
other. Again: destroy a forest of old and
long standing trees, and it is sure to be, if
left to the course of nature, succeeded by one
of a quite different character, and requiring
a different kind or different proportions of
materials for its production. Yet from year
to year we plant cotton on the same field,
alternated, it is true, once in a while, with
corn and peas, and thus robbing it gradually
ot all power to produce either, or at best,
weak and degenerated specimens of them.
From these causes arises the constant ten,
dency in all the improved new and boasted
varieties of cotton to degenerate. It is true,
that some peculiar soils and localities are
better adapted to cotton, as well as other
plants than others are, yet no one at all con
versant with the subject can have failed to
notice the fact
In the one case, nature herself so clearly
points to a greater variety and rotation of
crops, as a remedy, that no observant enqui
rer can mistake her teachings. Thev are’
clear, unequivocal and uniform. The proper”
choice of seed, however, makes another con,
dition to the successful development of~
plants. Experience has proved beyond ques
tion that to this end, the choice of good and”
| perfect seed, well selected, is absolutely re
: quisite. This, in cotton, is perhaps more*
difficult than in almost anything else, and I
j suggest for your readers, what appears to*
j me would be the best plan that has occurred
i to me for attaining the end.
Let the owner, overseer, or some trusty,-
I experienced hand, of good judgment, and se
! looted for the purpose, before the general
j picking, go into the best and most fully devel
oped fields or spots of cotton in the planta
i tion, and then from the select stalks, pick the
I select bolls, going on in this way, at least, un
i til he has picked enough to plant so much us
: will make seed the next year, and so annual
jly proceed. Doubtless, it would be better to
j pick of these “select bolls” from “select stalks”
! sufficient for the whole planting every year,
but I can hardly expect to induce the go
ahead cotton planters of Georgia, Alabama
! and Mississippi to take so much pains as all
’ that, though I think they would be well paid
for the trouble. But perhaps some may
adopt the modified plan proposed, the experi
ence of which may induce them to carry out
the whole.
! It is true, that in the first curse pronounced
upon our race, and on the earth, on account
of the race, that the necessary tendency to
deterioration of valuable products was pro
bably included, as well as the spontaneous
or natural growth of useless or noxious ones;
yet experience has proved, that by labor and
care, the toil of man can at least amelio
j rate this tendency very much in other products,
j and why not in cotton, especially in this clime
: and locality, by nature the most favorable to
j it that is known.
I believe that if this plan were judicions
; ly and perseveringly carried out, the sale
of cotton seed by quart, pint, gill or 100
; seeds, would end, and with it the many loss*
j es, disappointments and vexations connect
ed with it. There would be a limit to Imm
! bug as well as to unnecessary expense for
that which is really valuable, but which the
j purchaser could gs well have produced him*
j self, and which must degenerate in his hand?,
! if lie does not bestow, to some extent, that
j care which produced the original. To per
fect the system of improvement, or at least
j preservation, it is absolutely requisite that a
1 judicious change or rotation of crops he pur
| sued. We may, with some degree of im
punity, again and again tax the energies of
a virgin soil to produce in succession the
same crop, but they will give way, and de
feat must he the result of such ili directed
efforts if long continued. We are now sore
ly experiencing this evil already in Alabama
and Mississippi, and wisdom bids us sevk a
; remedy. 11 any thing is better than prop
er rotations of crops and judicious manuring,
I know not what it is; and until better rem
odics tor the deterioration and decrease of
cotton crops are given, I would recommend
care in the selection of seed, proper changes
! ot crops, and good manuring, as remedies
worth trying. Sumter.
Pat’s Boots.—The Newark (N. J.) Mercury
j says: We heard a good one of a green sprig
j from the Emerald Isle, who, the other day, en
tered a boot and shoe store to purchase himself
a pair ot “brogues.” After overhauling hi 6 stock
! in trade, without being able to suit bis customer,
the store-keeper hinted that he would make him
! a pair to order.
“And what will yer ax ov me to make a good
j pair iv them was the query.
The price was then named; the Irishman de
i marred ; hut after “bating down,” the thing was
■j a trade. Paddy was about’ leaving the store,
when the other called after him, asking:
“But what size shall I make them, sir V 1
“Oh!” cried Paddy, promptly, “make them as
; large as ye conxaniently can for the money /”
j At a very excellent hotel, not a hundred
j miles from our parts, they were one day
j short of a waiter, when a newly arrived Hi
• bernian was hastily made to supply the
j place of a more expert hand.
“Now, Barney,” says mine host, “mind
you serve every man with soup, any how,”
“Be dad I’ll do the same,” said the alert
Barney. Soup came on the start, and Bar
, | ney after helping all but one guest, came
, upon the last one.
’ j “Soup, sir ?” said Barney.
“No soup for me,” said the gent,
j “But you must have it,” said Barney, “it
is the rules of the house.”
— ll die house,” exclaimed the guest,
highly exasperated; “when I don’t want
soup, I won t eat it—get along with you.”
“Well,” said Barney, with solemnity, “all
I can say is just this: it’s the regulations of
the house, and damn the drop else ye'll get
till ye finish the soup.”
The traveller gave in, and the soup wae
gobbled.
Irish and Dutch.—lt is generally admitted!
that the Irish are most famous for making bulls
! but we think the Dutch can go ahead for making
pigs—for instance:
I’ve got a pig cat, and I've got a pig tog,
i I've got a pig calf and I’ve got a pig hog,
I've got a pig baby so pig and so tali,
And I've got a pig vise dats piggar as all.
A Slip-Up.—An Irishman slipped up and
came down “broadside” upon his back, recently,
. which stilled his breathing a minute or two, be
sides bruising his head considerably. Recover
ing, he jumped up, threw himself into a fighting
attitude, shook his fists at the ice as if he was
I about to take summary vengeance upon the
slippery substance, and then with violent gestures
and threatening voice, exclaimed —“Faith, and
J ye’ll take a sweat for this before June, sure !”
[Albany Knickerbocker.
Judge Jeffries, of notorious memory, pointing
with his cane to a man who was about to be
tried, said, “there is a rogue at the end of my
cane.”
The man to whom he pointed, looking at him,
said—
“At which end, my ford ?”
Don’t touch the lute when drums are re
sounding. A wise man remains silent while
fools are speaking.