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[From the Now Orleans Picayune ]
CASTLES IN THE AIU.
In the beauteous realms of dreamland,
In the moonbeam’s silvery light,
At the golden loom ot lancy
Hit I, weaving visions bright;
Hearing up ethereal structures,
Thin as mist and 1 Ight as air,
Worclug on with kindling fervor.
While I weavea fabric fair.
Ah, my castle none may entoi!
Closed It is to mortal oyeu.
Yet amidst Us wealth and splendor
Write i, lost In strange surprls-,
That In all iny haunts and rumbles,
Long 1 not for kindred mind,
And aloueund unattended,
Tills Solitude congenial Hud.
Would you view tLI -< phantom sLiuctun*
Floating lu tin- oilier blue?
Idle dreainurs long have reared them,
Tbf-y arc nelLhoi strange nor new ;
Old aud young uro busy woikiug
On these airy easties high,
Huil (lr>)uHionn, tli<-se nnruguH
Ju imagination's sliy !
A/.lire skins :uid golden sunshine,
In this land nTdrenJiis prevail,
Hllver moon \nd stars Btipplani them,
When the yellow sun grows pale;
Crystal lukes lu emerald settings,
Oilmen in the moonbuiuns fair,
Silvery mists conceal mu outlines
Of my castle in the air.
Clouds us light us foam-nocked wavelets,
Hleal across Oils u/uro sky, ,
To ourlcb tho sunset spleuoor
With tholr gold and erlnist n dye;
Founts of dnw play inlsU of silver
tJp iirto tho scentod air,
Tlinuvlng spray like glUionlug crys'iils
O’er the pearly petals rare.
All ahotit my airy cast to
Flouts an atmosphere ho soil,
That it noodu no lirm foundation
To support Its weight aloft;
Though its slender fragile columns,
Are upheld by vu'por fine,
Yet iioeltadel or stronghold
Is Imprugnahiu us mine.
.Never must i /our Intrusion
From a friend or fo« without,
No enemy can storm my Inrlrtss,
Or can capture Its redoubt;
lu reveries alone I wander,
Well assured that none would dare
To Invade the nm-red pm: In Is
Of my cj-.Ho lu tlie air.
the a iUMiFKH logins si.tier
“ Old girl, that has h true me far and f./st
On prancing hoofs that were never loth,
Our gullop to-day may bu the lust
For thee or far mu—or perchance for both.
As I tlghien yourglrtli, do you noUungdHunl
Do you oalch 1 lim hi ui. of our forming line V
Ami now the artillery move 1o the Trout.
Have } oil never a qualm, Huy Hess of mine
"It Is dainty In see you aid le and start
As you move t > Hie h.-utie's cloudy marge,
Ami to l-iid th>* hwulls of your wakening heurt
When our cavimy Imglrs aound u charge.
At LLi>- scicam of toe suull and the roll of lhe
drum
You n-lgn to I'.i Irlglilem-d wltli .skl'.tlsh
glance,
lint up ihe until slope when* llin Imllets hum
Coipietllsh, darling. I've known you dune*-.
“ Your uk In Is sat I n, \ our nosl ri Is n «I,
Your eyes are a bml’s or a loving girl’s ;
And ir.mr-delicate fetlock to dainty head .
A throbbing v> In eorduge around you curls.
Oh.Joi of my soul, lfvoit they slay,
For triumph or rout 1 hiUuoare;
For Lhoro is md b. ul: the wide valley to-day
Huch a dear little brldlo-wlae, thorough-bred
mare."
Hl** ■ 1 " HI.
gtlwUnncMW.
Ida Lewis,
lilt* (Jraee Darling of America.
Thirty yenrn ago, just at the dawn of
a Htonuy .September morning, Grace
.Darling, the heroin daughter of the
Lougslamo lighthouse-keeper, on the
ICnglish coast, launched a boat upon the
raging tide, aud rescued, with her re
luctant father’s aid, and at the immi
nent peril other life, nine persons from
the disastrous wreck of the Forfarshire
steamer. For this fearless and noble
act done in her 2;»d year, praises and
rewards were heaped upon her iu un
stinted meusure, a I'umi of £3,01)0. was
subscribed for her bemdit, the remain
ing four years of her life were crowned
with every comfort, aud her name has
passed into current usage us a synonym
for an unselfish and.-Jieroic woman.
Two wuuk.H Hince, inward the close
of a Mt.oriuy March afternoon, Ida
Lewis, the intrepid daughter of the
Lime Hock light-keeper, in Newport
(li. I.) harbor performed a deed that
places her side hy side; in point of self
sacrificing courage, with tiio Grace
Ihirling oi’ hingland, and rounds a career
of evou greater usefulnesM in thusaving
ofhmnan life, The ruin fell Huh day
in blinding torrents, and the <>■ dL-drovu
the waves across the hai hoi with u fury
that taxed the full slieiiglh and skill of
the most expi iimced boatmen. In (lie
mld.-d of tins storm, a reckless hoy,
scarcely 11 yehrs old, who had somehow
obtained possession of one of the small*
est and iiioh(, misafi! salhboats In the
harbor, (since christened the “soldier
drownotV’jHUci'ecdcd In persuading two
soldieiH, Kergt. Jatnes Adams and I’rl
vale Jolm McLaughlin, to let him carry
them across from Him oily, whither they
had gone to make some purchases, to
Fori Adams, where they were stationed.
Anxious to escape thedreary three-mile
tram]) by land, and believing Hie lad’s
assertion that, lie could manage t he boat
as well 11s any one, they trusted them*
selves In It, and made lialf the trip in
sufoLy, bill about, midway in the liarbor
a sudden blast si ruck the sail, the start
led hoy Jammed the helm in the wrong
direction, the boat capsized in an In
stant, and the waves rolled it twice
over, like Hie veriest cockle shell. For
a long half-hour its luckless oeeupuuts
clung to the keel, and wrestled against
Hie blinding rain und the ilerco salt
waves with all the energy of despair;
but dually the hoy's strength was ex
hausted, Ids hold relaxed—oue clutch
at McLaughlin’s shoulder, and, with a
frenzied laugh upon his lip, he was
gone!—nor has any trace of him since
beeu seen. Fast pnrulyzlng with
colil and almost bereft of hope the two
soldiers saw no choice left but to clasp
each other in a last embrace, aud
sink to a mutual grave—when sud
denly, out from the Lijpc Hock,
half a mile away, shot a little
boat, driven by rapid strokes and
sure, straight over the bounding waves
toward the drowning men. Hope
kindled in their breasts again, but faded
wheu they saw in the boat ouly asleuder
youtli, and a still slenderer womau ply
ing the oars On it swiftly came, how
ever, anil the boy was almost reaching
ovyrlheside to grasp the neurcst soldier,
- wheu his quick-witted slate, crying,
“{Stop, Honey! we shall be eaptdzed
that way ! ” turned the boat with a
timed stroke, backed it up, one mau
was drawn safely in over the stern,
another back ward pull, another lift, and
the next moment the craft, with its
freight of rescued lives, was scudding
swiftly through the spray back to the
Hock again. Tin* .Sergeant was able tb
stagger on shore, but private McLaugli
lin had to bo carried into the light
house, where both of them received the
utmost care ami kindness, und were
safely conveyed to Fort Adams the next
day.
The heroine of this daring exploit
was born Feb. 20, IS-12, and is thus iu
her 28t.1i year; but her first rescue of
imperilled life dates back to September,
1821), wheu she was only 17. Four gay
young fellows, all about is or 20 years
of age, and all sons of wealthy gentle
men, one from Philadelphia aud the
rest from Newport, went out for an eve
, nlng sail, and oue of them, more full of
mischief thau the others, climbed the
mast and upset the boat half a mile
fromUie nearest shore. None of them
could swim' that distance, night was
rapidly coming on, the capsized boat was
too light to support more thau two or
three of them at once, and they were
ruefully awaiting the bitter conse
quences of their mad frolic, when the
keeper’sdaughtor, spyingthem through'
the dusk, hastened to their relief, aud
rescued them all from their impending
fate. The one who climbed the mast
enlisted at the opening of the war, and
received a mortal wound at the disas
trous battle of Bull Run; but the others
are BtlU living, aud doubtless cherish
gratefully the memory of their youth
ful preserver.
During the intervening period of ten
years, this heroine of the harbor has
saved five other lives. One cold and
windy February day, three iutoxicated
soldiers stole a skill’ and set out for the
fort. By some drunken recklessness
they soon stove a hole iu the bottom,
and the boat rapidly filled. Two of the
men succeeded in swimming ashore
again, and were so alarmed at their ad
venture that they ran away and never
came back ; but the Lhird clung to the
submerged Bkiif and tried to paddle it
with his feet across the harbor. When
discovered and picked up, with his hat
in his teeth and a bottle of whisky in
each pocket, he was stiff with cold, and
barely escaped perishing in his desper
ate attempt. The next rescue was in
January, 1867. A valuable sheep es
caped worn those who had it in charge,
£l)c Lancaster fntel%enSe£
VOLUME 70
dived off one of the wharves, and started
to swim around the harbor. Three men,
who went in pursuit along the fort road,
found a skiff and put out to rescue the
animal. But the fierce south-east gate
was toomuch for them, the boat began to
swamp rapidly, they could not regain
the shore, and were staring death in the
face when the fearless Ida went to their
relief, carried them and the skiff to
land, and then went out and saved the
sheep! In the remaining instance, it
seems that a fine looking but reckless
young fellow stole a large sail boat from
one of the wharves one Winter evening
and put to sea with it, but tliegaledrove
the craft upon the ‘Little Lime Hock,”
about a mite from the light, where it
sunk, leaving the unlucky thief cling
ing to the halyards from midnight till
dawn, when the heroine reached and
picked him up. “ There he was,” says
Miss Lewis, iu relating the incident,
shaking, anti God blessing me, and beg
ging to be set on shore, and the last 1
saw of him he was crawling up the
Wharf on his hands and knees !”
The heroism of Grace Darling was
the result of a single noble impulse; the
bravery of Ida Lewis is part of her daily
life. Hlxteen years ago, the light on-
Lime Hock was established, and Hoaea
Lewis, a veteran ex-revenue pilot,
familiar with the coast from Halilax to
Norfolk, became its keeper on the Slh
of December, 1853. The southern line
of the harbor makes a wide, deep*
angled sweep, with the city on one side.
Fort Adams two miles oil on the oppo*
site point, and Lime Hock midfray be
tween, about 300 yards from tho shore.
This rock commands the widest view of
the harbor, and upon it the keeper lived
alone three years and a half. Then a sub
stantial, square, two-story brick lionso
was built, aud in Juno, lsr>7, his family
joined him. Four mouths later a stroke
of paralysis disabled him from all work,
and ever since his eldest daughter Ida
has been the main-stay of the family.
It was she who cared for her father,
aud lightened her mother’s toil, and
watched over her younger sister Harriet,
and rowed her brothers Hudolpk aud
Hosea to school, aud eked out the light
keeper’s slender pittance with her
needle aud other feminine labors, and
flew to the rescue of imperiled life with
an instinctive courage that would not
let her enemy siuk without her
risking her life to save him.
Iu personal appeurauce this Newport
heroiue scarcely attains the averuge
height of women, is remarkably slender,
aud would be thought much nearer
than iJ7. Light brown hair, blue eyes
keen but kind, aud cheeks pink-flushed,
though not round enough for beauty,
attract one to a woman whose quick
smile aud frank aud friendly mauner
more than excuse the inevitable educa
tional deflciences which such a life must
always entail. No one can talk with
her without believing her as unselfish
as she is fearless, aud the fame her
heroism lias created seems simply to
amuse her, without exciting the least
vanity. .So little'had siie thought of
her own deeds that, when lirst asked,
she had to spend much time in consid
eration before she could say exactly how
many lives she had saved I
Her father is still a sociable and pleas
ant old gentleman, able to walk a little,
but speuding most of the waking hours
in his chair. Mrs. Lewis is a free-spoken
and hospitable matron, devoted to iier
family, to her four story papers, of
which Bonner's Ledger is one, and to
the care of the lamp whose ilaine has
glistened across the harbor from sunset
to sunrise these many years with assure
aud unfailing a ray as gleams front any
light upon the American coast. Hu
doipli is a young sailor of now absent
on a voyago, and “Ilosey” (Hosea) is U 0
ami a teamster in Newport. Hattie is
only 17, and possesses a weal th of per
sonal attractions that many a fair Fifth
ave. girl might envy. Both the sisterS
indulge in rings aud eardrops, aud other
vanities dear to the feminine heart, and
when they have recourse to the treas
ures of their wardrobe, accumulated
chiefly by Ida’s industry, they might
easily bo mistaken for damsels of high
degree.
The House lu which they live is white
washed till It glistens Uko snow, and
everything is kept scrupulously clean.
Tho Kook itself is a jugged pile, less
than an acre in extent, divided by a
channel, which is bare at low tide, and
ho utterly barren that not a blade of
grass will grow upon It. A mischievous
black poodle, two rabbits, three plump
oats (who made an end to all the rats
and mice long ago), ucouple of turkeys,
and a dozen common fowls give quite a
Robinson Crusoe air to the place. The
side rlaes hero about seven feet, and the
highest polntofrock Is 17 feet above that
line. On tho landward side is a long,
high plur, cupped with 1 "> massive blocks
of stone, und here, swinging from the
derricks, or rocking on tho tide, may he
seen the smull, squaro-sterned. well
worn (iovernment boat.'hluuk without,
aud white nnd green within, in which
Miss Lewis has learned to row so well
lhaluvim ihu brawny boatmen of the
hurlmr concede her superior sicill, and
with which most of her rescues huvu
been achieved.
A portrait of (lie American draco
Darling, aud a idcturo of one of her ex
ploits, were published two yearH ago in
an illustrated paper, and iuuuy compli
ments and requests for photographs en
sued. More than one romantic gentle
man tried to persuade her to change her
name for his, and found n friend indeed,
but no wife. Two brothers, seafaring
men, from Black Hock, Connecticut,
have pressed their suits at Lime Hock
with more success, and it is quite proba
ble that both the sisters may be married
before another tipring.
It is worth noting, perhaps, that Miss
Lewis is rightfully entitled to the extra
ordinary and unprecedented name of
44 Idawulley Zoradia,” which she in
herits from the quaint faucy of her ma
ternal grandfatiier, an estimable but ec
centric Block Island physician. This
name, however, she has wisely discard
ed, and writes herself simply "Ida.”
In France or England, such a heroine
would have long since received many
honorable ami substantial testimonials,
but scarcely any gifts were made to Miss
Lewis until the two soldiers, rescued on
the 2i>th of March, insisted ou her ac
cepting a gold watch and chain oftiwiss
manufacture, yalued at $lOO. L. Prang,
the Boston chromo publisher, sent her
last week a kind letter, and halfa dozen
choice pictures. Johu Carter Brown,
Esq., of Providence, and Johu Auchiu
closs, Esq., of New York, have each
sent her a check for s2o; and a Boston
gentleman transmitted to her last Fri
day the sum of $lOO. Au active New
port citizen, oflong salt water experi
ence, is rapidly raising in that
city and Providence a subscription
of sl3o, for tho building of a cedar
life bout, to be finished iu tiie finest
style, by one of the best Newport
builders, aud painted white with a gilt
stripe. It is almost certain that this
will he completed and presented to Miss
Lewis within a few weeks. Another
energetic citizen meditates raising a
fund for her benefit, this season, from
the Summer visitors at Newport, aud
one or two private enterprises of mo
ment for her benefit are also in progress.
Iu the opinion of the best judges, no
truer or more fearless heroine than Ida
Lewis ever found a place in the annals
of any humane society on either side of
the Atlantic, and none more unselfish
ever received honors from those whose
positions or wealth enables them to
crown meritorious acts with suitable re
wards.-—N. Y. Tribune.
A Cnrlous Budget.
The Eiiglish language must appear
fearfully and wonderfully made to a
foreigner. One of them, looking at the
picture of a number of vessels, said,
“ See what a flock of ships.” He was
told that a flock of ships was called a
fleet, and that a fleet of sheep was called
a flock. And it was added, for hisguid
ance, in mastering the intricacies of our
language, that a flock of girls is called a
bevy, that a bevy of wolves is called a
pack, and a pack of thieves is called a
gang, aud that a gang of angels is called
a host, and that a host of porpoises
is called a shoal, a shoal of buffaloes is
called a herd, and a herd of children is
called a troop, and a troop of partridges
is called a covey, and a covey of beau
ties is called a galaxy, a galaxy of ruf
fiahs Is called a horde, and a horde of
rubbish is called a heap, and a heap of
oxen is called a drove, and a drove of
blackguards is called h mob, and a mob
of whales Is calleda school, and a sohool
of worshippers is caHed a congregation,
aud acongregation of engineers is called
a corpß, and a corps of robbers is called
a band, and a band of locnstß Is called a
Bwarm, and a swarm of people is called
a crowd.
Me Wrong Man.
Yankee pedlers, from time immemori
al, have been famoUß for 41 doing others’ ’
and being “done,” notwithstanding
their shrewdness, and though, in the
long run, they may come out “ right
side up,” yet once in* a while the force
of circumstances so corners them that
they are obliged to cry pecavi!
44 In the course of human events ” —’
to find a new Btyle antipodean with the
flood, or cotemporary with the time of
George Washington—there happened
to be a pedler of the Old Bay State, by
the name of Ike Jewell, who one day
picked up his traps and started oil
couth, along the liue of the Mississippi,
in order to dispense patents for various
inventions —from a tooth-pick to a fau
nmg-mill—and at last brought up at the
little village of Helena, in the State of
Arkansas. Now, it happened that on
the very day that Mr. Jewell arrived in
town, a fellow had been arrested for
negro-stealing, and placed in the old
log jail, preparatory to receiving the
penalty of fifty lashes for the offense.
The jail being insecure, there being no
patrol a la horse-guards, to protect it,
and the prisoner having a ting© of Jack
Sheppard’s blood in Ills veins, managed
to escape, and of course flew by the
night, after the manner of the witches
in Macbeth, The consequence was that
when the sheriff went the next morn
ing, in all the dignity of official pride,
to administer the punishment, he was
both surprised and indiguaut to find
his man non est inventus !
“Ah ! this won’t- do,” aaid the dig
, nlfary, biting his lip, and looking poin
ards at the umler-sherift—aud a carrot
ty-headed deputy, with a pumpkin
colored beard of a week’s growth.—
“ We must set spies about for him, and
have him re-apprehended.”
Scouts were immediately dispatched
on all sides, all of whom had seen the
man on trial, and knew his face, and
as the sherilFs indignation was hugely
“riz,” their orders were uncompromis
ingly stringent.
Now it happened, from some strange
and unfortunate circumstance, that the
newly arrived Yankee pedler was the
very image—the regular “ Corsican
Brother ” —the “ Siamese Twin ” of the
fugitive culprit, and as he was butter
ing a pancake at breakfast next morn
ing, a large, powerful man, with an of
ficial grin, tapped him geutJy on the
shoulder.
“Well, what’s the row now?” in
quired the Yankee.
“Wautyou, mister,” was the brief
reply.
“ Yees—want me deu you? I spose
you’ve beam of my having come to
town with my everlastin and all-snort
en inventions. You’re wide awake, I
see, for coming afore any one else.”
“Curse your inventions,” said the
official. The sheriif wants to see you
immediately. You thought to escape,
did yu ? ”
“ Sheriff— Escape ! Look a here, you
critter, what on airth do you mean ? ”
“Mean, for you to come along with
out another word.” And so saying he
dragged the pedlar out of the room.
On the way he learned the circum
stances of the arrest, and although he
protested and swore lie was not the man,
the likeness was too strong for belief.
The Sheriff advised him for the good of
his country and the honor of his friends,
if he had auy, not to tell such “ dread
fui lies,” but quietly submitto the pun
ishment.
The consequence was, he was tied to
the whipping post, and the Sheriff pre
pared to render, in the severest man
ner, the infliction,
“ Now, before I begin old fellow,”
said the Sheriff, “ what have you got
say ?”
“ Oh, nothin' in particular,” said the
pedler, laughing, with ameauiug curve
of the lip—“ only ef you can afford to
pay for luxuries, mister, go ahead !”
The Sheriff, not comprehending the
drift of this business-like observation,
applied the scourge, and at every cut,
the Yankee laughed with immoderate
glee. Lash succeeded lash, and still he
laughed, 44 and still the wonder grew.”
When the fiftieth lash had been laid
on, as a parting salute, the Sheriff threw
down the whip in a flood of wonder
ment and addressing the Yankee, said :
“ I’m regularly dumbfounded ! Wbat
in the devil’s name makes you laugh
HO ?“
“ Laugh! Why, who could help it?”
fairly roared the Yankee. “ I’m laugh
in’ to think how you’ve got sucked iu
on this ’ere operation—l ain’t the mun.’
He said this so meaningly, that the
Sheriff began to think there must be a
mistake somewhere. The Yankee still
went on saying:
“It strikes mo that business in ray
line Is going to be rather dull in tills
town, and If there’s any law to be had,
I’ll speculate on this licking, and see ef
1 can’t turn It to some account. J’ra
always open for trade, mlHter, if you
want to compromise-for remember,
you’ve licked the wroug man?”
The Hhorlff, after consulting witli lilh
lawyer, HdUrtl with tho Yuiikoo, pay
ing him three hundred dollars, ami the
fellow wont on his way, hoping to meet
with similar luck elsewhere.
French and American Manners.
One of au Americuu party m Purls
whoso circle had been invaded by duath,
at a Parisian hotel, writes:
44 No other experience would have so
warmed my heart to tho French people
as did that ten days of sorrow,” giving
US a reason therefor, that every one at
the hotel, from chambermaid to hostess,
were attentive, sympathetic, and ready
to help.
Whatguest iu America could have an
experience that would draw from him
like thanks to the host and servants of
one of our large city hotels ?
And the same letter, in speaking of
the funeral procession composed only
of a carriage or two—the deceased and
her companions being total strangers in
Paris, says : “ As our simple procession
passed through the crowded and fash
ionable boulevards, the Broadway of
Paris, every one turned to look upon it.
with not curious but sympathetic eyes;
every hat was raised in deferential salu
tation, from the poorest peasant in his
soiled blouse to that of the wealthiest
gentleman, sauntering for pleasure or
hastening to his business.”
What a contrast with American man
ners! Here we see horses and carriages
dash past funeral processions, and even
break through the processions itseli be
tween the hearse and the carriage of
mourners, aud the person who should
halt with raised hat as a procession
passed would be starred at as a curisoi
ty. In this connection we may repeat
an incident occurring on Broadway, as
its most densely crowded point just be
low the Astor. It was a number of
years since the Prince de Joiuville, son
of Louis Phillipe, then Kingof France,
visited this country, and made his mys
terious trip up the lakes, and had his
remarkable interview with the late Rev.
Eleazer Williams at Green Bay. The
Prince came over in the Belie Poole, a
beautiful miniature frigate, and at the
time we refer to, this vessel was lying
in New York. One day there passed
along the crowded •walk, down Broad
way past the Astor, and St. Paul’s
Church, a poor 1 man aud woman, the
former carrying under his arm a tluy
coffin with their dead baby, they stran
gers and friendless, seeking Christian
burial, for their child.
The rude surge of Broadway rendered
it almost dangerous to attempt to thread
that crowd in safety to their preciouß
burden. Just as the two had passed St.
Paul's there came up Broadway the en
tire crew of the French frigate, two by
two, in their holiday dress, and jaunty
hats with loDg streamers, chattering
and jabbering, as French sailors only
can, but the instant the leading mau
espied that baby coffin he called a halt,
and every man facing in, lifted his hat
and stood In silence white that humble
couple, with their cheap piDe coffin,
covered with a mother's only shawl for
a pall, were passing. There was a lesson
for American gentlemen, but one our
people, with all their pretended respect
for the dead, will never learn.
A physician having finished the am
putation ofthe legofoneofhispatients,
a near relative of the latter took him
aside, and said anxiously to him :
" Doctor, do you think your patient
will recover?”
“ Recover l there never has been the
least shadow of a hope for him.”
“ Then what is the use of making
him suffer?”
“ Why, my dear fellow, you astonish
me! Could you say, brutally, to a sick
man, ‘ you are dying!’ He must be
amused a little.”
If a Bpoonful of yeast will raise fifty
cents worth of flour, how much will It
take to raise another barrel ? Answer
may be handed in over the fence.
LANCASTER PA. WEDNESDAY MORNING APRIL 21 1869
THE TWITCHELLS.
Statement or Hrs. Camilla E. Twltchell-
Twltehell’s Letters (o Hl* Wife—Fran
tic appeal to Her to *ave Him—Hoc It
ConfeMlon Prepared by Him—*he I*
Urged to Declare Herself tbe Murderer.
We give to our readers to-day, the state
ment of Camilla E. Twitchell, wife of Geo.
S. Twitcbell, Jr., who eluded the ends of
justice on Thursday morning last, by com
mitting suicide iu his cell. Oar readers
have bepn already informed of tbe details
of the horrid crime porpotrated by tho
murderer and suicido. His wife was ar
rested at. tho time as an accomplice, and
for lack of sufficient evidence to implicate
her in deed, a verdict of “ not
guilty” was rendered, and she was set at
liberty. She had visited her husband in
his cell after ho wus sentenced, os often as
the prison rules permitted. Every effort
was made by the counsel of the prisoner
to stay tbe hand of justice, and, os a finale ,
the doomed man begged bis wife to ao
that she had committed the
"crime, and thus save him from the scaffold.
She declining to do this, he mado a confes
.siou, in which he implicated her as the
principal, and announced himself as mere
ly an accessory. In the statement thereto
annexed, Mrs. Twitchell denies all knowl
edge of the affair, and positively asserts
thut she hud nothing to do with it. Ap
pended to her statement, are the letters
wrilteu to her by ber husband while in
prison, w'hicb fully explain themselves.
Tho statements wore written on a num
ber of sheets of noto paper and small
scraps. The hand writing is said to be un
questionably that of George S. Twitchell,
Jr. lie carried them in his coat sleeve un
til a favorable opportunity occurred of
handing them to bis wife.
Mrs. Twitclieirs Ntatcment
Wo give, as the first thing in order, the
statement of Mrs. Twitchell, which we have
in her own handwriting, except the con
cluding paragraph, which was revised by a
friend more skilled in making an appeal to
a generous public than a novice :
On Sunday afternoon, about half past one,
George and I went out to take a ride, leav
ing ut homo mother nnd the girl. We went
to tho Abbey. I observed that George ap
peared low-spirited, and in no way disposed
to enter into conversation. I inquired if
ho was sick, and was told he was not. We
returned about four o’clock. I found my
mother pleasant and agreeable. George
came in shortly afterwards, and remained
in the dining-room until called to tea,
reading a paper, lie wus very thoughtful
during thoalternoon and evening. We took
tea together. After tea he left tho tableund
went to tin* dining-room. In a few mo
menta I was with him, leaving my ipother
in the kitchen. In a few moments my
mother came in the dining room. Mother
and I conversed together, George making
no remark whatever. Mother said to me,
44 1 had better go to bed ; sbe did not wish
me to wait up ; she would rend the paper
and wait for the girl herself.” I went to
my room, saying, at the sumo time,
44 George, I am going to bed,” to which he
replied, ” Very well.” My mother arose
and went with me to my room, remaining
and conversing pleasantly with me until I
went to bed, when she passed out of the
room, aud in a short time *how long I can
not say) George catne into the room, un
dressed, and came to bed. I was soon
asleep, and knew nothing more until
awakened by tho girl ringing the door-boll.
I cannot say whether George wus asleep,
but I think lie was not.
1 said ” George, that must bo the girl.”
He replied ho supposed it wns. Ho made
no attempt at that lime to get up aud lot the
girl in. I came out oi my room into the
entry and called my mother twice, to which
I received no reply. I returned to my room
with tho intention of finding something to
throw over my shoulders, whon George got
up, und said to Ino in an übrupt manner
“ You come to bed and I will go down and
let the girl in.” I remained ut my room
door waiting for George to come up, think
ing my mother was down stairs. I heard
Sarah call him, heurd wbat he said wliwn
ho wont Into the yard. I llew down stairs
and saw my mother lying on the Bettee in
the kitchen—a dead woman. This 1b ail I
knew about tho murder. I knew nothing
about my husband’s business; I believed
it to bo in a nourishing condition, beiug
told by him only a few days before the
murder that ho wus doing well, making
• money, and out of debt. I was kept in per
fect ignorance, not only concerning his busi
ness affairs, but many other acts of his
private life. I deny that I ever deserted
my husband, but, on tho contAry, ropeut
edly offered to give every dollar I possessed
to save his life if possible. After my acquit
tal I treated him simlly, visltod him three
times ovory woek, uevor, in anyway, ro
furred by look or word to tho murder,
never spoke an unkind word to him. ami
novor once said to him, 44 Mother I” On
Wednesday morning, March 24, whon 1
visited him us usual,ln shaking bunds witli
him, he conveyed to me a loiter of lnstruo
tlon. On Good Friday morning, March 2d,
during my conversation with him, he con
veyed to me a written confession, which ho
wishud me to study well and commit to
memory, and come to prison prepared upon
Monday morning.
From reading this I saw that it was ar
ranged for mo to go thoru ami bouorno a
party to the Julsuhood. It was arranged
that Mr. l'erkins and tho ltev. Mr, Bring
hnrst were to receive mo, and I wus to play
a part in order to deceive them and the
world. I was to accuso myself ofliaving
taken my mother’s life, and commit per
jury by swearing to such a statement.
Much as I dosireu to aid my husband, I
could not do this thing; and finding I could
not trust myself safely, and fearing from
tho arrangements made I might bo en
trnpnod, I went no moro to tbe prison.
Finding I did not comoon the Monday as ho
desired, he sent me, on Wednesday morn
ing, March 31, two othor confessions, from
which I was to make a choice. On Thurs
day morning, April 1, I received the fourth
ancl last one. Since that fatal hour that I
bade my mother good night I have been
surprised aud stunuod to find that mother
murdered in her own house; I have been
imprisoned many sad days and gloomy
nights, charged with the crime of having
murdered my own mother. My husband
has been convicted of that crime ; my home
has been utterly destroyed ; I myself have
been put on trial for my life ; my husband
has committed suicido; I have been judged
not only by tho tribunals of the country,
but fearfully judged by those who have
been warned by the Master to “judge not;”
I have been accused by ray husband, who
did it in a desperate effort to save his life,
of killing my mother. Ho did this, I re
peat, in uu effort to save bis life. In the
defence of all that makes life desiruble, I
urn compelled to submit these letters to the
public to show them bow utterly unreliable
was such a statement, made by my hus
band under the circumstances in which he
was placed, and how little I should have
been behoved, lmd I oven mado such a
statement mysolf.
I have felt and I continue to feel that
there is no sympathy for me. I am a wo
man believed to bo u guilty one, and lor
such tho gates of human sympathy are
shut. My only hope is that in the little life
that is leit of me, and daring those times I
may bo compelled, reluctantly though it
may be, to come in contact with the groat
world, I may be spared the distress of hear
ing, as I have heard, unconsciously to those
who spoke of me, myself denounced as a
murderess in thought as well as action, tbe
murderess of ray mother and destroyer of
my husband. Camilla E. Twitchell.
Georgo 8. Twltctioll’* Letters to Ills Wife.
[first letter]
Sunday Morning, March 7,15G0.
My Dear Wife: I hare just listened to
tih exhortation upon the Ist Chapter of
James, and though it was not very elaborate,
yet it was sufficiently plain to make it evi
dent to an attentive hearer the great need
we havo of a Saviour. The situation that I
am in makes me feel that great blessing,
for oh, dear Camilla, no earthly help can
afiord me the consolation that I can receive
from an all-wise and ever-mercifnl God,
through the righteousness of His Divine
Son, our Lord Jesus Christ. lam aware of
the fearful doom which awaits mo by the
condemnation of the law. No hand can
stay Jt,except guided by God. I feel that
my time on earth is short, bat, blessed be
God, there Is a better land above, where, by
faith in the great atonement, the trials, suf
ferings, and awful death of that Being, sin
less in Himself, yet who, in obedience to
the will of His Divine Father, took upon
Himself the sins of the whole world, and
endured the punishment In order that we
poor sinners might escape the righteous law
of God, and yet that law be vindicated by
saoriflce, that we might have a home above
throughout the countless ages of eternity.
Oh, Camilla 1 thin : of this great love for us,
and then think how it is repaid by ns. Dear
Camilla, please don't neglect the salvation
of your soul, though we must soon'part
here. Oh ! let me feel before Igo that yon
will try to live so that you will meet me
above, where there will be no more sorrow
nor parting—where man cannot intrude his
will or power to make his fellow mourn.
Dear Camilla, I want to feel before I go that
when your time shall come that I can stand
and meet you on the pearly shores of heaven,
and sing, as I see you on your way, wel
come home.”
“ Gowben the morning thineth,
Gtrwhen the moon it bright,
Go when the eve deoiineth.
Go In the thadee of night.
Go with pure mind and feeling,
Ming earthly thoughts away,
And in thy chamber kneeling,
Do thou in tecrct prof/”
Dear Camilla, seek the mercy seat alone,
and often, and there pour out your sorrows,
griefs, and trouble, and He will answer
your prayers, perhaps not as you wish,
but in a way which will be best for you.
There, be lore His all pervading eye, lay
bare your heart; roll your sins on to Jesus,
He can and will bear them, if yoa will only
believe it, and He Is your “ Advocate with
the Father.” What a blessed thought that
we can individualize the Saviour, that we
can say: “My Saviour 4 He bore my sins
on the cross, He died to save me,” and,
dear Camilla, when evil thoughts and
doubts aud fears come over you, go and
pray to Him for help to overcome them,
and for strength and faith. If you will do
this He will enable you to endure all that
you may be called upon to bear, with pa
tience. I am right well, and I expect
Charles Perkins to spend the evening with
me. Please give my respects to Miss Kute,
Please don’t forget me at six o’clock in the
evening. Keep this letter and often look at
it. This will probably bo the last one that
I will be able to send you, and when I am
gone please read it very often.
I am, ns over, yours, with love unto death,
George.
[SECOND LETTER.]
Monday Evening, March 8, ISG9.
Dear Camilla: Mr. Bringburst spent
about two hours with me yesterday after
noon, and we had a very pleasant' time, as
we alwuys do, although he has not been
yery well. Last evening Charles:Perkins
came up about 7 o’clock, and stayed uutil
quarter of nine. We had a lovely Evening,
singing some hymns, and each one offering
an humble prayer to Almighty God, in which
you were remembered. Oh, Camilla, I al
ways remember you in my prayers, hoping
that God will direct your heartarigKt, and
He will if you will only ask Him. Father,
John McCully, Frank Moore,and my warm
friend, George Neiman, were here this
morning to see me; they let Geo. Neiman
stay about a half an hour, and we hud a de
lightful time, he offering np a prayer, aud
then we sang several hymns. I have boon
very happy to-dny. This afternoon Mr.
Furr camu in about half past two o’clock
and stayed about an hour. Mr. Bringburst
did not got here till about three o’clock.
Before Mr. Furr left we had one hymn, and
he led us in prayer. 110 prayed very sweet
ly, yet very earnestly, for me, and you wore
also remembered in it. Mr. Farr is a very
sweet Christian character; he is about
seventy years of age, and Isa member of
the committee of tbe Prison Society. Ho is
Very interesting in his conversation, having
travelled considerably. He formerly kept
the Jewelry store in Chestnut street, below
Fourth ; his sons now keep it. My dear
Camilla, I feel that God has been very kind
to me in my affliction, having blessed me
with many warm friends, and many peace
ful and pleasant and happy hours. Oh!
dear Camilla, Ho has made my soul very
happy; He has made me teel enabled to
auy that, come what will, whether it be life
or death, I know in whom I trust, aud
though the lleah is weak, yet 110 will give
me strength to meet all, and enablo me to
feel that it is but a moment of pain here, and
then an eternity of everlasting life in that
bright, glorious kingdom which is prom
ised to them that believo. These are
blessed thoughts, and dear Camilla, let
me again entreat you to prepare for this.
A few hours may, a few years must bring
you to the close of life; und if Igo first I
waut to meet you where there is no more
sighing, neither any sorrow nor any crying.
Deer Camilla, the spirit of Christianity is
good to live with, as well as to die with.
You may think this very strange language
from one who has been such a skeptic and
scorner as I have been, but in my calamity
God has changed my heart and shown me
the lullacy of my wuya. Oh, Camilla! I
have been a very greut siuuer, but God’s
mercy has been far greater. lam a very
dlllerent man from the George S. Twitcnell
of five months ago, aud a far happier one,
even with the dark earthly prospects ahead.
Jesus says, *• Fear nothing, those who kill
the body can after that do nothing.” Please
don’t forget God, for He, through tbe bless
ed Saviour, is your only salvation. Dear
Camilla, if the worst should come, I think
I would like to sleep in Mout Moriah, near
that beautiful stream of water, Brook-Hed
ron, I think it is called, far away from the
noise and bustle of the world, where you
can come und commune with me, mid
I want you to putno costly monument over
my grave, but plant some rosea and some
thing thut will be green in winter. G.
[third letter.]
(Received Wednesday before Good Friday.)
Dear, Dear Camilla: I know that you
tbiuk that you would not be believed if you
made a confession ; but I know if you will
make such a one us I tell you to, and do
exactly as I telLyou, it will be believed. If
I were acquitted, and you wore convicted,
I would mako one to save you, if it would
be death to me. Now, I ask you to do tho
same thing, Camilla. You have my life in
your hands. If you do as I direct, you will
save it; and if you do not, no’power under
Heaven can save me. A friend of mine
who talked u long lime with tbe Governor,
said that be told him that he bad to curry
out tbe law, but If any mitigating circum
stances should arise he wou[d spure me. I
nm pledged not to tell who be is. Tho Gov
ernor told John McCully that tho sentence
would linve to beoarried out. unless some*
body suys they did it. Camilla, I hour that
while you were in prison you said somo
very Injudicious things. Mr. Bringburst
says you lmve dono the suino thing when
talking with him ut his’house. I hope for
tho sake of charity ami mercy that you
will do so no moro. You muni nover say
to him anything about this, for ho tolls me
In confidence, and 1 only toll you to show
how careful you ought to bu; und If he
should know that I told you It would do
mu u grout deal of harm. I want to tell
you plainly, thathothlnkHyou knowsomo
thing about it. and a greut many others
think ho, too. This is one reason why you
will be bolloved, Homo of tho leadlnglaw
yers of Philadelphia have told him that
if you made a confession it would huvu me.
Among them is a man who used to be Gov.
of this Slate, and also one that has known
Gov. Geary ull his life. Now I will tell you
what stepH I have taken to prepnre the way.
I have been urged to ask you here, in the
the presence of somebody, whether you
know anything about it. Mr. Bringburst
thinks 1 ought to do ibis, and many other
prominent men. Ho to-dny I sent for Mr.
Perkins, the Superintendent of the Prison,
and asked him about it. Ho said I ought
to do it. lie said lb was probable that you
would say no; but if you would admit it,
it would save me, and it was tbe only thing
that would. I also asked Mr. Chandler;
he said the same thing. I tell them that I
expect you would deny it, although I don’t
btlleve that you know anything. Thin Hula
their minds at rest about me. You must
never say uuythlng to Mr. Bringhurst, fur
that would ruin it all. I will write out a
confession for you, and give it to you on
Friday; and you must learn it thoroughly.
I will also give you all the directions how
to act and and pffien you will do it. Mr.
O’Byrne told me that he did not want you
to know anythmg about it. You must not
say anything at all about this, not even to
father. It must be kept perfectly secret, or
it will do no good.
Camilla, spare me this horrible, awful
death. Y'ou, and you alone, can do it. Oh I
do not disappoint me; it would bo more
than I could bear. Oh! Camilla, I have
tried to be kind to you ; you cunnot forget
tho days and nights that I have nursed you
when you wore sick—the nights I walked
the road with you in the country when you
had the asthma, and I did not complain.
And, dear Camilla, you haye been a good
wife to me. Do not, oh ! do not, I pray
you, dosert me now. Havel oh! save me.
You have got a noble heart, and I know
that you will do this. Camilla, you would
be awful lonely without any one, and in
your present position. Oh, if you will save
me, or at least make the effort, for if you do
not mako the effort you know that you can’t
do it; but ob, for my Bake make this last
effort—it’s all you cun do. And if it saves
mo I will starve if it la necessary to give
you comforts; and in another State and
under another name we may yet be
happy. Dear Camilla, if you really in
tend, to do this you must have a trunk
packed all ready to leave the city at
the shortest notice. I think I would go to
Baltimore aud stop at a second-class hotel.
Of course you will have to change your
name. Please urge Mr. O’Byrne to come
down this afternoon, and get here as soon
after four o’clock as he can. Good-bye;
don’t let any one see this. Burn it as soon
as you have read it. It is an awful thing
to ask you to do this, but dear Camilla, it
is for my life. If it wub for anything else
I would not ask you to do it. Please, oh !
please spare my life. Save me, oh I save
me. Yoa are the only one who can. Ca
milla, think of this. 1 am young, and in
tho full flush of health, and i&is not too late
yet to try and make you happy. I would
go in rags to do It, if you will save me. Oh I
remember this, aud save me if you can.—
Oh! don’t let your courage fail you; re
member that you cannot give me life after
lam dead; and oh! dear Camilla, do as I
ask you to in this case. Don’t forget it is
for my life* George.
[fourth letter,]
(This was received on Good Friday.)
My Dear Camilla: You must make
the following confession if yon would save
me, and you mast do just exaotly as I tell
you here; nothing else can save me but
this,and this will positively do it. You have
said yen would give your life to do it, but
that will not do unless It was accompanied
by a confession, I would rather die myself
than have you to die; but you can do this
without death, and this is the way to do It*.
You must write out the following confes
sion-write it out twice—put oue away in
some secret place so thst after you have
done as I tell you you can have one to look
at so that you will not forget it in case you
should ever be wanted; if the Governor or
any of the authorities should ever send for
yon to ask you any questions you could an
swer them correctly. You must also learn
this, so that if you are asked any questions
yon can answer so as net to eentradlet them
or this.
CONFESSION,
One afternoon last spring, my mother aud
I were walking up Chestnut street, as we
passed the Continental, Mr. Gilbert came
out aud a gentleman with him. He came up
and spoke to us, and Introduced his friend
to us—bis name was Lee, Mr. Lee. They
walked up Chestnut street to Tenth with us,
they went on up Chestnut and
Ten pi street cars and came home. A few
days after I met Mr. Gilbert in Ninth street;
he came over and walked with me toCbest
nnt street; he went into ttie Continental; he
asked me how my mother was; he always
did whenever I saw him, and asked me if
sbe was any better natured yet; be spoke
about his friend Mr. Lee, and said he was a
very elegant gentleman, and worth a great
deal of money; that he always had plenty of
money. I asked where Mr. Lee lived, Hnd
Mr. Gilbert said that wheu he was in this
city he stopped ut tbeGirard House, but bo
was a great traveller. I saw Mr. Lee- as I
was going down Cbestuut street; he bowed
to me ; he was a fine looking man, rather
tall, with a moustache aud military side
whiskers, and dressed in the lop of the fash
ion. I oftenjsaw him after this,sometimes on
Chestnut street, and sometimes on Eighth
street; occasionally h* would join me; he
was a splendid talker, and I got to like him
very much. After I got right well acquaint
ed with him I found out that he was u gam
bler. He always asked me bow my mother
was. After we got well acquainted I told
him how my mother treated mo when my
husbaud was away; how cross she was.
He asked me whv I did not put her out of
the way, and I said I could uot do that. He
then said, 44 Get your husband to do it.” I
told him that my husband would leave me
if I eveu hinted such a thing to him; and
be replied, no groat loss,
for you cofild get another one as good as
him any (lay.” I then told him that my
husband was very kind to me. This conver
sation took place iu Arch street betweeu
Seventh and Ninth streets. I was looking
at tho pictures *iu Gutekuust’s window
when be came up aud spoke to me, and
from there we walked up Ninth street,
where lie took a car. I mado an appoint
ment with him to meet me that day one
week, which waa Tuesday. at three o’clock
in the afternoon, in Franklin Square. I
told him I would bo standiug arouud tho
fountain. Ho came at the time appointed,
and we took seals aud talked manors over.
Ho asked me a great rnuuy questions about
my mother; what her habits were; when
tho servant was out; what time she came
in; if my husband stayed up to let her in;
how much money my mother carried about
her and where she carried it; ifiny husband
slept soundly, &c. He then said ho would
fix it for me ; but that he must have all the
money aud I must let him see the house.
I told him to come to tbe house about half
past four o’clock on Thursday afternoon ;
that the girl would be out, and I would get
mother to go out ho that no l ody would De
homo but me. He came, aud I showed
him all over the house aud the yard. Wo
then fixed the time for the next Sunday
week; bo HRid Sunday night was the best
time, because there would not be so many
people about and this would be tho girl’s
night out. He told me to unbolt the gate ou
Teutbstreetas soon as it got dark.and that ho
would bring somebody with him ; that I
must have tho ilogs fed as much us they
could oat, and put away where they would
make no noise, and that then liiuy would
coine in aud hide themselves. I told him
to go into Jhe b ick privy ; that no one ever
weutin there, and thut wheu mother was up
Htairs I would get them iuto the cellar.
Our plan was that I was to come out of
the kitchen singing if the way wus clear;
und if be was there, he was to give a slight
cough. This was to be done before I went
to bed ; then after my husband was fast
asleep I was to como down aud tell them.
This waa our plan, and everything seemed
to favor it that night. I asked him when I
would see him again, and ho said wo must
not soe each other ugain till lho night we
had fixed on, tor if we were soon together
it might look suspicious, lie stayed at the
house about half un hour, ami that was the
last time I saw him till thut.Sunday night.
Everything passed off as wo bad expected.
After my husband was lastusleep, I got up
and went down stairs very quietly iu my
bare feet, and looked iu the dining-room.—
The door was partly open, and the gas was
turned low, but I saw mother lyiDg down
ou the sofa. I went up to her and found
she was asleep. I went right downstairs
ns quietly us I could, opened the cellar
door and told them to come as quickly and
as quietly as they could; that she was
asleep in the dining loom, aud now was
their time. Mr. Lee told tbe man who was
with him to go out In theyard; he then went
up stairs into the dining-room, und I shut
the door and staid outside. I heard several
blows given, but do not know how many,
and then all wus quiet. I waited a moment
and then went In. He said he guessed that
would do. When I went in I did uot see
auy blood, and I said to him, 44 let us throw
her out of the window, and when the girl
comes home sbo will think she fell out.” I
weut and pulled up the blind and raised
tho window. He then came and gave a
kind of low hiss, which tho man in the
yard answerod. He wished to see if any
body was about. The mun in Lho yard got
on tho ash barrel, und in a minute
ho gave a klud of low whistle. Mr.
Lee told tno to take hold of tho feot,
and ho caught hold of her body und carried
her and threw her out. Then I turned up
tho gas and for lho first time huw blood on
tho floor. I Huid I would wlpo It up. We
wont down stairs, and the mun in lho yard
catno In,and Mr. Lee took his overeout from
tho man. I think I called him John. I
opouod tho front doer and lul thorn out, nnd
then shut it very quietly, I don’t know
whether I locked it or not; I don’t think I
did. Then I wont out to tho hydrunt und
got a towolihut was there, and went up
HiulrH to wlpo up tho blood. Wheu I saw
it wus splashed around lho room, I know It
was no uso, so I went down stuffs again
with tho bloody towel and washed it umlur
tho hydrunt, and let the hydrant run a min
ute or two. I thought I saw mother move,
aud was afraid that hbo was not deud. so l
wont and got tho poker from besiuo the
range und struck her on the sldo of the beud
with the point, laid it down there, washed
my bunds, and went to bed, where I found
my busbund fast usloep. In übout fifteen
or twenty minutes lho bell raug.and I knew
it was the girl, but I was afraid to go down
and let her In, so I waited, thinking that
maybe sbo would wake George, but after
she rang several times I woke him and usk
ed him if he would not go down and let her
lu. He asked where mother was. I said :
44 1 guess she is asleep ; I will look in her
room.” He put on his pants, his coat, and
boots and went down and lether in What
happened after that is already known. Mr.
Lee is rather tall and spare, oroad should
ers, dark eyes and straight dark hair ; he
bus lair skin, and dark military sido whis
kers and moustache; The night of the mur
der he had whiskers on his chin, so that I
hardly knew him. I never saw hitn have
them there betore. The man he had with
him he called John. I would not know
him if I was to see him again, for I took no
notice of him except to seo that bo was not
u» tall as Mr. Lee. Mr. Lee was a low flu
ent talker, und luughed a greatdeal, which
showed bis teeth, which were very pretty.
INSTRUCTION*.
When you come in on Monduy morning
Mr. Perkins will come in with you, instead
of a keeper. Mr. Chandler may bo with
me, or bo may not. I will meet you theeumo
as usual, and will talk to you about general
maLters. You must not appear to be the
least suspicious while I utn talking to you.
I will ask you, very suddenly, “Camilla,
do you know anything about this murder?”
Mr, Perkins will watch you very closely,
and on your actions now the result depends.
You must act <is well as speak. You must be
awfully taken off■ You must half get ojf of
your chair and appear to be greatly excited.
You must act just a.? you think a guilty per
son would act when asked such a question
suddenly. Then you must answer very
quickly , “ How should I know anything
about it ? 1 ’ The reason of this Is, our theory
is, that if you know anything about it that
you would deny it; but that you
would show it in your manner. lie
member this, aud act guilty. After
you answer this I will say to you:
“ Don’t you know in your own heart that
when this murder was committed that I
was in bed and asleep?” You must hesi
tate a moment, when 1 will repeat the ques
tion, then you must answer, “Yes.” Then
I will ask, “ Do you know anything about
it?” You must not say anything to this.
Then I will say, “Camilla, if you know
anything about this, say so, before it is too
late.” You must not answer (his. Then I
will aav, “ Do you know anything ? ” Then
say, “ Yes.” Then I will say, “ Did you do
it?” Answer, “I helped.” “Who was with
vou?” Answer. “ You would not know if
I told you.” Then I will ask Mr. Perkins
to talk to you. He will probably ask yoh
who was with you? Youmustanswer, Air.
Lee and another man! Then you will prob
ably be asked who Mr. Leo la. Your an
swer will be, A gentleman whom Mr. Gilbert
introduced to your mother and you in front
of the Continental last spring. Then you
will probably be asked what time last
spring? Your answer will be. About May,
you think. You will also no doubt be asked
If yonr husband knew him, or If you ever
spoke to your husband about him ? To ibis
you will answer, No. Why did you not?
Ansxoer, I did not think it necessary. you
need not go on and tell this whole confes
sion right through, tell it by piece meal as
you are asked ; make all your answers tit
together and coincide with this theory, and
don’t contradict yourself. Study this well.
You mast not be surprised at anything I
do or say; it will all be for the beat. I may
speak unkindly to you, but don’t let that
worry yon; I will be acting for my life.—
When X ask the first question you must try
to show consternation in yonr countenance;
life is the stake vou will be acting lor. No
doubt you will be asked, a great many
questions; you must not be eager In
your replies, but rather reluctant—
If you are asked what motive you
had to do this, you must answer that your
mother was very cross to you; that she was
willing to let your husband have gentlemen’s
company, but would not allow you to have
ladies' company at the house, and you got so
Ikat you hated her for if; and you thought
that if she was dead you could rent the house ,
and we could live and be happy. Camilla,
tbe reason I want you to write tbe confes
sion twice, is this: I wish yon to pat one
yoar bosom; then if yoa feel that you
cannot tell this theory, why after I ask yon
if you don’t know in your own heart that I
was asleep, and yon answer “ Yes,” and I
ask you to tell what you know about It, you
cao, after a little hesitation, open your dress
and hand me the written confession. If you
are asked why you wrote that, your answer
is, 41 That if you wereto die it would be found,
and would clear up your husbancPs char
acter." If asked if you did not intend to
make it known before your husband’s
death, answer" No.” Question, "Why?”
Answer, " You thought you would not be
believed." You must write nothing but the
confession, and that in your own language.
If you can tell it I should prefer it.
Now, dear Camilla, I have done all that I
cau ; it remains for you to do the rest; when
you come iu my cell the next lime you bring
either life or death with you. Remember,
this I know, from the very best authority,
will save my life; if I did not know this, I
would not ask you to do it. Camilla, bow
would you feel to let me die Ibis way, with
out making this effort; would you uot
blame yourself all your life ? If I die this
awful death, you never can bo happy.—
Save, oh ! save me from this horrible, hor
rible death, you can do it, and.no one else
can. If your courage should grow weak,
think of this and be strong. Don’t forget
to act as I have told youyou must see
tho necessity of acting—your own good
sense will show you that. I have been
urged by many persons to ask you if
you knew anything about it ; they all
think you wduid deny it if you did, but you
would show it in your manner, so you seo
the need of acting. Please to study this
well, and be prepared for Monday morning.
I dare not leave it any longer. There will
only be nine dHyB, then. You will have to
leave the city. The peoplo would tear you
in pieceH, if you weut out. The best place
to go, I think, would bo either to Baltimore
or to New York. Change your name. Pack
your trunk ao as to bo ready to leavo at u
moment’s notice. You cau seud word to
Mr. BrlDgburst where you ure, and what
your name is,ln cuse you should be wanted.
You must ulwuys stick to this confession.
You must not breathe to uny one that we
are in communication, or that you have any
idea of doing this. Not even to Mr. Bring
hurst or anybody else under Heaven, or it
will kill me. If Mr. Perkins should tell you
that you must tell this to any one else, you
mast do it, and if the Governor should send
for you, you must go. If you should be
asked if you are not sorry your mother is
dead, you must say, no, tbe reason of this
Is, the world thinks you are a very cold
hearted person, and you must keep up this
idea now. And now, dear Camilla, study
this well, und do just as I have told you aud
you givo me life; tail, and it is deuth; don’t
forget thut the next time you see me you
bring lifo or death to me; and oh! dear
Camilla, for Heaven’s sake, let it be life.
Don’t, don’t, for God’s sake, don’t fail me
now. If yon are asked if your mother aud
I ever quarrelled, your unswer will bo, no
he never quarreled with any one. If you
cau remember this confession I would pro-*
IVr you uTtell it, but, if you think you cau
not repeat it, then you can give me tho
wriltou one; if you should give me the writ
ten you should be asked when you
wrote it you can fix any time a week or
two ago. Your own wish may be to let
this be till after Mr. O'Byrne comes from
Harrisburg; but he only does that out of a
sense of duty to me; he knows that he can
do no good, and you will be believed more,
becuuse the people will say that if it was
not so you’d have waited till everything
else was done, und uot have confessed while
the counsel was up to see the Governor.
Auy questions you may bo asked your own
good sense will tell you how to answer.
Good-bye. Don’t forget to burn this. Ca
raillu, do your boat, and all will be right.
If you are asked bow the men could come
out the gate and it be locked, answer, they
could Jj>ck it themselves, it was a spring
padlock. You mnst not come to seo me uny
more after you toll this.
[FIFTH LETTER.]
[Received ou Wednesday succeeding Good
Friday.)
DearCamilla* I have concluded to alter
tho plan of makio£.a confession. Idoit in
prder to make it easier for you. Instead of
asking you here, I want you to go and see
Mr. Bringhurst to-morrow morning; go
early, he does not know that you will be
there, and make a voluntary confession to
bltn; tell him you oannot endure the
thought of iny being exeouted without tell
ing what you know about tbiß murder; you
mußt be positlvo about my beiug In bed
and asleep when it was done. If, when you
go there, the girl should tell you that he oan
not bo seen, you must insist on seeing him,
giving your namo. Camilla, you must
mnke tbe confession that I gave you on Fri
day, but I wish you toaltor it some. I wish
to make this alteration: Instead of
being Introduced to Mr. Lee by Mr. Gil
bert, you must have it that you got ac
quainted with him in un Eighth streetcar
in this way: You got in tho car at Eighth
und Spruco streets to take a ride, us you
ofion did. A gentleman got in ut Chestnut
stroot, nnd took u seat alongside of you.—
After riding u short dlstanco tho cur became
very much crowded, nnd you dropped your
parasol, and this gentleman picked It up.—
You tkunkod him, und ho spoke übout the
nuUunco of riding in u crowded car, This
opened a convolution, und you' tullced
along quito pleasantly, until ho got out of
the c.ir at Spring Garden stroot. Ia tho
courxo of conversation hotold'you his uurae
whs Leo, 111111 then askod your name ; you
told him. /After this you often saw him on
und ou Eighth street; ho
always bowed to you and you roturnod his
bow. Aftor awhile bo would spoak to you,
nnd finally shook hands with you, anu af
tor that you got quite familiar, and used to
meet like old friends. This will avoid Buy
ing uuythlng about Gilbert, and will not
bring him in tho matter at all. You
can connect this theory with your
after conversation with him by de
grees, until you make him tho person who
was in tbe house on that night. This will
uot seem strange, as such acquaintances
are often made, and tho people think you
lmd enough for anything; but you must
not mind this now, lor you havo my life to
save. You need not be afraid of this, be
cause there is no such a man as I have
mentioned, so he| can’t come forward und
prove where he was, and Philadelphia Is a
large place to find such u man; besides,
such a man as you will describe him to be
would be likely to travel, and It is such a
loDg time since thut oven if there was such
a man ho could not bo found now. You can
use any other nurao if you like. If, ufter
you have mado this confession to Mr.
Bringburst, he should want you to make it
to any else, you must do it Ask him to go
with you, und be will do it, and be will
treat you kindly for my Hake; but you
must not oven bint to him that I know
anything übout this. He thinks that
you know something about this ; con
sequently this will have weight. You
must uot forget thut it was you who pro
posed to throw the body out of the win
dow ; this is plausible for a woman, but
not from a mun. Now, Camilla, I wish
you to tell this if you oan ; but if you think
you will fall then write it, and giyo it to him
or any one he tells you to. If you wuuld bo
asked if you have seen Mr. Leo Hince, you
must say no. Now Camilla, don't make
auy mistake, und don't atop to say yoa are
! afraid that it will not avail, or thut Mr.
O’Byrne thinks so, for I tell you it will save
me. I have got it from tho beat authority.
I will mention Homo authority, but jou
must keep it Hecret from O’Byrno or any
ore else, lor 1 am bound in confidence not
to reveal it, but I tell you to assure you. A
lawyer, whose word cannot be doubted, bus
spent a night with Governor Geary’s private
secretary, Dr. Gibon, and he told him that
both himself and tbe Governor|thinks that
you are the guilty party, und that if any
thing new wus to turn up, or you was to
come forward and confess, the Gover
nor would spafe me. This is from
too good a source to be doubted.—
Now you can see the need of a confes
sion ; it is the only thing that can save me,
and you must make it to-morrow morning,
for ttiere is not an hour to be lost. I have
laid tbegrouDd for this, and you must do
tbe rest. Here are some questions that you
may bo asked, bosides those I gave you be
fore :
Question. Which way did those men go
when thoy left the house?
Answer. I don’t know ; I did not look ;
I Ktood behind the door.
Q. How were those men dressed ?
A. In dark clothes.
Q. Were tbe clothes black ?
A. Idoq’tknow; they were dark; I did
not take particular notice.
Q. Was the overcoat he had on long or
short ?
A. I don’t know ; I did not notice.
Q. Did you get any blood on you ?
A. I get some spots on my night cap.
Q,. What did you do with the night-cap ?
A. Burned it.
Q. Where?
A. In the range in tbe kitchen.
Q. When did yon first Bee that you had
blood on your night-cap?
A. As soon us I came in the kitchen. Af
ter washing my hands I looked in the look
ing-glass and saw it
Q. Have you seen Mr. Lee since that
night ?
A. No.
Q. Have you heard from him ?
A. No.
Q. Did your mother and husband ever
quarrel ?
A. No. he never quarrelled with any one,
Q.. Did you have a candle ?
A. Yes; my mother had the entry gas
tnrned off, and the candle lit standing on a
chair in the entry. 1 took It out to the hy
drant when I went to wash my hands, and
took it and put it on the kitchen table.
Q. Did vou hear the blows very loud when
you stood at tbe dining-room door ?
A. No ; I could just hear them, that was
all.
NUMBER 16
Q. Was the door open or shut ?
A. Shut.
Q. Who shut it?
Camilla, these quest lon may be asked and
they may not:
Q. Why did you say to your husband,
when you were going to prison. “George, if
you know anything about it, tell it aud save
me ?”
A. To throw suspicion off myself.
Any other questions of a like character
about remarks you have made, you must
answer the same.
Q. If that was so, why do you make this
confession now ?
A. I can’t endure It uny longer. If niv
husband should bo hung for this I would
kilimyself, because I am thconethntought
to w hung.
Q. Dou’l he know something about it ?
A. No.
Now, Camilla, here isnnother coufesaion,
and you can make which oue you please,
but you must make one or the other to
morrow morning, as I have directed you.
[SIXTH LETTER.)
CONFESSION NUMBER TWO.
You will know what to say about our go
iDg to'bed that night,becauseit has all bren
produced iu evideuce. Now, you must tell
the following story: After my husband
went to sleep that night, which whs in h
very short time ufter he got in bed, I could
not go to sleep; so, after lying theie a long
time, I looked at my watch. It was u quar
ter to nine o’clock. I thought I would get
up aud go down uud see what mother wus
doing, and sit and talk awhile with her. I
often used to do this when George was
usleen, and he know nothing about it. I
found her in the dining-room, sittiug be
side the fire. Wo talked awhile, when >vo
got to quarrelling. {Catnillu. you know
whut you used to quarrel about, so If you
are asked whut it was übout.you will know
what to aay). Wo ofteu quarrelled when
my husband way not about—while we
wero both angry. She said that if it
wus not for her that 1 would bo a beg
gar, and would have to go to the alms
house. This made me so angry that 1 did
uot know what to do. 1 saw the poker
lying beside the grate, and I ran and got it
aud struek her with it seventl times before
I knew what I was dolug. She fell on the
sofu | then I got frightened and did not
know whut to do. Then I thought I would
throw her out of the window, and people
would think she fell out, und 1 would wash
the blood off the floor. I went to the win
dow in thesmokiugroom, because I thought
the willow tree would bide me. I pulled
up the blinds and window and went aud
tried to lift her. At flrst 1 could uot move
her; and then I got desperate, uud it
seemed that I hud live times my natural
strength, and I lifted herns eusy us though
she had been a buby. I Old uot feel her at
all. I could 'have currfcd throe times us
much. After I threw her out, 1 felt ho weak
for a moment or two that 1 had to hold my
self up by the wall. Then I felt stronger,
and went down stnirs to get Homethmg
to wipe the blood off the floor. I took a
towel that buug up neur the hydraut, and*
went up and began to wipe it; then T saw
that I could not do it. and when I looked
around and saw the blood on the walls, I
knew it could not bo hid. It thou occurred
to me to go down aud take her money ; then
it would look us though it had been done by
some one for her money. After I took her
money, she moved, uud I went up to the
dining room and got the poker and came
down and struck her in the temple with the
point of it, und then left it lying there.
When I went up after the potter I luid the
money on tho tuble. After I struck her in
the yard I washed the towel mul my face
aud bunds under the hydrant, uud Jet the
hydrant run a short lime. Then I saw I
bad a groat deal of blood on my night gown,
so I took it off. and my night cap also, and
put them in the ruugo au<l shut it up aud
pulled out tho drafts, aud in a few mlnulert
they wore all burned up, and I went up
stairs in the dining-room, aud picked up
the money and found that it hud blood on
it, and I was afraid to keep it, so I put it in
the fire und wailed till it was burned up!;
then I went up to my room, and put on a
short night-gown and a red sack, und got
into bed. I was iu bed about live or ten
minutes, when the girl rang the bell, I was
Afraid to go down, so I waited to see if she
would wake George ; but be did not wake,
so I woke him, aud asked him to go down
and lot her in. lie asked where mother
was? I told him “I guessed she was
asleep,” Hu theu put on his pants, coat,
and boots, und weDt down and let her in.
What followed Is already known.
Camilla, you must make onejof theso, or
I am lost. Do it, and I am saved. This will
do me more good than three times all the
money you have got. You may be usked
this question, “How you coulu carry her
yourself?” You must then remember that
at flrstyou could not, then you got desperate
and it seemed to you tba: all at once you had
supernatural strength given you ; that you
never was so strong In your life. This is not
uuuatural at each a time. If they should in
sist that you had some one to help you, you
must be ompbatlo about It, and never give
lu to them. If you are usked how you wero
dressed when you curne down to talk with
your mother, you can say, in your night
clothes; a long whito muslin night-gown
with u chemise undor It, and a night-cap,
and bare feet—nothing else. Camilla, to
morrow morning Is your time. If you do It,
you must not como to sue mo any more. If
you do not do It you will never see mo
alive ; for I cannot have my arms tied be
hind mu, and be led down to the gallows,
tbero stand und have a cap tied ovur my
face, then u rope nut around my nook, and
thou let drop. Oh I ll Is terrible, awful,
horrible! Think of this, and save me. Oh!
for Hoavon's snko. hhvo—Oh, savo mu !
Now, dour Camilla, if you are willing to
do this, you must do it just us I tell you to
do. They might arrest vnu, to try your
sincerity,;i)ut if they should do so, you must
submit. They cannot do anything with
you. Now, Cutnllla, you must not seek to
know how I have got my information ; but,
ifyoudousi wish, you will know some
time. You must uot hint to any ono, ex
cept futhor, tlmt I am In communication
with you. I have it from tho Governor’s
private secretary, through an undoubted
source; furthermore, I have it from ex
Governor Pollock, Wui. Meredith. Horace
Binuey, ex-Mayor Henry, Daniel Doughor
ty, and many others, the most substantial
men of the city und State. But for Heav
en’s sako dont you go to any of these per
sons or to any one else, for it must ap
pear to be voluntary and uupreuiediluted
on your part. Camilla, if you will save me
from this awful fate, make either of these
confessions, whichever you llko, but you
must make one. Think of my position. I
know it will be an awful mortifying thing
for you to do ; but then it will imt take you
long to do it, and then my life will bo saved.
It' you don’t do this it will just bo the same
as if you hud killed mo. because you could
have saved mo, and would uot. Camilla,
for God’s sake don’t stop tosuy I uuiafruid;
it will do no good ; but do it because I ask
you to do it, and you must know I would
n<*t ask you to make your position uny
worse thau it is, without it would save my
life. You have told me soverul times you
would do it; don’t for Hoavon’s sake fail
me now. *Tia your last chuuce to help mo,
and there is not an hour to tie lost. You
can suy to Mr. ltringhursl, after it is all
done, to say to me that you have told what
you know, aud 101 l him to ask mo to for
give you Tills will look natural.
I think, perhaps, tho last confession will
be the best, but either will do; but which
ever one you main*, you must write it
down for future reference. Don't forget
this. Put it in your own languugo. Re
member that the lime is very short, and for
my sake, Camilla, don't delay Oh, (’a |
nulla, I will idolize you tf you will do this.
Place yourself in my position, and me in
yours, aud you knew I ouuld save you, and
would not make the oniy % effort that would
doit. I f you do this you will not fail me;
only do it us I toll you. Don’t think that
you know a better way, for if I could only
huve a short conversation with you ulono,
you would know that I atn right. De
spairingly yours, m hope. Georok.
(On tho reverse side of this page is the
following:)
Camilla: If you should make tho lust
confession, you must remember that you
were perfectly furious, and also ilihl when
you flrst tried to lift the body you could
not, but when you got desperate you had
such strength as you never had before ; and
dou’t forget, if you are asked, that all the
imprudent remarks you have made were
to cast all suspicion from yourself. If you
are asked if any of your counsel knew any
thing about your confession, you must say
no, and be very decided nbout it. You may
say yon are sorry or not, just as you please.
, If you are naked anything about the doors
of the dining-room or our hed-room, say
they were shut. I will tell father to seo you
to-day, and I wish you to see him alone.
[SEVENTH LETTER.]
Camilla: Here aro two confessions;
choose which one you please. First. You
killed your mother. You got up out of
bed on that night. You could not sleep.
Your husband was asleep, und you thought
you would go down stairs and set and talk
awhile with your mother. You used to
often do it when your husband wus asleep.
He went to sleep almost as soon as ho got
In bed, and always slept very sound, so
that you could hardly wake - him. You
went down stairs to the dining-room.—
When you got in the dining-room you saw
her asleep on the sofa. You don t know
wbat came over you—it must have been
Ibo spirit of tbe devil—but something told
you to kill her. You could
Something seemed to say, “ Kill her,
and you can got her money, and then
you won’t have to give her a deed of trust
on the bouse.” You never wanted to
give»her a deed of trust, but your hus
band said it must be done. The devil told
you to go down stairs and get the kitchen
poker, and you went. When you came
up again it seemed to tell you to
go and get your husband’s shirt
and ooat and put them on, bo that if
Sou got any blood on you it would look as
tough he did It. You did not think he
BATS or ADTKUTIS..W
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three times 1.60
could be convicted* You thought his good
character would acquit him. Yon went
aud put on his shirt and coat; you then came
down and struck her a great nmny times
with the poker, and just as'you stopped she
jumped up very suddenly and ran to the
window, which was up; ft frightened you
for a moment, aud then when you hud got
there she had fallen out. You supposed It
wa9 her last strength. Yoq then went down
stairs and took the money aud struck her
several times again, and theri washed your
bunds at the hydrant, letting it run a few
moments. You wiped your hands on a
towel that was hanging there. You thou
went up in the dining-room and looked at
the money. It had . blood on it, and you
were ufraid to keopdVaMfi you put itiu tin*
tire. You found a’he'ryiSft wont up to your
bod room that you had bhxid on ymirtilgbt
eap, and you put it iu the stove und it was
burned up. You then got into bed. Tills
was about half an hour beforeSurah (’amp
bell caiuo homo. After you heard the bell
ring several limes, you woke mo up, aud
asked me to go down and let her in, ami
see where mother wua. s Tills must all be lu
your own language.
CumilUt, if I should die, who would nurse
you when you were sick ? Who would bo
the company for yon that I can? I have
nursed you through many weary hours of
pain, ff you should falter or feel 100 weak
to do thlH, think of that * think how louoly
you would be without mo, and all the work!
against you; but I know you will uot leavo
me alone now. You will bo asked a great
many questions,but you mustnot contradict
yourself wheu you answer them. It is an
awful, awful tbiug for you to do this, but It
is the ouly thing Ihut can save my life, and
I would have done this to have saved yours,
if you had beeu convicted. If I had done It,
it would have cost mo my life; but they
can’t do anything ici all with you now—
can’t even hold you tinder bull. If I have
to die, the public generally will still bo*
lieve that you are guilty, anil If I live I will
go with you to aome other Slate under an
assumed name. L will nevor, never leave
you. 1 will work and slum* if necessary In
provide for yon comfortably. Only help
me to escape this awful doalh ; and f know
you will do It. You will mil deceive me lu
this ilrendful hour of peril. Do not for any
thing lot any eye but your own see this. As
soon as you are doDo with it burn it up. 1
will give you all the uecossary instructions
how to do it, wbou to do It, and where to do
tfccond. You did not do it, nor see it done,
but you know that your husbuud did not
do U. You bad made uo arrangements with
Mr. Gilbert to have It done. He first spoke
to you about it one afternoon, two mouths
before it was done. You happened to meet
him at the corner of FiMeeuth aud Pius, ns
you wore coming down Pine, having been
taking a walk; be spoke to you. and walked
down Pine loTwelfth stieut with you. He
asked you how your mother was, and re
marked what n iron bio she must bo to } ou.
If she was to die now nice you would bo
fixed. Thu next time y<>u saw him was
about three weeks after. Y<>u met
him on Eighth street below Race, lie again
asked about your mother; how she was?
It she was not rather childish? This lime
he usked if she did not carry a good deal of
money about her. You asked him how ho
knew anything about it. Unsaid thatyour
husband accidentally ineniioucd it once
when he was talking about her, aud ulso
that Mr. Henderson had told him. Ho
left you at the corner of Filbert street.
About a week afterwards you met him in
the car on Ninth street. He spoke and
asked how your mother was. You got out
at the corner of Niulh and Arch streets aud
left him iu it. Twoorthrooduys afterwards
you suw him ugalu. You were lookiug in
the window at the pictures at Gutekunsl'*,
iu Arch at rent, above Seventh, when he
came up and spoke to you. lie then usked
you If you were going up the street? You
told him you woro. Do said he would walk
up with you. Ho walked up to Tenth,
where-you took the car to cotnu homo. On
this walk ho asked you how your mother
wus? and again said how nicely you and
your huubuml would be tlxod it she should
die, uud how imprudent it was for your
inuther to curry her money about with her,
and usked you if she did not stuy up very
lute at night? aud whether you ami your
husband stuyed up with her? You told
him thut wo went to bed very early. -This
was all about tho trouble with him about
the will. He apologized to you for reading
It to your mother. You never told your
husbund of meeting him, for ho did not like
him, and said ho was a bud mun. You did
not see him aguin for about two weeks,
when you again mot him In Eighth street,
above Chestnut. Ho spoke to you, ami
walked up Eighth to Arch, whoro he
left you, going down Arch. Ho ugalu
got to tulking übout your mother; how
troublesome she must be, und If sho
was to die bow nlco we could live, nothing
to trouble us. He also usked übout our
sorvunt; whethor wo had a good one; bow
hard it wus to get a good one Thut tbuy
always wanted an alternoon und evening
ovory week. He usked you if wo gave our
survunPtbiH ? You told him that she hud
every Thursday afternoon and ovoniug,
und ovory Hunday ufteruoon undovuulng.
Hu then usked you if your mother allowed
her to slay out lute? You suld she cauio
homo generally betweon nine and ton
o'clock. Ho ulso usked you if you wultod
up for her or gave hor h key I You told him
your molhor ulways wultod up for hor—
that you und your husband went lo bud.
Ho asked what time? You said übout 8
o'clock. He then tohl you that ho had boon
on lo New York, and hud un elegant time.
He suld thut ho took tho world very eusy ;
that nothing ever troubled hltm You saw
him u few days ultur this In ChuH’.nulalruul
—ho going up und you going down. Ho
bowed lo you. You suw him ugnln.tho
Thursday boforo the murder, at Eighth
and Chestnut; he Jolnod you und walked
up us fur us Cherry, when ho loft you uml
went up Cherry street. On this occasion,
us usual, ho tulkodofyour mother, lie ask
ed you how muuh money she curried übout
her? You told him you thought übout
five thousand dollars. He suld It
wus u nice pile. You asked him how ho
would like to huvo it. lie suld first rule.
You told him ho could huvo it if ho would
send for it at a proper time. He usked wheu
u proper time was? You told him tills
evening. He suld it was 100 soou. You
then toid him Sunday evening. Hu sold
he would do it. He usked which door he
should send to. You told him thut tho front
gute might be unboiled, liusald be would
send somebody to make everything right.
On the evenlug of the murder you went uud
unlocked the pudlock, which wus a spriug
lock und would lock itself, aud unbolted
the front gute.
You went to bed and your husband came
a few minutes after, ho went to sleep, und
wus not out of the room till ho wont down
stairs to let tho girl In. You was uwake,
but heard no noise except about a half hour
before tho girl cuiuu boms, when you
thought you heard the front door shut.—
These conversations you hat! with Mr. Gil
bert were always lu the ufteruoon, between
throe uud tlvo o'clock. Gkoiiuu.
nivcdiaueoiiN Nolo.
Tho following wore rucolvud ut various
times, written In tho smallest possible
hum), on diminutive pieces of paper :
Camilla, ifyou should bo asked why you
did not lull before this, say you were afrfiid
Hint tbo people would tear you to pieces,
and that you cannot conceal it any longer;
that you are sorry that you ditl It, und that
it is killing you by degrees. This looks
very rational. Everybody knows tlmt
when a person Is uudor a strong oxoitomunt
they are stronger than at any other time,
and when the excitement leaves they be*
come very weak This will account natur
al ly for your supernatural strength ut that
dine. Don’t think that you will wait a day
or two to see If some of the oilier plans that
are being done will answer, lor If you do U
will bo lutal; ©very moment counts now.
Ifyounro asked what time It was when
you struck her, unswer that vou suppose It
was after U o’clock, but you were too ex
cited to notlceabout time. Okohue.
Camilla, If you make the first confession
you can, ifyou like, say that you made Iho
acquaintance of Mr. Lee by being Intro
duced to him by Dr. Kuton Hboul ten years
ago. You know all about Dr. Eaton, and
you know that he la dead, so he cannot con
tradict this. If you should do this you can
say that sometimes you would sue Mr. Lee
very often, and sometimes not for months.
Geougk.
Oh, Camilla. I am afraid your telling mo
that you will uo anything for me is all talk,
because, If you fall to do as I request, no
thing under Heaven will save me. For
God’s sake and my life, do this without luil.
If Mr. Bringhurst should usk you why
you came to him to tell him this, answer
that you do not know who else to go to.
If you are asked about your former life
refuse to answer. If you are uskod how
you knew Mr. Lee was a gambler, unswor,
•* You asked him one time, and-he s.iid he
sometimes played to pass away lime.”
Don’t furget to have the time of the days of
your meeting with Mr. Lee all right. If
asked, I would say that through the middle
of the summer you did not see anything of
him. Dou’t for Heaven’s sake fail now ?
Geouqk.
“ A certain queer genius whosd prom
inent speciality was an aversion to
water, happened home late one night,
with that peculiar, furry Bensation about
his tongue and tonsils which gentlemen
who rejoice in Clubs will remember as
part of fhelr experience. His wife had
left standing upon a bureau a tumbler,
in which—for some purpose known to
house wives—she had put a small ball of
silken thread to soak. Without ob
serving this fact Bibulous seized the
tumbler, and swallowed its contents.
Feeling a thread in his mouth, he began
pulling upon It. To his horror, yard
after yard came stringing forth, until,
in an agony of excitement, he orled out:
1 Luoy. Lucy, for God’s take feme here!
I’m unravelling
, !L6O
2.50
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