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  It was then I discovered so much blood, and the fear of its leaking through the floor caused me to take a towel and gather with it all I could, and rinse it in the pail which stood in the room. The pail was, I should think, at that time about one third full of water, and the blood filled at least another third full. Previous to doing this I moved the body towards the box and pulled out part of the awning to rest it on, and covered it with the remainder. I never saw his face afterward. After soaking up all the blood I could, which I did as still and hastily as possible, I took my seat near the window and began to think what it was best to do. About this time some one knocked at the door, to which, of course, I paid no attention. My horrid situation remained at this time till dark—a silent space of time, with still more horrid reflection. At dusk of the evening, and when some omnibuses were passing, I carefully opened the door and went out as still as possible, and was, as I thought, unheard. I crossed into the Park and went down to the City Hotel, my purpose being to relate the circumstance to a brother who was stopping at that house. I saw him in the front reading room, engaged in conversation with two gentlemen. I spoke to him; a few words passed between us, and; seeing that he was engaged, I returned to the Park. I walked up and down, thinking what was best to do. I thought of many things, among others of going to a magistrate and relating the circumstance to him. Then I thought of the horrors of the excitement, the trial, public censure, and false and foul reports that would be raised by the many that would stand ready to make the best appear worse than the worst for the sake of a paltry pittance, gained to them in the publication of perverted truth and original, false, foul, caluminating lies. All this, added to my then feelings, was more than I could bear. Besides, at this time, in addition to the blows given, there would be left the mark or evidence of a rope drawn tightly around the neck, which looked too deliberate for anything like death caused in an affray.

  Firing the building seemed first a happy thought, as all would be enveloped in flames and wafted into air and ashes; then the danger of causing the death of others, as there was quite a number who slept in the building, the destruction of property, etc., caused me to abandon the idea. I next thought of having a suitable box made, and having it leaded, so the blood would not run out, and then moving it off somewhere and burying it; then the delay of all this, and the great liability of being detected. After wandering in the Park for an hour or more I returned to my room and entered it as I had left it, and, as I supposed, unobserved. Wheeler’s door was open, and he was talking to some one quite audibly. I went into my room, entering undetermined, and not knowing what to do. After I was seated in my room I waited silently until Wheeler’s school was out and his lights were extinguished—and during this suspense it occurred to me that I might put the body in a cask or box and ship it somewhere. I little thought at this time that the box that was in the room would answer; I thought it was too small, and short, and unsafe, as it was quite open. Wheeler’s school being out I still heard some one in his room, and, as I then thought, whoever it was lay down on the benches. The noise did not appear exactly like a person going to bed; there was no rustling of bed clothing. I felt somewhat alarmed. The thought then occurred to me that it might be the person who Wheeler had stated was going to occupy the room which I then held as a sleeping room as soon as I gave it up, which was to be in about ten days.

  The party in question was temporarily occupying Wheeler’s room. Relieving myself by this thought I soon lit a candle, knowing that something must be done; there was no time to lose. This was about nine o’clock, I should think. Having closed the shutters I went and examined the box to see if I could not crowd the body into it.

  I soon saw that there was a possibility of doing so, if I could bend the legs up so it would answer, and if I could keep some of the canvas around the body, so as to absorb the blood and keep it from running; this I was fearful of. It occurred to me, if I bury or send the body off, the clothes he had on would, from description, establish his identity. It became necessary to strip and dispose of the clothes, which I speedily accomplished by ripping up the coat sleeves, vest, etc. While doing so the money, keys, etc., which he had in his pocket, caused a rattling; I took them out and laid them on one side, and then pulled a part of the awning over the body to hide it; I then cut and tore a piece from the awning and laid it in the bottom of the box; then cut several pieces from the awning for the purpose of lessening its bulk, supposing it was too much to crowd into the box with the body; I then tied, as tight as I could, a portion of the awning about the head, having placed something like flax, which I found, in the box with the awning; I then drew a piece of rope around the legs at the joint of the knees and tied them together; I then connected a rope to the one about the shoulders or neck, and bent the knees towards the head of the body as much as I could, which brought it into a compact form.

  After several efforts I succeeded in raising the body to a chair, then to the top of the box, and, turning it around a little, let it into the box as easy as I could, back downward, with head raised. The head, knees and feet were still a little out, but by reaching down to the bottom of the box, and pulling the body a little towards me, I readily pushed the head and feet in. The knees still projected, and I had to stand upon them with all my weight before I could get them down. The awning was then all crowded into the box, excepting a piece or two, which I reserved to wipe the floor. There being still a portion of the box next to the feet not quite full, I took his coat and, after pulling up a portion of the awning, crowded it partially under him, and replaced the awning. The cover was at once put on the box and nailed down with four or five nails, which were broken, and of but little account. I then wrapped the remainder of his clothing up, and carried it down stairs to the privy and threw them into it, together with his keys, wallet, money, pencil cases, etc.; these latter things I took down in my hat and pockets, a part wrapped in paper and a part otherwise. In throwing them down I think they must have rattled out of the paper. I then returned to the room, carried down the pail which contained the blood, the contents of which I threw into the gutter—into the street I pumped several pails of water and threw them in the same direction. The pump is nearly opposite the outer door of the building. I then carried a pail of water up stairs, and, after rinsing the pail, returned it clean, and two thirds full of water, to the room, opened the shutters as usual, drew a chair to the door, and leaned it against it on the inside as I closed it, locked the door, and went at once to the Washington Bath House, on Pearl street, near Broadway.

  On my way to the bath house I went to a hardware store, for the purpose of getting some nails to further secure the box. The store was closed. When I got to the bath house, I think, by the clock there it was eight minutes past ten o’clock. I washed out my shirt thoroughly in parts of the sleeves and bosom that were somewhat stained with blood from washing the floor; my pantaloons, in the knees, I also washed a little, and my neckhandkerchief in spots. I then went home. It wanted, when I got home, about five minutes of eleven o’clock. I lit a light as usual. Caroline wished to know why I came in so late. I made an excuse, saying I was with a friend from Philadelphia, I think, and that I should get up early in the morning to see him off. I went to the stand and pretended to write till she became quiet or went to sleep, then put out the light and undressed myself, spread my shirt, etc., out to dry, and went to bed. In the morning about half past five, I got up, put my shirt and handkerchief, which were not yet quite dry, in the bottom of the clothes basket, under the bed. I always change my shirt on going to bed. In the morning put on a clean shirt and handkerchief, and was nearly dressed when Caroline woke up. I stated to her it was doubtful if I would return to breakfast; did not return; went to the office, and found all, apparently, as I had left it.

  I went after some nails and got them at Wood’s store. The store was just opened. I returned to the office, nailed up the box on all sides, and went down to the East river to ascertain the first packet to New Orleans. I then r
eturned to the room, marked the box, and moved it, with great difficulty, to the head of the stairs. I did not dare to let it down myself, but went to look for a carman. I saw a man passing the door as I was going out, and requested him to help me down with the box. He got it down without any assistance, preferring to do it himself, and I gave him ten or twelve cents. I then went down Chambers street for a carman whom I saw coming towards Broadway, and hired him to take the box to the ship at the foot of Maiden lane. I went with him.

  While he was loading the box I went to my office for a piece of paper to write a receipt on, and wrote the receipt to be signed by the captain on my way down the street I did not offer the receipt to be signed; requested one, which the receiver of the box gave me.

  The clerk was by at the time, and objected to the form of the receipt, and took it and altered it, wishing to know if I wanted a bill of lading. I at first remarked, as there was but one box it was not very important, adding, however, that I would call at the office for one. I did not go for the bill of lading. I tore up the receipt before I was two squares from the ship. I returned to my office by way of Lovejoy’s Hotel, opposite the Park. I went to the eating room and called for a hot roll and cup of coffee; I could not eat, but drank two cups of coffee. Went to my office, locked the door, and sat down for some time. I examined everything about the room, wiped the wall in one or two places, and then went home and to bed.”

  Caroline Henshaw, although not married to Colt, was true to him. During his incarceration she was a constant visitor to the Tombs. It was the doomed man’s desire that he should marry her before he was hanged. Consent having been obtained, the marriage ceremony was performed at noon on the fatal day, the time of execution having been fixed four hours later.

  The bride was at the cell at 11.30. She was attired in a straw bonnet, green shawl, claret colored cloak, trimmed with red cord and a muff. She was accompanied by Colt’s brother and John Howard Payne, the author of “Home, sweet home.” The Rev. Mr. Anthon performed the ceremony. The mistress became by law the wife, and the same law had decreed that in four short hours she should be a widow. Colt bore up like a man, and was even cheerful and chatty. It was his wedding day, and when should a man be in good spirits if not then? The marriage was solemnized in presence of David Graham, Robert Emmett, Justice Merritt, the Sheriff, John Howard Payne and Colt’s brother. After it was over the bride and groom were allowed to be alone one hour.

  What could have been their conversation—what their thoughts. A husband of an hour, with his valet, Death, making his wedding toilet! A bride whose orange flowers would soon be cypress leaves, and whose trousseau was the weeds of widowhood!

  FIRE! FIRE!

  After his wife had gone, and the honeymoon of an hour was over, Colt requested to be left alone. His wish was respected.

  In the meantime the excitement in and around the Tombs was tremendous. The gallows was erected—all the preparations were completed. The time was slipping away, and the dread hour was near at hand. Just as the clock trembled on the verge of four—the boundary moment between brief time and endless eternity—the cry of fire was raised. The greatest commotion immediately prevailed.

  It was found the cupola of the prison was all ablaze. Engines thundered down the street, the bells rang, and the light of the conflagration cast its lurid glare over the horrid scene.

  “DEAD, FOR A DUCAT—DEAD!”

  But the man must be hanged all the same. At a few minutes before four o’clock the Rev. Mr. Anthon went to the cell to notify Colt that all was ready. He opened the door and entered. In a moment he staggered out with a wild cry, and his face as white as the snow. The cell was crowded in a twinkling. There, dead upon the bed, with a knife in his heart, lay the man for whom the rope was waiting outside. His hands were composedly crossed upon his stomach. The gallows was cheated, and the ghastly execution in the prison yard was anticipated by the suicidal knife in the prison cell!

  PUBLIC EXCITEMENT.

  The excitement created by this remarkable and fearful affair was naturally great In the Herald, the next morning, appeared the following editorial:

  “THE LAST DAY OF JOHN C. COLT.—HIS EXTRAORDINARY SUICIDE AND DEATH.”

  In another part of this day’s paper will be found the extraordinary suicide and death of John C. Colt, before the hour appointed by law for his execution, and the no less extraordinary circumstance of his marriage to Caroline Henshaw, his final separation, and the firing of the cupola of the Halls of Justice about the hour at which he committed the fatal act that closed his course on earth.

  We hardly know where to begin, or how to express the feelings and thoughts which rise up in the mind in contemplating this awful, this unexampled, this stupendous, this most extraordinary and most horrible tragedy. The death of Adams, and the circumstances attending that fatal deed, can only be paralleled by the trial, sentence and awful suicide of Colt. The history of the case cannot be equalled in its horror by that of any criminal trial on record.

  Yet it will not probably end here. The public will demand a full investigation of the circumstances through which such a catastrophe was permitted. How came Colt to ask for religious consolation from a clergyman and yet to commit suicide? The prayers said over him by the Rev. Mr. Anthon seem to have had little influence upon his mind when we look at the horrible termination of his life. Christianity had not penetrated or pervaded the last moments of his existence in the remotest degree. Taking all the horrid circumstances of his end into consideration, we have every reason to believe that Governor Seward will order an investigation into the facts, and ascertain that no one is to blame for such a death but the unfortunate being himself. Toward him that was, none can have any feeling but that of pity, commiseration, and deep anguish of heart. From the first moment of his trial to the last pulsation of his existence he seems to have been under the influence of a false system of morals, a perverted sense of human honor, and a sentiment that is at utter variance with the mysterious revelations of Christianity, or the sacred institutions of justice in civilized society. The perverted principles of honor and respectability that spring from modern philosophy and human pride have precipitated him upon the fatal precipice. These principles, arising from materialism in philosophy and unbelief in all revelation, are too rife in the world, and may be looked upon as the principal cause of all the licentiousness, private and public, which seems to overwhelm the whole institutions of civilized society in one mass of uproar, confusion and despair.

  We cannot say more to-day, nor could we say less at this momentous crisis. “We have no doubt Governor Seward will order an investigation at once into this most unheard of—most unparalleled tragedy.”

  In a further allusion to the subject, the Herald says: “Who gave him the knife? Persons who were alone with him in his cell yesterday: Rev. Mr. Anthon, Dudley Selden, Samuel Colt, Caroline Henshaw, Sheriff Hart.

  “In addition to the above, David Graham and Robert Emmett visited him together, when no other persons were present. Also, John Howard Payne and Lewis Gaylord Clarke visited him with Samuel Colt. Who gave him the knife?”

  There were at the time, and are now, many persons who believe that during the excitement consequent to the burning of the Tombs cupola, Colt was allowed to escape, and a body substituted by his friends to convey the impression of suicide.

  2

  Dr. Valorous P. Coolidge

  Valorous P. Coolidge was a well-known and fairly prosperous medical doctor in Waterville, Maine. He was also the rare murderer who performed the autopsy on his own victim. Though he made a good living and had a sterling reputation, Dr. Coolidge also had the unfortunate habit of living beyond his means. Edward Mathews, a wealthy cattle dealer, agreed to loan the good doctor $2,000, but also demanded $500 in interest. So Coolidge offered Mathews a drink—whether it was brandy or whiskey is unclear—spiked with prussic acid (aka hydrogen cyanide). Then for good measure he struck him in th
e head with a hatchet, several times. Convicted and sentenced to hang, he managed to get more prussic acid smuggled into his jail cell, which he used to commit suicide, thereby cheating the hangman.

  TRIAL OF DR. COOLIDGE.

  The trial of Dr. Valorus [sic] P. Coolidge, for the murder of Edward Mathews, took place the 14th of March, 1848, at Augusta, in Maine, before Chief Justice Whitman, and two associate justices.

  The respectable position in society held by the prisoner, and the singular atrocity of the crime with which he was charged, excited unusual interest; so much so, that to accommodate the large number desirous of hearing the trial, the court was induced to transfer its sittings from the court-house to a very capacious church, which was filled as soon as the doors were thrown open.

  The trial lasted an entire week, and the number of witnesses examined amounted to about seventy. From this voluminous mass of testimony it appeared that Dr. Coolidge was a physician in the town of Waterville, in a very successful practice; notwithstanding which he was always in need of money, and borrowed it wherever he could, and commonly at usurious interest. More than a dozen witnesses stated that he was indebted to them for money lent, from fifty to three or four hundred dollars, and that about the time of Mathews’ death, he offered $500 for the use of $2,000 for six months, and even for a still shorter time.

  It further appeared that the prisoner knew that Mathews had gone to Brighton with a drove of cattle; that he made repeated inquiries of the amount Mathews would receive, and requested the barkeeper of the house where Mathews boarded, to let him know when Mathews returned. Mathews arrived on Saturday, the 25th of March, but Coolidge did not see him until the following Wednesday. There were several private interviews between him and Coolidge on Wednesday and Thursday. In the afternoon of the latter day, he received $1500 from the Taconic Bank, and after eight o’clock at night, remarked that it was time to go to Dr. Coolidge’s office, and was seen to go in that direction. The next morning he was found dead, in the cellar in which Dr. Coolidge kept his fuel. Two deep cuts were found on his head, some black and blue spots about his throat, and his boots were clean, though the streets were muddy at the time.