The crime for which this man was sentenced to imprisonment was so
base, and so revolting to all the feelings of humanity, that I almost
dread to describe his sufferings, lest the sympathies of the reader
should lead him to forget the greatness of the crime, in contemplating
the miseries of the criminal. But it is possible for the worst man on
earth to be abused, and murder would be murder still, though the
victim were deserving of death. My design, then, in publishing this
sketch, is, not to whiten the scarlet of crime with the tears of pity,
but to hold up to public execration, a series of oppressions which
could not be justified, nor their authors shielded from the just
contempt of all good men, even if Satan himself had been the one
oppressed.
The crime of Burnham ought never to be named; it is of too dreadful a
character to be thought upon by any unperverted soul, without the
utmost pain. Let it suffice to say, that a _conspiracy_ was the means
of effecting his infernal purpose; that this conspiracy had two
_females_ joined with him, to the everlasting infamy of their names;
and that _another_ female, _young_, _innocent_, and _amiable_ was the
_victim_. For this crime, he was justly doomed to a long confinement
in the State Prison, and a similar doom was soon awarded to one of his
female conspirators.
Every heart was glad that such a righteous retribution fell on this
man's guilty head. I presume no tears were shed for him by any, except
his wife and two children; and he has none to blame but himself, if
this universal indignation bore hard upon him. His crime was
_outrageous_; and the outraged morals of the land, and the insulted
dignity of the laws, are sure to measure out their indignation
according to the nature of the outrage. This is natural, and it is
right; and if this reaction of a man's sins upon his own pate, should
be marked by something extravagant and cruel, he who gave occasion for
this extravagance and cruelty, should be the last one to complain. But
when the expressions of public execration trample on all the rights of
humanity, and violate the laws of nature, of the land, and of
God--when the sufferings of a criminal are magnified _beyond_ the
laws, and rendered intense to a degree surpassing endurance--when, in
fact, crime is punished at the expense of every principle of justice,
humanity and religion, it is time to speak out, and inquire to what
extent public indignation at crime may innocently go.
Every man is entitled to the protection of the laws as long as he
obeys them; and every transgressor may be legally punished according
to the law he has violated; and if the law is a _reasonable_ one, no
fault can be found with any one for duly and fully executing it. But
no punishment ought ever to be inflicted on any person, until he has
been found guilty of a crime by the proper court; and then it must not
exceed the sentence provided in the law. The sentence ought to be
strictly legal, and then it is perfectly right that the criminal, in
ordinary cases, should suffer it; but to go _beyond_ the obvious
meaning and spirit of the legal sentence in inflicting suffering for
any crime, is alike unjust and cruel. If these views are correct, we
can readily apply them in the case under consideration.
The sentence against Burnham was just, and it was the duty of his
keepers to inflict it up to the letter. This sentence required him to
be confined in the prison at hard labor, and treated according to the
laws of the place. These laws require the prisoners to be kept
constantly employed by the keeper, due regard being paid to their age,
strength and circumstances. When any one is sick, it is the duty of
the keeper to call the physician, and if the patient requires
medicine, it must be administered to him in the hospital, if he is
able to be moved there, as no prescription is to be made in any other
apartment, unless the patient is unable to be conveyed to that. No
fault can be found with the laws and regulations, authorized by the
Legislature, for the government of the prison; and those which provide
for the sick are such as _mercy herself_ would approve. The only
fault, then, which any one can find with them, is, that they are not
complied with by the keepers, and the prisoner is not allowed the care
and attention which they provide for him.
Burnham was soon taken sick. Bad as he was, he had some _feelings_;
and _shame_, _regret_ and _disappointment_, filled his soul with such
distress, that his body began to feel the effect of his mental agony,
and his strength, flesh, and spirits, began to vanish together. He
applied to the physician, but was told that nothing ailed him. He was
driven out from his room and compelled to work, when he had scarcely
strength to stand. His knees trembled under the weight of his body,
and the floor shook when he attempted to walk over it. Still, _he was
not sick_! He was _cunning_, it was said, and was feigning his
appearance, to avoid work, and get his liberty; and as the _doctor_
said this, though every one who saw him knew better, the keepers had
some pretext for neglecting him, and treating him with severity, in
which they took a most infernal satisfaction.
One morning he was driven out to the shop, and as he was inquiring of
the keeper where he should go to work, that mean and despicable
upstart gave him a sudden and violent blow with his hand, which threw
him headlong on the brick floor of the shop. It was in vain that he
attempted to rise; he had not strength enough to turn over when lying
on his back; and the keeper indulged his inhuman feelings by striking
him on his legs with his sword, and ordering him to get up. After some
time, he obtained help and made out to get on his feet, and go to the
place appointed for his labor.
In this way he passed through a few doleful weeks, suffering the
greatest pain of body and of mind without sharing in the pity of any
human being, but was made the _sport_ of those who should have treated
him with tenderness and humanity. As he moved through the yard, he
appeared like a walking skeleton, a living death; and yet he could not
get the smallest degree of the attention due to a sick man, for the
voice of the doctor was against him. But the cup of his calamity was
beginning to run over; nature was sinking under the mighty load of his
afflictions; and aware of his approaching dissolution, he prepared to
meet it, and left directions with some of his fellow prisoners to be
sent to his son, where he wished to be buried. Thus composed, he
waited but a few days, and death released him from earthly suffering.
It was on Sunday evening that he died. He went out to the cook-room,
with the other prisoners, to supper, trembling and reeling through the
yard like a drunken shadow; and when he returned into the prison after
supper, scarcely had the last door been bolted when the cry was heard
from his cell--"Burnham is dead!" At this moment the doctor was
passing the prison, and hearing the cry, he came in. As he entered the
hall, Burnham was brought out of his cell, and laid on the floor
before him.--"Is he dead?" said this unworthy son of Galen, "I said
yesterday that he was not sick, but it is evident he was." Yes, it is
evident he was sick, but doctor, this is not the last of it. The man
is _dead_, and the guilt of his death lies on your soul, and if you do
not repent of this great wickedness, you will, in your turn, call for
mercy, and find despair.
He was laid out in the hospital, where he was kept two days, till his
friends came and took his body, and conveyed it to Woodstock for
interment. During this time, the blood was almost continually running
out of his mouth and nostrils, and a more dreadful picture of death
was never seen.
On this case I have but few remarks to make, and in these, perhaps, I
have been anticipated by the feeling reader.
One fact is obvious to every one who has read this account with
attention--and this is, that Burnham was hastened to the grave, by the
injustice and cruelty of the doctor and keepers. Had he been treated
according to the spirit and letter of the laws, he might have been
living now.
The laws of humanity should lead us to forget the crimes of a sick man
in tender and sympathetic care and solicitude for his recovery; and he
who can calmly hand over a fellow-being to the tormentors, when he
knows that he needs that relief which it is his professed and sworn
duty to impart, cannot be far from finished depravity. The truth of
this remark is obvious, and while I have such a sense of Burnham's
guilt, that I have scarcely a heart to pity him, I cannot help
condemning, in the bitterest terms, that infernal process by which he
was deliberately hastened to the grave.
* * * * *
[This is the man about whom the anti-masons of Vermont made such a
stir. They caused a story to be reported that Burnham was a mason;
that he had bribed his keepers, who were also masons; and was still
living in the city of New-York. Strange as it may seem, this story was
believed, and persons were found who declared that they had _seen_
him, and learned from his own lips the fact of the bribery, and how
the deathly farce was acted for him to get out of prison. He said,
according to report, that he gave a thousand dollars, and that at the
time he was supposed to have died, according to a previous plan which
was mutually agreed upon, he pretended to die, and was carried into
the hall in a blanket, when a corpse about his size was brought to
take his place. The doors being open, this corpse was thrown into the
blanket, and he was permitted to walk off. Such was the story, and
thousands believed it; and into such a ferment was the public mind
thrown, that the Legislature took up the business, and sent one of the
Council to New-York to ascertain the fact. He was faithful to his
commission, and the story soon died. During the excitement, however,
Burnham's body was dug up twice and examined.]