DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68288#0197
PEARY AND OTHERS 151
doubtedly a moron of a slightly unusual type, quite un-
conscious of the enormity of what he had done, and making
the most of a gruesome kind of popularity of which he was
the subject. People sent him flowers and fruit, wrote him
sentimental letters, even poems, until Mr. Caswell put a
stop to it, which was the only thing which greatly disturbed
him.
The first morning after his incarceration, as Mr. Caswell
strolled down the corridor towards his cell, one of the
guards warned him, ‘He’ll want to shake hands with you,
sir. He thinks he’s done something heroic.’ As the cell
door was thrown open and the commissioner entered, the
young man arose from his seat and put out his hand. He
was not at all bad-looking, rather modest as to manner.
After all, it is hard for a stunted, undeveloped brain to dis-
criminate between a Charlotte Corday and an ordinary
murderer.
The Commissioner, having been warned, stood with his
hands behind his back, but later at various times he talked
with the young murderer — the same old story, intelligent
enough upon other subjects, one of those poor cranks who
should have been shut up before a crime, instead of being
hanged afterwards.
The night that Mrs. Cleveland was married, I remember
well. There had been endless discussion, of course, before
this marriage: the fact that she was so much younger than
her distinguished husband, so unknown and so beautiful,
but largely as to the propriety of the wedding being held at
the White House. Some thought it undignified, but all
were interested, agitated, thrilled at the prospect of this
beautiful young creature who was to spring suddenly from
doubtedly a moron of a slightly unusual type, quite un-
conscious of the enormity of what he had done, and making
the most of a gruesome kind of popularity of which he was
the subject. People sent him flowers and fruit, wrote him
sentimental letters, even poems, until Mr. Caswell put a
stop to it, which was the only thing which greatly disturbed
him.
The first morning after his incarceration, as Mr. Caswell
strolled down the corridor towards his cell, one of the
guards warned him, ‘He’ll want to shake hands with you,
sir. He thinks he’s done something heroic.’ As the cell
door was thrown open and the commissioner entered, the
young man arose from his seat and put out his hand. He
was not at all bad-looking, rather modest as to manner.
After all, it is hard for a stunted, undeveloped brain to dis-
criminate between a Charlotte Corday and an ordinary
murderer.
The Commissioner, having been warned, stood with his
hands behind his back, but later at various times he talked
with the young murderer — the same old story, intelligent
enough upon other subjects, one of those poor cranks who
should have been shut up before a crime, instead of being
hanged afterwards.
The night that Mrs. Cleveland was married, I remember
well. There had been endless discussion, of course, before
this marriage: the fact that she was so much younger than
her distinguished husband, so unknown and so beautiful,
but largely as to the propriety of the wedding being held at
the White House. Some thought it undignified, but all
were interested, agitated, thrilled at the prospect of this
beautiful young creature who was to spring suddenly from