The White Pine News

THE EUREKA TRAGEDY.

C. J. Lansing Kills His Wife in a Fit of Intoxication.

[From the Sentinel, March 3d.]

All Eureka was in horror and dismay last night over the news that C. J. Lansing, Esq., had killed his wife. When first told the story was not believed. It seemed incredible. Kit Lansing could not be guilty of such a foul and dastardly deed. The lawyer of such splendid talent; the man of culture; the gentleman of such dignity and refinement could not fall so low. This was the first impression, a flush of sentiment that distressed and confounded the minds of his neighbors as they heard the startling exclamation pass from one to another's lips: "Lansing has murdered his wife!" A moment later, when the stunned faculties recovered their use, and the awful thing was found to be true, his friends (and Lansing has no enemies) were glad to remember that he is weak, that he is a man with one grievous fault. In the sickening horror they experienced, they felt a mournful joy that Lansing has his lapses when he is not himself. They recoiled from their dismay at once sufficiently to say: He was crazy when he did it. Under the influence of strong drink he became temporarily wild--a maniac. When interviewed by a Sentinel reporter last night, he remarked in a frenzied way that plainly indicated his delirious condition: "Yes, I know what I've done; but all you can say is that Kit was drunk. I've killed my wife."

At 7 o'clock Mr. Lansing came down to the Sheriff's office, and said to Officer Wm. Long, who was on duty there, "I have killed my wife, and I want you to lock me up." Mr. Long did not know what to think; he was stunned by the announcement. He could not believe the story and thought that Mr. Lansing was out of his head, because he knew he had been on a desperate spree for the past few days. He went out and called Mr. Fitzmorris, the jailer. To this gentleman Mr. Lansing told the same story. Mr. Fitzmorris judged from the nervous twitching of the muscles of his face that he was in delirium tremens, and that he had become deranged with this horror in his mind. But this delusion was dispelled when Mr. Lansing told him to go to the house and see for himself, and gave him directions how to get in. He told the jailer that he had no key to the house; that he might get in from the front, but if he could not, to go around by the back way and kick in the door. Thereupon the officers locked up their prisoner and repaired with all haste to the unfortunate lawyer's residence. They could not get in through the front door. They then went round to the back door, which they found locked, but peering under a window curtain, raised a few inches, they could discover the outlines of a body lying on the kitchen floor. Not being able to enter otherwise, they kicked the door in as directed. They brought the lamp in from the sitting room, and then saw in horrid plainness an awful, ghastly spectacle. Mrs. Lansing lay on the kitchen floor with her eyes closed, blood on her face, a hole (evidently made by a bullet) in her head, and her hair clotted with blood and spread disheveled on the floor. She was breathing heavily but slowly. It was evident that she was mortally stricken, and could not survive many minutes. Dr. Bishop, who had been summoned by the officers on their way to the house, and who arrived immediately after them, said that it would be useless to make any effort to resuscitate her; that the ball, which he could tell by using his little finger as a probe, had penetrated the base of the brain. Dr. Owen came in shortly afterward and concurred with Dr. Bishop. The patient did not open her eyes or utter a word. At 8 o'clock she breathed her last. It was a pitiful sight. There she lay, pale and bloody, with only her night clothes on. As soon as it could be arranged Sheriff Kyle secured the services of some good ladies to take charge of and care for the dead.

What led to the catastrophe can only be conjectured. Mr. Lansing has several times been known to drink until he became beside himself and insane. Her own fondness for drink, too, may account for much that has happened.

A Sentinel reporter interviewed the prisoner at 9 o'clock last night, but found that he was not himself--not able to utter three consecutive sentences coherently. He received our representative with the dignity and politeness which have always characterized him, and invited him to a seat with him on the bed in his cell. "I am sorry you find me here," he said; "aren't they going to let me go home? Are they going to keep me here and not give me anything to drink? I wonder if they have taken that from me? Oh! if I could only kill myself," By "that" he meant a dose of poison which he felt in his pocket for, but could not find. A little package marked "poison" had been taken from his pocket. Mr. Stowell, the druggist, says that he sold him some poison also, which Mr. Lansing said he wanted to kill rats with; but the package which the officers found, he says, he did not sell the prisoner. This and other disjointed scraps of talk are the best index to the sad state of mind that he was in, at least to those who know with what strength and precision he usually converses.

The sentiment of the community in this affair is one of universal horror and regret. Great sympathy is entertained for Miss Ada Lansing, the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Lansing, a very amiable and worthy young lady, who, at present, is attending Mrs. Snell's boarding school in Oakland, California.

A later examination of the wound leads the Sentinel to believe that no shot was fired, and the deadly blow was dealt with a stout kitchen chair.