Bridget's Interview with The Boston Post

[irishlass78]

From: The Boston Post, pg. 1, Sat., Aug. 20, 1892

BRIDGET TALKS. “I Didn’t Do it, and I’ve Told All I Know About It.” Conscience Clear and Doesn't Care What’s Said." Aug. 19.— I had quite a long talk with Bridget Sullivan this morning - that is to say, I talked to Bridget. Bridget is a typical Irish girl, large of frame, plump and round of figure, with a fine color in her cheeks and dancing animation in her eyes. She is built all through to the plan of her height, which is above the average for a woman. But her cheerful spirit, her energy and animation are clouded by the tragedy that has interrupted the even flow of her life. She is gloomy, and to the approaches of a stranger who seeks to have her tell what she saw and did on the day of the murders, she wears an air of defiance, and the mirth, which one can easily see even at such times is natural to her eyes, takes flight. Bridget, as has been told repeatedly, lives with her married sister in a tenement in the south end of the town, the corner of Division and Almond streets. I drove over there this morning—and, as I say, talked a good deal to Bridget. For her part she is not making a display of her conversational powers. The family of three live in a little flat on the third floor, and in answer to my knock at the door in the hall, the sister, also a sturdy woman both in her general build and her voice, but without any of the bright animation of Bridget, opened it. In answer to the query she said simply: “Yes, she is here,” and swung the door a little further open and looked toward an inner (?) room. . I stepped in, and the well-known figure of Bridget stood framed in a doorway leading to a room beyond. The man of the house sat in one corner, evidently having just come from his work to his dinner, for the tablecloth was already spread and the meal was steaming on the stove. All of which was unfortunate. They were disposed to be civil, all of them, (but?) with the mention of the tragedy, Bridget began to bridle. “Now, I have said before the court all I know about it,” she said. “I have told the truth, I wouldn’t lie for anybody, and I ain’t going to say anvthing more about it.” “Do you know what you are reported in the newspapers as having said?” “I don’t care what they say in the newspapers.” “Did you see that Dr. Handy Intimates that, in your testimony, you may be trying to shield yourself?” “I don’t care what Dr. Handy says. If he will mind his own business I will mind mine.” “But you see he doesn’t. The suggestion is that you did this thing yourself, or had something to do with it.” “Well, I didn't,” she said, with scarcely Increased color or emphasis “My conscience is clear, i went down there and told what I know, and what I saw, and that’s all I had to do with it.” “And they have been printing stories about your having seen a hatchet in the kitchen, or the sitting room, on the day of the murder.” “Well, they’ve been printing plenty of things, {haven't they}? I can’t help it. I told them all I knew and I saw, and I wouldn’t tell a lie, and I ain’t going to tell it again.” “Did the district attorney tell you not to say anything?” “No, he didn’t.” “Well, you can’t have any objection to saying whether it is true that you were sick on that day, and that you laid down because of that?” “Well, no, I wasn’t just sick,” she said, in that slow way which is meant to qualify a term. And as she said this she went back into her own little bedroom—for during this talk, which was not as straight as is here told—but took little excursions one way and another of no general interest— she had gone over and sat down by the table and at a window, the outer {shutter}? of which were drawn. In the other room she was easily within conversing distance, but took advantage of her being there to make no answer at ail when I asked her whether, not having been sick herself, she took any stock in the poisoning story. “How long have you been in the Bordens’ employ?” I asked. “Three years,” she replied. “And were you on good terms with them?” “Yes, sir. I liked them all. They always treated me very well.” “The girls—did they like you?” “Yes. At least I liked them and they always treated me well.” “And you have nothing to say against them now?” “No, of course not.” “What have you to say about having been compelled to walk to the Police Court through the crowd?” “Well, I was able to walk, I guess; I didn't have to ride.” “Have you any idea of employing counsel to look out for you at the trial in case any attempt is made to implicate you?” “What do I need of counsel? I tell you that my conscience is clear. They can do what they please. All I have to do is to tell what I saw. No, sir, I will have no lawyers." The dinner was being placed on the table, the man of the house was anxious to dispose of it and return to his work, and so I came away.