Oh, conjurings of innocence, thy web is woven with threads of chalk—the morality and uprightness of this world! The wolf howls at thy philosophy and is hungering! Dream not of the world’s honor, nor seek disinterestedness among men; for thou wilt not find it. Hearken no more to the seductive accents of friendship; they flow from polluted lips; in them the devil chants thy requiem. Hate and curse and shun the Race; in that and that only is there protection and safety.
The seraglio of vice into which Maria had thus been cast, was daily and nightly visited by men of all grades. Came there the banker in silk stockings; the improvident sailor, just from the wave; the artisan, with the pittance of toil; the sucker-sharp, whose swindlings and lies are the wages of prostitution; the students of Harvard; the silver-haired deacon of the church of God; yea,EVEN THE PREACHER, RIGHT FROM HIS PULPIT, FLUSHED WITH WINE AND LUST![7]Came there the men of the South, ardent as a southern sun could make them: reckless men, who dashed about the country, lavishing the coffers wrung from the blood of slavery. And they not only, but likewise the pomatum beetles and butterflies of Europe, the spawn of an imbecile aristocracy, who are the scavengers of death and hell in every age and clime.
Days, days, days! Whether of pleasure or of pain, how noiselessly they steal away, and leap from the juttings of Time. Say what you will: let theologians crack their skulls in harrowing up proofs to the contrary: we are the creatures of circumstance. Take the fair maiden, in the bloom of a life of promise; how long ere the mirror will proclaim toher the coming of that signet of waning years, the first grey hair? And upon each of us there is written a destiny—a fate. We may put forth our human might and throw up barriers against the tide, it availeth not; we are swept into the lap of that destiny at last.
Good out of Evil—Maria before the Police Court—The Works of a Philanthropist—An Unfortunate Sickness—The Amorous Physician—Return to her Native Home—Her Marriage and the Effects of it—Despair and Desperation—Her Victims—Her Awful Murder—Reflections on Fate and Death.
Good out of Evil—Maria before the Police Court—The Works of a Philanthropist—An Unfortunate Sickness—The Amorous Physician—Return to her Native Home—Her Marriage and the Effects of it—Despair and Desperation—Her Victims—Her Awful Murder—Reflections on Fate and Death.
Aboutfour months after the occurrences which we have just narrated, in mid-winter, a young woman sat in the garret of a wooden dwelling at the corner of Harrison avenue and Kneeland street, in the southerly portion of the city of Boston, industriously plying the needle by a small but cheerful fire. It was Maria Bickford, certainly in a much better and more encouraging situation than while sojourning at that abode of iniquity in Lowell street. Her face was worn but not melancholy, and her bosom heaved a sigh and her voice trembled, while she sung the song of “Home, sweet home.” There had been a change in her condition—good had come to her out of evil. The truth of the matter was, that the authorities, being at length informed as to the character of the establishment in Lowell street, made an onset upon it at midnight, captured the inmates, male and female, in their beds, and carried them to Leveret street jail. The next morning, while before the Police Court awaiting sentence—the price of her degradation—she was accosted by a celebrated philanthropist, who desired to speak with her. He told her that it was probable she would be sent to the House of Correction, if no intercession were made to the judge in her behalf; that if she would from that day make a resolution to change her conduct, he would try to procure her discharge, by the payment of a fine. She heard him doubtingly, yet imploringly; for her confidence in any thing like unselfishness in man was small indeed. Through a profusion of tears, which a crowd of idling by-standers ridiculed as harlot’s crocodiles, she thanked him, and gave a promise that if he helped her in that moment of freezing horror, her life should be placed at his disposal. He did effect her release by the payment of ten dollars; led her into the street and told her that she was free; and then began to urge upon her mind, in an earnest and affecting manner, the importance and the glory of reformation. He pointed out the manner by which a respectable livelihood might easily be obtained, if she would but adhere to a resolution never again to fall into the arms of vice.[8]Maria’s heart leaped with gratitude, and she could notgive utterance to her feelings in the lameness of language. She pressed his hand and watched his benevolent countenance, and took courage from his unostentatious demeanor. Although betrayed most piteously thus far in life, by every man she had known as an acquaintance, still a conviction dwelt in her nature that there were yet men on earth who were truthful and virtuous in the sight of heaven. Sunlight to thy soul poor thing! you were right. Following the suggestions of this humane individual, Maria applied for work at the counter of an extensive tailoring establishment in Washington street. It was readily obtained. By this she could earn, and was earning, a livelihood. Solitude was now her society, and her voice of song oozed through the shingles of the roof, and without was heard by the passer by. In her hours of recreation, her mind was occupied by literary pursuits. The epistle “to a friend,” as given below, was written by her, and is one of the very best pieces of composition our eyes ever met with. It was forwarded by her to the Editor of the Boston “Olive Branch,” who published it with glowing commendations, and it afterwards went the rounds of the newspaper press throughout this country and Europe.
Life has its hours of sentiment and romance, which Time, with his envious wing, can never darken or obliterate. Such bright and pleasant hourswehave had, never to be forgotten—such happy moments, in the friendly intercourse of thought and feeling we have enjoyed. We have wandered in the gardens of Fancy and Hope, and gathered the mayflowers of the spirit—the fadeless roses of the heart. We have had seasons of intimate converse of pure enjoyment, such as lend to life a halcyon wing of rainbow hue, as it glides on, with swift pinion, to its infinite home.
There is a celestial calm—an elevated joy, in the trance of mind; it is a pure and quiet sense of nobler being. There is a sweet serenity—a bliss divine, in the simple and noiseless expressions of virtuous esteem and friendship. And have we not had such serenities and joys, consecrated on the memory and the heart? Ah, who would lose the remembrance of pleasures past—the light of by-gone days, when the confidence of friendship, and the hope of its perpetuity—when the festivals of intellect and the delights of sympathy were truly ours, such as raise and illumine a strengthening attachment, with the fond endearments and bright emotions of undeceitful and happy spirits?
The fair and gentle hand of nature has spread her beauties and her wealth around our pathway, wherewith to make us rich and blest; and if we welcome not her lavish kindness and constant care, some sordid sentiment must blind our minds, or guilty stain defile our hearts. In the dim, hushed hour of twilight, I have sat by my window, and looked, in quiet thought, at the pensile boughs of the willow tree, waving gently their leaves of sadness, and found more of rapture, undimmed by earth, than earth’s brightest honors could bestow. I have wandered over the silent graves of changed humanity, and, wrapped in lonely musings on the sleeping dust of the departed, and on the distant home of immortal being, I have felt more true and tranquil joy than the gathered wealth of the world could ever afford.
To the eye of reason, raised and enlightened by truth, how little, comparatively, is there of what is great and good in the restless pursuit of unenjoyed opulence and honor, or in the transient distinctions of rank and power. Is not the mind, with its electric thought, and the heart, with its sublime emotions—the one darting through the elevated regions of philosophy, the other meandering through the beauteous paradise of poesy—the lasting and essential worth of man—the lofty majesty of merit—the eternal divinity within him? Is not his free and deathless spirit—from heaven descended—over earth outspreading—extending through all time—collecting the treasures of all realms—and, like a vestal fire that struggles to go up to its smiling source, aspiring ever to ascend to that blest home of truth and goodness, “the bosom of its Father and its God”—the pride of his distinction—the grandeur of his glory?
The spirit, if pure, finds friends in all things above and around it. It gazes upon the deep blue of heaven, and its calm; upon the high careering sun, and exults; upon the light floating cloud, and smiles in peace; upon the storm-rolling chariot, and trembles with awe. It looks forth upon the high mountain-tops in their solitary grandeur, and upon the stately forests in their dark sublimity, and forgets earth, with its mutability, littleness and folly. It looks upon the rich waving fields and green meadow lands—upon the quiet lake and the rushing stream—and this world’s darkness, and noise, and strife, fade from its remembrance. It beholds with a smile the circles of beauty and intelligence—the connexions of dignity and grace—the dwellings of purity and love—and the disappointments and sorrows of time vanish for awhile away. Yea, more—it turns its full and eagle eye upon the boundless ocean—that image of benignity and sovereignty, where Omnipotence rides alone on the whirlwind’s wing and directs the dashing storm, or where he sits enthroned in all the bright tranquility of peace and hope—and feels, itself in nature far, far superior to the vanities and vexations of its temporal existence, and yearns, with a quenchless energy, for the revelations and felicities of an infinite hereafter.
But this contemplation of things material and inanimate still leaves a void behind; the heart is unsatiated and unconsoled. We turn to higher objects—to the kindred thoughts and feelings of cultivated men, and study, with a gushing sympathy, the records of their intellectual being. We behold them bursting the chains around them, bounding over the impediments in their path, scorning back to earth its native earthliness, and then unfold freely their golden wings and float away, far above the humiliation, and cares, and murkiness of this transient sphere, and move onward in imagination through the multiplying ages of immortal activity.
But the written records of departed genius cannot enliven and cheer like the eloquent lip and expressive eye of living friendship. Hence we turn to beings of breathing interest, and sentiment, and emotion around us, with the fond hope to find some kindred spirits that can commune with our own; and if, indeed, we meet with such, our mind kindles and our heart rebounds with all the warm and generous simplicity, eagerness and delight of childhood’s years. And then we truly think life has not an object nor a charm without their constant and congenial companionship. We feel, without their society, converse and sympathy, the sky has no beauty, the earth no loveliness, the flow of waters no melody, the words of the mighty in intellect and the strong in passion no powerto subdue the soul to tenderness, or raise it to triumph. We long then anxiously to lean on some friendly arm—to feel the beating of some friendly heart. We deeply yearn to look upon some tone of love. We desire intensely to associate with some being of a similar intellectual mould, whose characteristic sentiments and tastes accord harmoniously with those of our own breast.
A few brief months have passed away since two beings met, of thoughts and feelings flowing in unison; one of lofty intellect, dignity and sweetness combined—the other what nature, education, and experience unitedly have formed her. They have conversed on themes of varied interest, opened to each other the temple of the soul, and been mutually happy. And must they yield to the high decree of fate, and part for life? Must the silver chords be severed and the golden bowl be broken that were binding each to other with the strength of affection and the rich fullness of hope? If so, let Heaven’s best will be done. But let this be a token, simple and valueless indeed, that thou hast been a friend, most sincerely esteemed and generously accredited by her who has addressed thee these hurried lines. Let this be a trifling memento of the few happy hours that have shone out brightly upon the silent obscurity of her path, and illumined the page of the past with the hallowed light of thy own pure and radiant spirit. May Heaven’s kindest love, and fairest smiles, and largest blessings, be the friend’s whose name and image will ever be devotedly cherished and sacredly honored in the blighted heart of
M. A. D.
Those who believe in a special providence will stagger to learn that this pleasing picture was soon clouded; that these fair prospects were soon blighted, by the visitation of a dreadful sickness, which brought her to a state of helplessness even more forlorn than any condition she had before undergone. Alone in a sick chamber, emaciated by a long course of fever, with no parent or friend to give solace, or answer her demands! Day succeeded day, and with them came wintry blast and gnawing poverty. The only assistance she received was from the hands of her physician, who, though a man of the world, possessed some kindness of heart. He came each morning and evening, wrote prescriptions for medicines, which she had scarcely the means to purchase from the druggist—placed fuel in the grate, and went away. But she was not then or there to die. Her disease at length made a favorable turn, and, after a few weeks of steady recovery, the rosy flush of health came into her face.
The doctor, however, did not discontinue his visits, and he was welcomed, for Maria’s grateful heart could not but feel that her life had been preserved by his skill and kindness. He was a bachelor, and his deep-set eyes and piercing glance told that he was a man of lust. She had observed this, and was not, therefore, at all surprised when he began to manifest a sensual familiarity with her person, making promises of munificence, and inquiring into the nature of her wants. During that winter there was great depression in the monetary affairs of the country, and consequently a diminished supply of labor for the poor. Such as could be obtained was at prices so much reduced, that many honest people were compelled to steal for a part of their livelihood! Maria was destitute indeed. For her, no work was to be had at any rate, before thecoming of spring.[9]At this rate she could not subsist through the winter. It was disgraceful to beg—inhumanity would spurn her from every door! Go, ask the wolf for charity, but not a civilized people!
But why prolong the truth? Maria again yielded to Necessity and to Fate. That physician, with guile upon his lips, seduced her from Virtue’s sanctuary, and there was revelry in the haunts of vice.[10]Their sinful intercourse continued until both winter and spring had passed, when, provided with an ample amount of money, she returned, gaily dressed and accomplished in manners, to her native home.
We need not further minutely relate the remaining acts of her life. It is known that, on the occasion of this visit to her grief-stricken mother, chance made her acquainted with an honest and worthy man, who became enamoured of her charms, and that this attachment soon resulted in their marriage. This person was Mr. Bickford. He followed the trade of a bootmaker, and was much respected by those who knew him. They lived together upwards of two years, (though unhappily,) when she deserted her husband and returned to Boston. The following paper, penned by her own hand, will convey to the reader some idea of the state of her mind soon after her marriage:
August 10th.I have been married just ten days. During that short period, many circumstances have occurred, much tending to dispel the illusive hopes so long and so lately cherished in my imagination and fervent feelings. My husband is possessed of many rare qualities of mind and heart, and he loves me with excessive earnestness. But I have now discovered, what I could not, through infatuation, before marriage—that those passions of his nature which won my admiration are barbed with opposite extremes. At one time he loads me with caresses; at another reviles with unbecoming satire. My petulant disposition impels a retort, and hence frequent altercations. In moments of calmness I explain to him how oppressive and deplorable are these recurrences. He relents with an apology, and then calmly and sweetly do we reasontogether. Late affectionate attachments are renewed, and a Divine Presence witnesseth the communion of our hearts.
There are several considerations which render our marriage untimely and unwise.
First. Our mutual acquaintance was too short. We did not at all canvass each other’s faults; we rather strove to conceal and veil our eyes before them,—too frequent and important mistakes of love-trapped young people.
Secondly. Our religious predilections are much too dissimilar—he being strictly Calvinistic, a religion to which I am sternly opposed. The mild precepts of our beloved Saviour, and the sacred vows of the altar, are thus desecrated by contention—a double curse.
Thirdly. We are much too poor.
This last consideration is most unfortunately omitted in the anticipatory summing-up of the chances and consequences of married life, by those whose misfortune it is to be poor like ourselves. Reflect upon it as you may, and palliate as you please, poverty marriages are in themselves an evil and a disgrace. In a favored land like this, no industrious single man (unless peculiarly unfortunate) has a right to be pennyless at the age of twenty-five; and such as are imprudent, as well as those who wrap the golden hours of manhood in a napkin, should, by special enactment of law, be not only debarred from the enjoyments of matrimony, but also shamed from the presence of worthy people. As love-fevers are managed in these days, the habiliments of the altar are too often the sport of an illusion, as fatal in its effects as ill-timed in concert. Marriage, under proper regulations, is indeed a boon and a blessing; but when made to minister to the forlorn hopes of the inconsiderate, the poverty-bound, or the helpless, it is a curse of the deepest die. It has darkened the face of creation as a simoon from time immemorial, encompassing the wretchedness of millions, who, had they timely resolved, first to better their conditions, then to marry, might have been independent and happy all their lives.
August 20th.Ten more days have passed—so many saw-teeth. It is painful to trace the pale appearances which have assumed the place of the rose-tint upon my husband’s cheek. Returning from his daily toils, I find him stubborn in manner and bitter in words. All my efforts to humble his towering will have failed. So, between poverty, contention, and disappointment, our pathway to the future is unflowered.
When she had concluded to remove to Boston, there to reside permanently, a new tide rushed in upon her destiny.She was lost.The fountain of her tears was dry. Despair laid its iron fingers upon the strings of her heart. And now began that career of madness and crime which rendered her name a signal of terror to the licentious, who thronged the dens of prostitution. She laughed and was happy in her revengeful determination.—Revenge! at whose shrine of blood she did reverence!
“And where her frown of hatred darkly fell,Hope withering fled, and mercy sighed farewell.”
“And where her frown of hatred darkly fell,Hope withering fled, and mercy sighed farewell.”
For a period of over four years, she led the van in the battle of Extermination to Man, the plunderer of her life’s joys, her innocence—Man, the rock of her ruin! She saw but to conquer. The devotees ofpomatum swarmed about her, lavishing sickening adulations upon her charms. She inwardly mocked at their hollowness, and Murder whetted its beak upon their lies. Twice were her hands imbrued in the blood of her paramours; and, had her existence been prolonged a few more days, it is highly probable that a printer, of a name similar to that borne by the object of her first love, would have fallen a victim to her avenging steel.
But the hour came when the mighty King of Terrors summoned her soul into the presence of that forgiving Jesus who wrote upon the sand, at the harlot’s feet—“Let him among you that is without sin cast the first stone!” By a murderer’s hand she fell, as had others by her own. And then there was heard a noise in the air without, such as had never before greeted human ears. Whence it came, none could tell.
Dark and inexplicable Fate! weaver of wild contrasts, demon of this hoary world, that movest through it as a spirit moveth over the waters, filling the depths of things with a solemn mystery, and an everlasting change! Thou sweepest over our graves, and Joy is born from the ashes: thou sweepest over Joy, and lo, it is a grave! Engine and tool of the Almighty, whose years cannot fade! thou changest the earth as a garment, and as a vesture it is changed: thou makest it one vast sepulchre and womb united, swallowing and creating life, and reproducing over and over, from age to age—from creation to the creation’s doom—the same dust and ashes which stalked under the names of the countless millions who danced to the discordant music of life, and gave up the ghost!
Early on the morning of the awful tragedy which filled the whole country with amazement and dread, and before the newspapers blazed with its horrible details, there was great excitement in the horse-stables and the gambling-shops of Boston. The sucker-sharps, who always, in every part of the world, keep up a telegraphic communication with the frail sisterhood, were on this occasion elated with an event which so absorbed their inquisitive cunning, that they forgot, for a few hours, the game of filching green-horns. Spagnoletto, with all the power of his pencil, would fail in a delineation of those groups of human cormorants, as they surfeited their murderous appetites upon the fresh intelligence. They were jolly-serious—upsetting chairs, swallowing brandy, breaking glasses, and uttering fearful oaths. In one place a sucker preached a tirade to the riotous auditory, himself standing on a large Bible. A murder, of unexampled atrocity, had just been committed by one of the most notorious of their gang.
“Plume’s”Daguerreotype of Tirrell.
“Plume’s”Daguerreotype of Tirrell.
“Plume’s”Daguerreotype of Tirrell.
The name of the murderer was Albert J. Tirrell, a young man whose improvidence had, in less than one year, scattered to the winds a patrimony of more than twenty-seven thousand dollars—the life’s earnings of an indulgent parent, whose grey hairs had but lately gone down in sorrow to the grave. His flushed cheeks, his beak-like, pimpled nose, his gallynipper lips, rendered his demeanor the beau ideal of a sucker-sharp. His tongue could rattle off more lies and oaths in a minute than that of any other sucker in Boston, excepting one. These characteristics, accompanied by the most lavish expenditure of his wealth, won for him the appellation of “good fellow,” all about the horse-stables, at least. Whenever he hired a horse and buggy, he carelessly and suavitously tossed a five dollar gold piece, by way of perquisite, to the ostler. Then would the literature of horse-flies load him with slimy phrases. “Liberal-hearted fine gentleman,”—“noble fellow,”—“there’s nothing mean about him,”—“good fellow,” etc., often reverberated through the horse-stalls, and the same learned and pithy remarks were nightly circulating through the upper rooms of a celebrated gambling-house in Sudbury street, for many years the sucker-sharp head quarters, and the devil’s den in Boston. But, as the enterprising Dickinson once remarked to a clan of rebellious compositors, “There is an end to all things,” so the greatnesses of Tirrell’s life were on that morning hurried into a grand tableau.Tirrell’s Flight.He had slashed open Maria Bickford’s throat with a razor, most valiantly, from ear to ear, and, to slip the noose of the gallows, ran away!
There is no doubt of his INSANITY.
But we cannot dismiss the subject matter of this history until we inform the world of one of Tirrell’s exploits in a business way. No sooner had he tumbled into the possession of his patrimony, than he took up quarters in the city of New York, with the intention of founding a publishing house, on a magnificent scale. After beating about the trade for two or three weeks, without knowing where or how to begin a business of which he was utterly ignorant, and which his rattle-headedness rendered him incapable of comprehending under any circumstances, he made up his mind to commence the publication of a periodical, of some kind or other. Our information runs, that, with this object before his eyes, he called on Mr. Edgar A. Poe, of that city, and tendered him the exclusive editorship and control of the concern, without ceremony or condition. Poe, after a cautious and analytical survey of the gentleman, propounded divers queries which Tirrell had not the capacity to answer. He seemed to be possessed of a belief that if he brought some doubled sheets of printed paper before the people, and the ladies in particular, an illumination as wonderful as the aurora borealis would be the consequence. “The people,” said he, “want knowledge; they thirst for it as the heart panteth for the water brooks.” “Yes, sir, precisely,” said the other, “but engagements compel me to decline your generous offers; I have already promised to do much more than I can possibly accomplish. I think, however, there is a compositor of my acquaintance whose talents are so nearly like your own, that he would prove the very person you are seeking. I will give you his name—it is Silas Estabrook. Explain your plans to that individual, sir, and there will be no lack of projects, I assure you.”
Tirrell was elated with this advice, and forthwith made search for and found the obscure and shrivelled compositor. With the same mountebank bluffness, he made known his wants. “They say you sometimes work in the editing line, sir. Now, sir, I’m about to start a great publishing establishment, like that of the Harpers, and I want to engage you to edit it! If you’ll go into it strong with me, we’ll make Astors of ourselves. I will furnish all the money to begin with.”
Estabrook rubbed his eyes and looked at the man through a spy-glass. “Can it be possible,” thought he, “that good luck has found me at last, and that I am about to realize the Actual from my splendid ideas? This must be the very man whom I have wanted so much to find.” A long and earnest confab took place. Perhaps two persons never before met, whose brains rattled with more incoherence, than did those of Tirrell and Estabrook. If the first was ignorant, impudent and stupid, the other greatly transcended him by a fanatical adherence to his own visionary fooleries. His plans and projects for astonishing the world were as numerous as the phases of a kaleidescope, and his explanations thereof were as voluminous and intelligible as a colloquial parody from that useful bird, the goose.
“I will tell you what it is, Mr. Tirrell,” said he, “we have a fortune within our grasp. I have the mind and you the means. We must get up something which has never been dreamed of before. It’s of no use to think of starting a common newspaper; the very idea of it is vulgar—yet it must be a publication of some kind. Now, I propose that we issue a journal in the shape and style of aLetter; print it in the smallest type—cram a large amount of racy matter into a small space—and then fold it up and seal it. Let the price be six cents a copy, and a figure indicating this sum can be stamped with red ink on the outside, as though it were the postage by mail. Then let us send a copy to every man, woman, and child, in this great city, under a written direction. In this guise and shape every body will jump after it, and the result will be, that we shall sell at least two hundred thousand copies a day. You see they will be so pleased with the contents, that after they receive the first letter they will be still more and more greedy to get the succeeding ones. Now, just reckon up how much 200,000 letters a day, at six cents each, will amount to in a year.”
Tirrell drew from his pocket a ponderous gold pencil and began to cypher. After scratching his head for a half hour he suddenly leaped from his chair in a perfect phrenzy of exultation. The amount was enormous. The golden egg was discovered. Nobody else had found it out. It was the most wonderful idea of the age! He patted Estabrook on the shoulder as fondly as a cat would play with a philosopher’s stone, and immediately invited him to partake of a supper of oysters.
The oysters were devoured. During their mastication, Tirrell was overflowing with so much joy that he was unable to sustain a decent composure. His horse-laughs so annoyed the other patrons of the restorateur, that the host politely ordered him to quit the premises. Tirrellobserved the mandate with the most indifferent contempt, and spatting a ten dollar bill on the counter, bawled out forWine!at the full blast of his lungs.
The preliminaries for publishing the great unexpected were soon arranged. Estabrook manufactured the “copy” with the rapacity and zeal of a starving lunatic. The flow of ideas imparted to his eyes an unnatural stare; his brows were knit; and his teeth chattered as if he were undergoing an attack of the delirium-tremens in a wintry blast. But he heeded not himself nor the movements around him, though Tirrell was constantly peeping over his shoulder and mouthing every sentence as it fell from the pen. In two days the “copy” was completed, and placed in the hands of the printer, who was required by written contract to produce the whole edition in five days. Tirrell launched out his money like water in the purchase of fine letter-sized paper; “the trade” greatly marvelled at what was “in the wind;” and the power of steam was brought into full requisition night and day. At the end of the time specified, the immense job was finished, at a cost of $2,500. Tirrell cashed the bill with readiness and delight. One hundred and twenty-five girls were then hired to double and seal them, and thirty-three clerks were at the same time employed in writing the inscriptions. Every name in Doggett’s octavo directory, of something like 400 closely printed pages, was transcribed to a “letter.” Estabrook, with becoming dignity, reserved to himself the privilege of giving the finishing touch to the whole, by stamping, after the manner of a post mark, the figure “6” on one corner, which was intended as the price of the article. When this was completed, “all hands” were set about arranging them; and let me say to the reader that this feature was no trifling one. It required the machinery of a great post office to assort and arrange that mass of letters, number by number and street by street. The whole being at length completed at an expense of over $700 more, the day at length came when the edition was to be placed into the hands of two hundred efficient carriers, who were to sally forth at the same moment in all parts of the city. Below we give the inner heading of this singular publication, with some extracts, to convey to the reader of these pages a more correct idea of its character and purpose:
[Image unavailable: The Unexpected Letter A Truthful Journal of News and Miscellany.... Edited by an Invalid.]
We (myself and thee) are twin-links in that grand chain, which hung out from the primeval chaos that was ere the golden sun shone on a virgin world, and hath come down through the juttings of fifty-nine epochs of time, to this hour. Onward to the future goeth its silvery trail, weaving everlasting issues.... But myself and thee move not. Here stand we—links in the grand chain of human destiny—as watchers on a storm beaten rock, whereon also millions are. We hear the sound of voices and of footsteps. Hammers clink and dollars jingle. It is the din of a city. Out in the fields there, the lillies grow and the bee sings. Far away and high in the mountains, where the eaglet’s eyrie is, graze the flocks of the humble shepherd. Let us bow to the harmony of nature and the majesty of God! But—but I am astray already. This is not the strain with which I meant to open up to you.... Life, you know, is tumultuous; at least, I know it. Half-wrecked already. I am an invalid, seeking through the Race-stubble around me—sympathy! Forasmuch as my departure to the Great Homestead draweth near, I am panting for those pure vestments of mortality which shall grace its heaven-wide halls. Thus far, how hard to discover! All my methods are thread-bare and fruitless. But sympathy is a law of the Universe, plentifully abounding, and without its strengthening influences this world were an ungladdened waste. Wherefore I have wrought a new manner to commune with thee—this present.... I had a dream lately. A frame of dilapidated bones stood by the side of a stream. The rains pelted and the winds whistled through it. In the place where, in flesh-time, the breath case had been, was a machine of wonderful handiwork—now not less silent and awful than the frame that held it—which might be sacrilegiously likened unto a spinning-jenny. There were its gearings yet; and I named it Mystery. There were its charmed threads—thousands, millions—issuing in all directions, so that the Race were supplied, each with one. And I was amazed to behold how reluctantly Age yielded them up to the eager grasp of Youth. I cried out for the history and the name of his Boneniness. And they said “Fame! Fame!” And when I heard of the great number who were struggling in their might to rear unto themselves their own frame, with a like appendage—lavishing thereon, with an idol-worship, the genius of the head, of the heart, of the hand—I marvelled much the more.... Cogitate severally, while you contemplate theREFLECTIONS OF A TAILOR-POET.Day hath put on his jacket, and aroundHis burning bosom buttoned it with stars.Here will I lay me on the velvet moss,That is like padding to earth’s meagre ribs,And hold communion with the things about me.Ah me! how lovely is the golden braidThat binds the skirt of night’s descending robe;The twin-leaves quivering on their silken threads,Do make a music like the rustling satin,As the light breezes smoothe their downy nap.Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage?It is, it is, the deeply injured flower,Which boys do flout with; but yet I love thee,Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout;Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as brightAs these thy puny brethren; and thy breathSweetened the fragrance of the spicy air;But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beauStript of his gaudy hues and essence,And growing portly in his sober clothes.Is that a swan that rides upon the water?Oh no! it is that other gentle birdWhich is the patron of our noble calling.I well remember, in my boyhood’s time,When these young hands first closed upon a goose.I have a scar upon my thimble fingerWhich chronicles the hour of young ambition.My father was a tailor, and his father,And my great grandsire: all of them were tailors.They had an ancient goose; it was an heir-loomFrom some remoter tailor of our race.I am not certain, but I think ’twas heWho through misfortune was unfortunate.No matter; ’tis a joy to straighten outOne’s limb’s, and leap elastic from the counter,Leaving the petty grievances of earth,The breaking thread, the din of clashing shearsAnd all the needles that do wound the spirit.People on whom the hand of disease permanently mayhap to rest, as in my own case, are not unapt to be cloudy. However this may be as a general thing with others, I am not so. I heartily despise serious confabs. You may reckon it strange, my friend, but the nearer death am I, the more cheerful are my feelings. God is good.... But what have we here?Set me down as one of small knowledge in things matrimonial. When I happen to stumble over any difficulty in that line, enacting by man and wife, down goes the cap before two crossed-eyes, my heels imitating, at the same instant, a pair of crane’s wings. When very young a picture of “Washing Day,” in the toy book, where the wife laid her good man sprawling by a well-directed blow from a water-ladle, was to me a source of much amusement; but bachelorship and sad health, have contributed to render the reality of that picture painful.Here allow me to take breath and remark, that if perchance any good individuals, having eyed our peregrinations thus far, should happen to begrudge the expenditure of this purchase, and sigh for the luxury of repossessing it again, let them forthwith repair to my sick-room, at No.—Dey street, and the talismanic sixpence shall be refunded. But, my good friends, and my evil friends, be sure of this much; that however kindly or reprovingly you may view the present visionary intrusion of my little thought-messenger, this is the only time it will trouble you, without your own especial command.... And now, peradventure, if “The Letter” be so fortunate as to meet with one welcoming smile, I pray the sainted lady or gentleman to drop in a line at the Post Office, directed “Editor of the Letter,” commanding its regular visits. And I do also earnestly entreat of such, to enclose me any effusion of their’s which they deem worthy of publication, and if worthy it be, I promise that “The Letter” shall go out to the wavy multitude, freighted and enriched with their own ideas. Lend me your countenance and your mind’s treasures, and I will hold up to human gaze a casket more sparkling than eye hath yet beheld, and it shall gladden and glorify you.... Turn from this to the attractive narration of the Pig-Stealer, commencing the next page.It is high time that this mind-monotony be tied to a post, and the eddy-whirl of community accidents and interests attacked with a skimmer. Perforce, to chouse government out of letter-postage, we sail in the wake of the common newspapers. And if any avaricious limb of the post-office undertake to extort the postage of a letter for the mail-carriage of “The Unexpected Letter,” pay it not, my friend, but expostulate with him that we are a newspaper, regularly published and miscellaneous not only, but news-mongering in particular. None of his business what our guise may be.Wanted immediately—Five active, able-bodied jokers. Apply to me. None need come without a bag full. Fat folks preferred.... Large newspapers are on the decline. Old fashioned murders are getting scarce. Letters are merchandise—a quantity for sale at this office—only six cents a-piece! Something makes me spiteful. Trade fluctuates once in a while!... Short farewells are ominous. I can’t be with you all the time, my dear one, but, if we meet no more the fault will be your own! I will write to you periodically, with the patent assistance of types and steam—never forgetting your important aid—sixpence! Very Cheap! isn’t it. If you would say anything to me, write it down, mark “The Unexpected Letter,” on the back, and then cram it into that “hole in the wall” at the post office. Send me a pile of rich jokes, or if you have nothing original in that line, cheese and hoe-cake will not be refused.... All things must have an end—even I! Adieu! Number Two will pass along in about ten days—not voluntarily though—but if you want it send word! Rare dough in the bake. Don’t miss it.THE INVALID.
We (myself and thee) are twin-links in that grand chain, which hung out from the primeval chaos that was ere the golden sun shone on a virgin world, and hath come down through the juttings of fifty-nine epochs of time, to this hour. Onward to the future goeth its silvery trail, weaving everlasting issues.... But myself and thee move not. Here stand we—links in the grand chain of human destiny—as watchers on a storm beaten rock, whereon also millions are. We hear the sound of voices and of footsteps. Hammers clink and dollars jingle. It is the din of a city. Out in the fields there, the lillies grow and the bee sings. Far away and high in the mountains, where the eaglet’s eyrie is, graze the flocks of the humble shepherd. Let us bow to the harmony of nature and the majesty of God! But—but I am astray already. This is not the strain with which I meant to open up to you.... Life, you know, is tumultuous; at least, I know it. Half-wrecked already. I am an invalid, seeking through the Race-stubble around me—sympathy! Forasmuch as my departure to the Great Homestead draweth near, I am panting for those pure vestments of mortality which shall grace its heaven-wide halls. Thus far, how hard to discover! All my methods are thread-bare and fruitless. But sympathy is a law of the Universe, plentifully abounding, and without its strengthening influences this world were an ungladdened waste. Wherefore I have wrought a new manner to commune with thee—this present.... I had a dream lately. A frame of dilapidated bones stood by the side of a stream. The rains pelted and the winds whistled through it. In the place where, in flesh-time, the breath case had been, was a machine of wonderful handiwork—now not less silent and awful than the frame that held it—which might be sacrilegiously likened unto a spinning-jenny. There were its gearings yet; and I named it Mystery. There were its charmed threads—thousands, millions—issuing in all directions, so that the Race were supplied, each with one. And I was amazed to behold how reluctantly Age yielded them up to the eager grasp of Youth. I cried out for the history and the name of his Boneniness. And they said “Fame! Fame!” And when I heard of the great number who were struggling in their might to rear unto themselves their own frame, with a like appendage—lavishing thereon, with an idol-worship, the genius of the head, of the heart, of the hand—I marvelled much the more.... Cogitate severally, while you contemplate the
REFLECTIONS OF A TAILOR-POET.
Day hath put on his jacket, and aroundHis burning bosom buttoned it with stars.Here will I lay me on the velvet moss,That is like padding to earth’s meagre ribs,And hold communion with the things about me.Ah me! how lovely is the golden braidThat binds the skirt of night’s descending robe;The twin-leaves quivering on their silken threads,Do make a music like the rustling satin,As the light breezes smoothe their downy nap.Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage?It is, it is, the deeply injured flower,Which boys do flout with; but yet I love thee,Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout;Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as brightAs these thy puny brethren; and thy breathSweetened the fragrance of the spicy air;But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beauStript of his gaudy hues and essence,And growing portly in his sober clothes.Is that a swan that rides upon the water?Oh no! it is that other gentle birdWhich is the patron of our noble calling.I well remember, in my boyhood’s time,When these young hands first closed upon a goose.I have a scar upon my thimble fingerWhich chronicles the hour of young ambition.My father was a tailor, and his father,And my great grandsire: all of them were tailors.They had an ancient goose; it was an heir-loomFrom some remoter tailor of our race.I am not certain, but I think ’twas heWho through misfortune was unfortunate.No matter; ’tis a joy to straighten outOne’s limb’s, and leap elastic from the counter,Leaving the petty grievances of earth,The breaking thread, the din of clashing shearsAnd all the needles that do wound the spirit.
Day hath put on his jacket, and aroundHis burning bosom buttoned it with stars.Here will I lay me on the velvet moss,That is like padding to earth’s meagre ribs,And hold communion with the things about me.Ah me! how lovely is the golden braidThat binds the skirt of night’s descending robe;The twin-leaves quivering on their silken threads,Do make a music like the rustling satin,As the light breezes smoothe their downy nap.Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage?It is, it is, the deeply injured flower,Which boys do flout with; but yet I love thee,Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout;Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as brightAs these thy puny brethren; and thy breathSweetened the fragrance of the spicy air;But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beauStript of his gaudy hues and essence,And growing portly in his sober clothes.Is that a swan that rides upon the water?Oh no! it is that other gentle birdWhich is the patron of our noble calling.I well remember, in my boyhood’s time,When these young hands first closed upon a goose.I have a scar upon my thimble fingerWhich chronicles the hour of young ambition.My father was a tailor, and his father,And my great grandsire: all of them were tailors.They had an ancient goose; it was an heir-loomFrom some remoter tailor of our race.I am not certain, but I think ’twas heWho through misfortune was unfortunate.No matter; ’tis a joy to straighten outOne’s limb’s, and leap elastic from the counter,Leaving the petty grievances of earth,The breaking thread, the din of clashing shearsAnd all the needles that do wound the spirit.
Day hath put on his jacket, and aroundHis burning bosom buttoned it with stars.Here will I lay me on the velvet moss,That is like padding to earth’s meagre ribs,And hold communion with the things about me.Ah me! how lovely is the golden braidThat binds the skirt of night’s descending robe;The twin-leaves quivering on their silken threads,Do make a music like the rustling satin,As the light breezes smoothe their downy nap.Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage?It is, it is, the deeply injured flower,Which boys do flout with; but yet I love thee,Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout;Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as brightAs these thy puny brethren; and thy breathSweetened the fragrance of the spicy air;But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beauStript of his gaudy hues and essence,And growing portly in his sober clothes.
Is that a swan that rides upon the water?Oh no! it is that other gentle birdWhich is the patron of our noble calling.I well remember, in my boyhood’s time,When these young hands first closed upon a goose.I have a scar upon my thimble fingerWhich chronicles the hour of young ambition.My father was a tailor, and his father,And my great grandsire: all of them were tailors.They had an ancient goose; it was an heir-loomFrom some remoter tailor of our race.I am not certain, but I think ’twas heWho through misfortune was unfortunate.No matter; ’tis a joy to straighten outOne’s limb’s, and leap elastic from the counter,Leaving the petty grievances of earth,The breaking thread, the din of clashing shearsAnd all the needles that do wound the spirit.
People on whom the hand of disease permanently mayhap to rest, as in my own case, are not unapt to be cloudy. However this may be as a general thing with others, I am not so. I heartily despise serious confabs. You may reckon it strange, my friend, but the nearer death am I, the more cheerful are my feelings. God is good.... But what have we here?
Set me down as one of small knowledge in things matrimonial. When I happen to stumble over any difficulty in that line, enacting by man and wife, down goes the cap before two crossed-eyes, my heels imitating, at the same instant, a pair of crane’s wings. When very young a picture of “Washing Day,” in the toy book, where the wife laid her good man sprawling by a well-directed blow from a water-ladle, was to me a source of much amusement; but bachelorship and sad health, have contributed to render the reality of that picture painful.
Here allow me to take breath and remark, that if perchance any good individuals, having eyed our peregrinations thus far, should happen to begrudge the expenditure of this purchase, and sigh for the luxury of repossessing it again, let them forthwith repair to my sick-room, at No.—Dey street, and the talismanic sixpence shall be refunded. But, my good friends, and my evil friends, be sure of this much; that however kindly or reprovingly you may view the present visionary intrusion of my little thought-messenger, this is the only time it will trouble you, without your own especial command.... And now, peradventure, if “The Letter” be so fortunate as to meet with one welcoming smile, I pray the sainted lady or gentleman to drop in a line at the Post Office, directed “Editor of the Letter,” commanding its regular visits. And I do also earnestly entreat of such, to enclose me any effusion of their’s which they deem worthy of publication, and if worthy it be, I promise that “The Letter” shall go out to the wavy multitude, freighted and enriched with their own ideas. Lend me your countenance and your mind’s treasures, and I will hold up to human gaze a casket more sparkling than eye hath yet beheld, and it shall gladden and glorify you.... Turn from this to the attractive narration of the Pig-Stealer, commencing the next page.
It is high time that this mind-monotony be tied to a post, and the eddy-whirl of community accidents and interests attacked with a skimmer. Perforce, to chouse government out of letter-postage, we sail in the wake of the common newspapers. And if any avaricious limb of the post-office undertake to extort the postage of a letter for the mail-carriage of “The Unexpected Letter,” pay it not, my friend, but expostulate with him that we are a newspaper, regularly published and miscellaneous not only, but news-mongering in particular. None of his business what our guise may be.
Wanted immediately—Five active, able-bodied jokers. Apply to me. None need come without a bag full. Fat folks preferred.... Large newspapers are on the decline. Old fashioned murders are getting scarce. Letters are merchandise—a quantity for sale at this office—only six cents a-piece! Something makes me spiteful. Trade fluctuates once in a while!... Short farewells are ominous. I can’t be with you all the time, my dear one, but, if we meet no more the fault will be your own! I will write to you periodically, with the patent assistance of types and steam—never forgetting your important aid—sixpence! Very Cheap! isn’t it. If you would say anything to me, write it down, mark “The Unexpected Letter,” on the back, and then cram it into that “hole in the wall” at the post office. Send me a pile of rich jokes, or if you have nothing original in that line, cheese and hoe-cake will not be refused.... All things must have an end—even I! Adieu! Number Two will pass along in about ten days—not voluntarily though—but if you want it send word! Rare dough in the bake. Don’t miss it.
THE INVALID.
By this time the reader may be a little curious to hear the upshot of this magnificent and fair-promising scheme. At a given moment the whole corps of robust carriers was set in motion by command of Tirrell. Then what a ringing of bells and thumping of knockers was there, in that mighty city! How many fond expectations leaped in the bosoms ofthe fairest, as letters were announced to their pretty names! For about an hour all went off like a charm. Tirrell was in his element—passing hurriedly from street to street—advising, cheering, animating all. And as for Estabrook, he was so overcome with joy that he went up garret and stowed himself away among the old furniture, to reflect upon the question whether human nature was mutable, or not?
But the sport was soon over. Several worthy citizens lodged information with the Police, that a great gang of petty swindlers were taking the city by storm, infringing alike upon the post office laws and the finances of the community. Justice Parker, alarmed by this startling news, promptly issued orders commanding all constables and officers to seize the depredators and bring them before the bar of the Court. A scene now took place which beggars description. In all directions there was pulling and hauling and bawling. The people gaped in amazement from door and window and street-corner. Excitement rose to so high a pitch that some of the “fathers of the city” were really terrified with the idea that every body was about to blow up. Some cried out, “The Vandals are in the city!” The boys shouted “fire!” and the women screamed “murder!” Tirrell, watching the great commotion with intense interest, began to clench his teeth and mutter revenge; but he soon became seized of the conviction that nothing of a joke but Sing Sing would be likely to come out of the “flare up.” Then his heels cut the atmosphere with as much celerity as when he was making his escape from the vicinity of the spot where poor Maria Bickford lay weltering in gore.
Violent hands were laid on Estabrook, while in the very heart of his golden reveries; and when they explained to him the cause of his arrest, he doubted his own senses, and declared the whole to be “a spell.” But it was a wakeful one, for Mr. Justice Parker consigned him to an apartment in the “Egyptian Tombs.”
Immured within the walls of a dungeon, for the only time during his previous and hitherto crimeless life, he threw his lank form upon a flea-infected couch and gave vent to an insupportable grief. When this subsided, he began to review the matter stoically. A thought struck him, that the only relief from the horrors of his present situation lay in a full and frank explanation of all the circumstances connected with the affair, demonstrating most clearly his innocence of any intention to commit a fraud; winding up with an affecting appeal to public sympathy; and publishing the document in the penny papers of the following morning. This he did; and the device was successful. The city folks, after learning the facts, laughed at the singularity of the project, and freely bestowed their sympathy upon the dupe of Tirrell. More than twenty thousand individuals on that morning gathered around the “Tombs” and demanded the liberation of Estabrook. Justice P. trembled in his ermine when he looked upon that mob. In former times he had been a raving politician, and a desciple of the mob spirit; he now thought it prudent to grant the demand of that funny populace, by stipulating a trifling bail for the release of the prisoner. This was instantly given, and Estabrook soon made his appearance amidst thunders of applause. He stood on the massive granite steps of the “Tombs,” and, after gracefully bowing to the multitude, made a thrilling harangue about the magic influence of the pennypress, and on human rights in general. When he concluded the multitude gave him three times three.
These occurrences so wrought upon the curiosity of the people of that city, that they were now even more eager to obtain the Unexpected Letter than had been to suppress it the day previous. It was thrown into the hands of a gallant band of newsboys, who cried it by its name for a week, when the edition became exhausted, and Estabrook had “bettered his fortunes” very materially.
Tirrell returned to Boston about five thousand dollars poorer than he left it a month before. If he ever visited the city of New York after this, it was in disguise.
ARREST OF TIRRELL THE MURDERER!