EDITOR’S SALUTATORY—TO THE READER.
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 around
His 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 braid
That 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 bright
As these thy puny brethren; and thy breath
Sweetened the fragrance of the spicy air;
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau
Stript 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 bird
Which 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 finger
Which 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-loom
From some remoter tailor of our race.
I am not certain, but I think ’twas he
Who through misfortune was unfortunate.
No matter; ’tis a joy to straighten out
One’s limb’s, and leap elastic from the counter,
Leaving the petty grievances of earth,
The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears
And 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 of the 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.
POSTSCRIPT.
ARREST OF TIRRELL THE MURDERER!
|
ON BOARD THE Off New Orleans, |
SHIP SULTANA. December 6th, 1845. |
This individual has at last been arrested, and after all hopes had been given up, as it was supposed he had left the country. Captain Youenness, of the First Municipality police, received information last Sunday, by a private letter from New York, that Tirrell had shipped for New Orleans in one of the regular packet ships under the name of William Dennis. He immediately laid the facts before the Recorder, and obtaining the assistance of officers Trescazes, chartered a pilot boat and set sail for the Gulf. They boarded several vessels, but could not find the name of William Dennis among the list of passengers, and began to think their information was incorrect.
At last a vessel hove in sight, on Friday morning last, and on nearing her she proved to be the ship Sultana from New York. They boarded her, and upon inquiring of the captain whether he had a passenger named Dennis, received an affirmative reply—but neither he, the mate, nor any one else, could tell which of the passengers was Dennis. Mr. Bowditch, a custom house officer, being aboard, called the roll of the passengers; when the name of William Dennis was called, a good looking man, in a rough blue pilot-cloth suit, with a glazed cap on his head, stepped out. Youenness said, “Sir, I want you.” “What for?” inquired Dennis. “There is no occasion for any conversation; I suspect you know,” replied Youenness. “Have you got a warrant?” inquired Dennis. “Yes!” was the reply. “Let me see it.” “Here it is,” said Y., producing it and handing it to him; “are you satisfied?” “Yes.”
The handcuffs were then placed upon his wrists, and when the tow boat Porpoise came along side the officers transferred him to her, and yesterday about twelve o’clock, arrived in this city and took him before Recorder Genois.
He was called up to the Recorder’s desk about two o’clock, and Mr. Jarius Vinney, of No. 3 Magazine street, was sworn, and identified the accused as Albert J. Tirrell, from having known him for many years and being brought up in the same village with him. “What is your name?” said the Recorder, looking at the prisoner. There was a pause of a second, in which all eyes were turned upon the suspected man, expecting of course that he would deny his identity; but to the surprise of every one, he said in a soft, mild voice—“Albert J. Tirrell!”
Mr. Bates, of the firm of Bates & Tirrell, also identified the accused as Albert J. Tirrell. The Recorder then informed him that he should commit him, without bail, upon the charge of having murdered Maria A. Bickford, in Boston, until a requisition could be obtained from the Governor of Massachusetts. The prisoner bowed his head and was removed.
There was nothing found upon his person but a revolving pistol, with every barrel loaded and capped. His trunk contained nothing at all. On the way up he endeavored to jump overboard, but was prevented by the officers.
Since his arrival in the city he has maintained the most gloomy silence, scarcely answering the officers who have occasion to address him, and passing the whole of the day in a lethargic state.
There is no little doubt, from his conduct since his arrest, that he will snatch the very first opportunity to commit suicide, that the officers are continually compelled to watch him, or to put him under such restraint that it would be impossible for him to destroy himself.—New Orleans Picayune.
APPENDIX.
THE LATEST HISTORY OF MRS. BICKFORD AND TIRRELL.
So many and conflicting accounts of these persons, and of their characters and deeds, have appeared in the newspapers, of late, that there is little or no reliance to be placed upon them. We cannot see, for the life of us, what gain or credit will accrue to the press by the wholesale coinage of falsehood and misrepresentation respecting these individuals. An indignant public may yet hold them responsible for these heartless impositions on their credulity. The following, from the Boston Post, though full of errors, contains some particulars, additional to those stated in the preceding pages:
Mrs. B. was born in Bath, Me., but her parents removed to Bangor when she was quite young. At the age of fifteen she was employed in a family as a domestic, and about this period received the addresses of a young seafaring man, named Sandford. Her mother did not think favorably of him, and caused the connection to be promptly broken off. Subsequently Mary became acquainted with Mr. Bickford, and they were married in 1839. Her maiden name was Mary Ann Dunn. Her father has been dead several years, and her mother now resides in Guilford, Me.
The husband and wife lived happily together for about three years. She had one child, which died young. At this time, several female friends of the family, who were about visiting Boston, extended an invitation to Mrs. B. to accompany them; she accepted it, and the party accordingly came here. While in this city she appeared delighted with every thing she saw—completely captivated—and, on her return home, expressed a desire to reside permanently in Boston. Henceforth, Mr. B. states, she apparently became dissatisfied with her humble condition. She was passionately fond of dressing extravagantly; but the limited means of the husband prevented her from making that gay appearance she so much desired to do. She now became less affectionate than formerly towards him, and often courted the attentions of a young man who visited their boarding-house.
Business often called Mr. B. from home for several days together, when, it was subsequently ascertained, the individual would make himself agreeable to the wife. His prepossessing appearance and winning address soon had the desired effect upon a mind already ill at ease. He won her confidence, and, of course, had her completely in his power. He offered to take her to Boston, and promised that she should do as she pleased. Her beauty was her ruin. From this date, (October 1842) commences her downward career.
They now planned an elopement. The young man, ascertaining that the schooner Florence, Capt. Fowler, was lying in the stream, just ready for sea, accordingly secured passage in her for himself and victim. Mrs. B.’s husband arriving home at this juncture, it was necessary that herself and seducer should manage with a great degree of shrewdness, in order to lull suspicion. She therefore expressed a desire to Mr. B. to go and reside with her mother at Guilford, during the coming winter. He acquiesed] in the proposition; she commenced packing up her wardrobe, &c., and the unsuspecting husband engaged a carriage to convey her to Guilford on the following day.
In the meantime, by previous arrangements with her paramour, her trunks were placed on board of the schooner, and he subsequently conveyed Mrs. B. on board. The parties were strangers to Capt. F. The vessel immediately put to sea, and in a day or two they arrived at Newburyport and took lodgings at one of the hotels, but shortly afterwards procured private board. Thus matters remained for nearly three months. During this period the forsaken husband could discover no trace of the interesting runaways; but shortly afterwards he received a letter from his delinquent wife, dated at Newburyport, in which she stated that she should immediately proceed to Boston. In a few days he received a second letter, mailed at B., in which she stated that she was sick and destitute, and wished to see him very much. The inference is that her paramour had exhausted his funds, and then left her.
In February, 1843, Mr. Bickford came to Boston, and, after searching for his wife nearly a fortnight, at length found her at a house of ill fame in North Margin street. She appeared glad to see him, but positively refused again to return to Bangor—upon which he left her, and she continued in the city till July 1st, 1844, when she left for New Bedford.
There she first became acquainted with Albert J. Tirrell, and was soon afterwards his acknowledged mistress. They resided together in that place until the first of February, ’45, when they went to New York, stopped at the Astor House a short time, and then proceeded to Philadelphia and various other places.
About the last of February they returned to Boston and stopped at the Pemberton House. From thence they went to the North American House, where they resided three weeks and then left for Albany, Saratoga Springs, &c. After a short absence they again returned and put up at the Hanover House, he always assuming a fictitious name.
At this time Tirrell hired a house in London street, elegantly furnished it, and they removed there. They had two or three female boarders. Upon the front door was placed the name of “Maria Welch,”—Tirrell fearing to use his own name, as the police officers were then in pursuit of him for the crime of adultery.
************
At this time Mr. Bickford resided in this city. After Mrs. B. had found the lost trunk, she called on her husband and requested him to take charge of all her baggage, and immediately hastened to New Bedford. Now affairs between Tirrell and Mrs. B. began to assume a somewhat mysterious aspect.
Tirrell soon ascertained that she had not been home, and he hurried back to Boston in quest of her, and put up at the Shawmut house, where he learned that she had also stopped the day previous, but had now gone to New Bedford.
Mr. B. received a letter from her immediately after her arrival, dated June 18, in which she says, “I am here in New Bedford, but I want to come back. * * * * * Albert is not here. I expect to get killed when he does come! I must not stay here long.”
Tirrell immediately followed her; and the first information Mr. B. received of their doings was contained in letters from Newport, R. I.; one from Tirrell, in which he requested to have Mrs. B.’s trunk sent to him, signing his name to the same, and that of “Maria,” evidently intending to make it appear that the latter was her signature. The other letter came from Mrs. B. by the same mail, instructing Mr. B. not to let the trunk go out of his possession at any rate. This is the last time he heard from them until he got a letter dated Albany, July 2, 1844, in which she says, “I am here in Albany, and shall go to the Springs tomorrow. We stopped in New York at the Astor House two days.” They also stopped at the Lorillard House, from which they were ejected, owing to their misbehavior there.
The next letter that Mr. B. received was dated Boston, July 19, in which she requests him to bring at the United States Hotel, some clothing and her accordeon, and adds, “call for Mr. Hale, room No. 28. Come as soon as you get this—do not say to any one that we are here.”
Mr B. called as requested, and in the course of conversation informed her that some friends whom they had known at Bangor resided at South Boston; she expressing a wish to see them; he consented to accompany her thither. On the way she informed him that Tirrell abused her, that she was afraid of him, and was determined to get clear from him. It would seem that Tirrell suspected her design, for in a short time he came with a carriage to bring her back. The husband used every effort but force to get her to go home. The following letter is the last communication Mr B. received from this unfortunate woman:
Boston, Oct. 1845.
James—I have just received your letter that you wrote so long ago. You want to know all, of course. I left New Bedford and went to Concord, N. H. and from there to Niagara Falls and Vermont State, and back to New York, and now I am in Boston. They have got Albert; they caught him in New Bedford; he got bailed out and will have his trial next Monday; I expect he will be sent to Charlestown. They found him with me, but said it was not me they wanted—but I know they want me for a witness. I am secreted in Boston, and no one knows where except those I stay with. He directed a letter to the Boston post office for me, and says they are trying so find out my name. I have not got one cent; if I had I would come home. I wish you would write to me as soon as you receive this—direct your letter to Mary Jackson.
Your MARIA.
Letters, &c. exhibited to the Coroner’s Jury.
December 10th, 1844.
My Dear Maria:—I shall have to depart for New Bedford by the first train to-morrow, to be absent 8 or 9 days. I much regret not being able to see you, but hope you will be reconciled to my absence, though I am not to yours. But perhaps the following lines will better express my sentiments of regard for you, than I could have done verbally. You know you often say I shall forget you:
PARTING WORDS TO MARIA.
Forget Thee?—If to dream by night and muse on thee by day,
If all the worship deep and wild a loving heart can pay—
If prayers in absence, breathed for thee to heaven’s protecting power—
If winged thoughts that flit to thee, a thousand in an hour—
If busy fancy, blending thee with all thy future lot,—
If this thou call’st FORGETTING, thou Indeed shalt be forgot.
Forget Thee?—Bid the forest birds forget their sweetest tune!
Forgot thee! Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon!
Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve’s refreshing dew;
Thyself forget thine own dear Maine, its mountains wild and blue—
Forget each old familiar face, each long-remembered spot:
—When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot!
P. S.—Write to me Sunday. Send your letters to the Parker House, where I shall stay. Be true to me, my love, since all others are false.
A. J. T.
Brattle Square, Jan. 3.
Lovely Maria:—If you are willing, we will take a sleigh ride out to Brighton to-night, and put up at Clarke’s. I gave hint the wink this morning. He says all is right. Enclosed you will find an order for a shawl, on the establishment of J. & P. These girls cost me a trifle, that’s a fact. Never mind, it is’nt as though I was poor, like S. Don’t allow him any liberties.—He brags that he can come it over you at any time. If you get into any trouble with the Police, send right down for me, and I’ll clear you in ten minutes. The Judges and all the officers want their horses shod, on credit. That Miss Honeycomb is a blasted tooth, and nothing else. I’m clear of her forever.
Good bye, —— ——
Cambridge, Feb. 1.
Our mutual friend, F. D. has broken one of his legs. Good news! The doctor caught him getting down from Henrietta’s window, on a long board. In a tremendous rage he dashed it to the ground, and hence the sad mishap. D. may thank his stars at being even so lucky. Jenkins, you know, was shot in the hip for the same offence. They don’t manage these things as I do. You see I always come off Scot free. I shall soon graduate, and then I want to take a trip with you up to the White Mountains. It will save trouble to go as though we were married. Adieu—but remember.
H. L.
East Boston, Aug. 28, ’44.
Sweet Queen:—Be on the Charlestown Bridge at precisely half past two o’clock this afternoon, if you want to go on an excursion down to the Islands. Arrangements have been made for a grand chowder and break-down. Old Smite is to play the banjo. Virginia, the “lioness,” will be in the boat. You are to be my partner, and V. is to mate with Jim. We will stay over night, and have an old-fashioned time. That’s the way to go it. Now do not fail, Mary; we shall have every thing aboard by half past two. Look out for that jockey who wears the slouched hat. He’s laid up, under the doctor’s care, just now. I would’nt be in his boots for a picayune.
H. B.
P. S.—I left a set of dead props with you last evening. Have them along, as I calculate to gaff some of the green-horns. Moral: This is a brave world.
No. — State Street, May 20, 1844.
Dear Mary: I shall not be with you next Tuesday night, as my promise runs. Circumstances, entirely beyond my control, will prevent me. Expect me in a few days. In the mean time, do not meet with that graceless simpleton, Tirrell. He will degrade you to the lowest pitch. I have a small affair to arrange with him that you are not aware of. He will have to bite the dust, or lose his life.
Your own, love, C. H. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] In almost every town and village in New England may be found a coterie or “fraternity” of old women and elderly spinsters, who seem to have retained all the characteristics of the early Puritans, and who cling pertinaciously to the superstitious notions and puritanical bigotry which distinguished the early settlers of the country. They are firm and sincere believers in all the hobgoblin stories and supernatural omens which have been handed down by a former generation. They give full credence to tales of prophetic warnings given to mortals in dreams, and profess to interpret the meaning of remarkable visions, whether for good or for evil. This sisterhood also keep a general supervision of the conduct of the good people of their immediate neighborhood. They can inform you of the age, personal appearance, present circumstances, and future prospects of every male and female within their circuit. No stranger can remain in the place twenty-four hours without having his character, and the nature of his business, thoroughly investigated, and duly reported to the people of the neighborhood. They are the constant attendants of protracted religious gatherings, sowing societies, and tea parties, and good pious souls, they will attend to every body’s business but their own. They are the fountain from whence springs all the scandal of the place, and the active agents for its circulation—and wo be to him or her who is, perhaps innocently, the subject of their regards. The members of this sisterhood are peculiar for the suavity of their hearing—for elongated visages, sharp noses, thin lips—and for usually wearing “spectacles on nose.”
[2] Let those remarks by no means be understood as reflecting censure upon the sincere worship of God, as taught and practised by the meek and lowly Jesus. All honor, and praise, and glory to such religion. But a system of pretence at present usurps dominion over the human soul. In the place of true piety sits a monster not less hideous than damnable: this is the thousand faced giant, Hypocrisy. There is a market for all religion now-a-days—and men preach and pray, with the love of God on their lips and the love of Mammon in their hearts. The pulpit has become an engine for increasing in riches. How long is it since the sainted and gifted Pierpont was thrust from the Hollis Street Church, in Boston, for opposing the devilish traffic of the bloated rum-seller? Pouring honied phrases into the ears of heartless capitalists, at the rate of $4000 a year, has grown into a trade! Raising a breeze to extort enormous sums of money from the credulous, to be lavished on the construction of immense piles of stone, each surmounted by a bell and weathercock, is but another mode of swindling. Not less than twelve hundred millions of dollars have been filched from the earnings of the poor, to rear the churches now standing in the United States. Were this amount expended in the amelioration of plundered humanity, how much joy and peace would reign where now are hideous want, dark crime, and hopeless death!
The church establishment is at this time the bulwark of Slavery in the United States.
Oh, not for the organization of such a wicked machinery came our Savior into the world! Not so did he teach by example! By the sea-shore he made disciples, among the rude fishermen; by the water fount he taught the maiden to draw from the well of immortality; out on the hill-top he proclaimed his mission of love and salvation. But now the money-changers are again in the temple. Civilisation has practically set at naught the maxims of Christ, and made the house of God a “den of thieves.” The modern church is the mother of more of the privations daily experienced by the poor and destitute (from which is born the Mystery of Iniquity) than any other extorting invention of Mammon. Privations, did we say? No. “Privation” (in the language of Sue) “poorly expresses that continuous and terrible destitution—the want of every thing which is necessary to clothe that life which God has given, with common comfort. Mortification would more suitably express the total absence of that security which society, equitably organized, owes—yes, actually owes—to every honest laborer, inasmuch as poverty, through civilization, has deprived these of any right to that soil which God made a free legacy to all. The savage does not enjoy the benefits of civilization—but he has at least the beasts of the forest, the birds of the air, the fish of the sea, whereon to feed—and the great woods to warm and shelter him. The civilized poor man, whom civilization has disinherited of these gifts of God, has a right to demand, in return for the hard labor by which he enriches the world, a remuneration which will procure the permanent comforts of life.”
[3] This mysterious paper is now in the Author’s possession. Much curiosity has been manifested to examine it, and the enterprising proprietors of the Boston Museum have recently offered a liberal amount for its purchase. The author returns his grateful acknowledgements for the flattering compliment intended for him in their note, but he is, and ever will be, unwilling that this document, (sacred, no less than singular,) containing, as it does, most wonderfully verified predictions, should be exposed to the vulgar curiosity of the mob.
[4] Speaking of things suavitous, it strikes us that the following, clipped from a late number of the Daily Mail, is something rich in the way of squash luxuriance:
“Mr. Robert Hamilton.—To the enterprise, tact, and discretion of this gentleman, the efficient stage-manager of the National Theatre, much of the success of this favorite establishment is to be ascribed. His well-known literary fame, and his merits as an actor, have acquired for him a deserved popularity.”
Bear always in mind that the game of a literary quack is to sound the trumpet of his own fame, since no one else will. There is potency in a free ticket, a beef steak, or a gin-sling! Either of these will at any time secure plenty of space in the columns of such an ephemeral, penny concern as the Mail. It is not surprising that the corporation which contains the ‘immortal part’ of Mr. Robert Hamilton should swell with the self-complacency of its tenant! Of a truth, Oh Fame, thy trumpet is of ‘sounding brass,’ and, though thou makest ‘the judicious grieve,’ yet, with thine every blast, thou givest fresh occasion for the open-mouthed wonder of ‘the groundlings!’ When is this self-puffing surfeit to have an end?
[5] It is no unusual thing at the South to see the son of a slaveholder going to a slave-auction, for the purpose of buying a beautiful and accomplished female, (whom slavery condemns to the shambles of vice,) to be appropriated to his sensual gratification. Many of these young men are not more than sixteen years old when their parents allow them to begin these hellish practices. Nay, more than this: Young men often go into the cotton and rice fields, in the open day, and commit acts of the most revolting libertinism on the helpless girls, who are compelled to labor fifteen hours a day, under the rays of a Southern sun. One of the “noblest mothers of Virginia,” in 1844, purchased three attractive mulatto females, and placed them in a cottage near the family mansion, for the exclusive use of an only son—assigning as a reason why she did it, that it would “make Charley steady!” Is there a God in heaven?
[6] Few are aware of the extent of prostitution carried on, on board the Eastern steamboats. Here the libertines of Boston flourish. State rooms are provided and free passages given to all young females who desire to visit their homes and return, or who, being in the country, are going to the city for employment. It is true they are poor. In the lime and basswood districts of Maine, perhaps they never had a dollar in their “born days.” And the people down there are such a simple and uninitiated race, that these daughters of chastity have never had the least knowledge of this steamboat deviltry, or of earning money by the sale of their virtue, until it is whispered to them when it is too late to make escape. It is supposed that not less than five thousand poor girls are entrapped and ruined every year by this licentious game. Under such circumstances, reaching Boston for the first time, it is not surprising that so large a part of them are prevailed upon to enter houses of ill-fame, impressed with the delusive idea that they will soon make a fortune and return. Thus they unconsciously sign their own death-warrants—aye, passports to a doom far less preferable!
The cab nuisance is a most efficient auxiliary to this work of hell. Nearly all of them are in the employ of the keepers of houses of prostitution; they hang around the landings, and get their cue from the knowing ones. Is there a girl who is entirely a stranger, and is seeking for a residence in the city, a cabman is always at hand, in the guise of one who earns an honest livelihood. She steps into his rickety vehicle, and is jotted down at the door of a temple of vice.
These poor creatures, once steeped in infamy, are generally beyond the reach of reformation. They remain in Boston while their beauty and bloom is attractive; but soon, as a matter of course, they contract odious and incurable diseases. Thus afflicted, large numbers of them migrate to New Bedford, Nantucket and Cape Cod, where, after a riotous debauch of a few years with the whalemen, they die. The enormous dividends declared by the New Bedford Branch Railroad Co. are mainly attributable to this class of passengers.
Oh, civilization! thou bringest gold to the rich man’s purse, and art the sweet nursling of murder.
[7] This is fearfully true. Many of the illustrious names of the pulpit are linked with the most damning vices. We need but cite from a host of examples on record those of Onderdonk, Johnson, Kimball, Avery, Hoyt, Mason, Kendrick—to say nothing of the reverend libertines at this time, who are yet sheltered by the wings of the faithful and stalk abroad in the face of day, as the representatives and advocates of the meek and lowly Saviour! Not a hundred days previous to her death Maria Bickford was the bed-mate of a ranting Millerite preacher of Boston!
[8] It would be culpable in us to allow this opportunity to pass without paying a feeble, but most hearty tribute of respect to Mr John Augustus of Boston, for his unwearying labors in the cause of reformation. Such disinterestedness, attended by such an overflow of blessed results, can only be appreciated by the unfortunates themselves. Philanthropy of so pure a cast is among the rarest of the emblems of human greatness; and the memory of this good man will long live in the free gratitude of many a broken heart. Mr. Augustus, more truly than any other man in America, may be likened unto that greater and crucified philanthropist of the olden time, who gloried in the work of “going about and doing good.” May his days be as many as his usefulness is great. Heaven rejoiceth over his works.
[9] Mr. Terson Paulin, of Paris, gives these lines in a petition to the Chamber of Deputies for the amelioration of the destitute classes of France: “We do not speak of girls placed in the same alternative; that which we might say, would be too painful to read. We will only remark, that it is at the period of long intermissions of work that the missionaries of prostitution recruit their proselytes from among the fairest of daughters of the people.
[10] The influence of physicians over the persons of their female patients is not less remarkable than true. This is very well, when trust is placed in such as are truly virtuous and honorable; but when otherwise, beware of a dangerous villain. It is almost a physiological impossibility for a young woman (however virtuously disposed) to resist the improper familiarities of an unprincipled physician. She may, indeed, hesitate and wonder at first, but the glisters and squills which he will administer, as indispensably necessary for the preservation of health, are charged with those drugs which excite the animal passions to an uncontrollable degree, and in this state they are a sure prey to the rapacious maw of a medical buzzard. This peace-destroying practice is carried on to an extent which almost baffles credulity. Our wives and daughters cannot be too often or too earnestly warned against employing any physician who is not known to possess the highest moral rectitude. Very old physicians should certainly be preferred; and those young bucks whose diploma is a distended pair of nostrils, should as certainly be avoided. Especially would we particularize, as one of the latter class, a pedantic simpleton, with a Scotch name, at the West End, in Boston! Shun that fellow as you would a pestilence!
To our New York readers we would instance a long-shanked, black-haired whiskerando, who hails (or did, in 1844,) from a respectable boarding-house on Lispenard street, in that city. He sports an “M.D.” and a cane, is as silly a mountebank as you will meet in many a summer’s day. His “importance” and gasconade are insufferable, and his character is a blight to all that is decent or endearing.