New York: Its Upper Ten and Lower Million

by George Lippard

Meanwhile, we will follow the adventures of Arthur Dermoyne.

About half-past twelve o'clock, Arthur Dermoyne stood in the street, in front of the house of Madam Resimer. Wrapped in his cloak, and with his cap drawn over his eyes, he stood in the shadows, and gazed fixedly upon the mansion opposite. It stood in the midst of a crowded street, joined with houses on either side, and yet it stood alone. Black and sullen with its closed shutters and somber exterior, it seemed to bear upon its face the stamp of the infernal crimes which had been committed within its walls. Lofty mansions lined the street, but their wealthy occupants little knew the real character of the woman (woman!—fiend would be a better name) who tenanted the gloomy house.

With great difficulty,—it matters not how,—Arthur had discovered the haunt of this murderess. Her name was one of those names which creep through society like the vague panic which foretells the pestilence; there were few who did not know that such a person existed, and few whose hearts did shrink in loathing, from the very mention of her name. But her haunt, centered in an aristocratic quarter, was comparatively unknown; only her customers and some of the publishers of newspapers, with whom she advertised, were aware that the sullen house which stood in a fashionable street, was the den of Madam Resimer.

That such a creature should exist, and grow rich in the city of New York, in the middle of the nineteenth century, by the pursuit of a traffic which, in its incredible infamy, has no name in language, may well excite the horror of every man and woman with a human heart within their bosom.

We read of the female poisoner, and shudder; but console ourselves with the thought, "These things happened in the dark ages, long ago, when knowledge was buried, and the human heart was utterly depraved."

We read in the daily papers the announcement of a wretch that, for a certain price, she will kill the unborn child,—an announcement made in plain terms, and paid for as an advertisement,—and we are dumb. It is the nineteenth century: will not future ages, raking the advertisement of this infamous woman from some dark corner, guess the awful secrets of the nineteenth century from that one infernal blot?

We see a carriage drawn by blooded steeds, whirling through Broadway; its only occupant a handsomely-attired female. And we say to ourselves, "There goes the murderess of mother and of the unborn child—there goes the wretch who thrives by the slaughter of lost womanhood; who owns a splendid carriage, a fine mansion, and a magnificent fortune, in the very vortex of a depraved social world—there goes the instrument of the very vilest crime known in the annals of Hell."

These words none of us dare say aloud; we only think of them; and we shudder as we see them written on paper,—they are so horribly true.

And as we ask—Why is such a creature needed in the world? Why does she find employment? Why do a hundred such as her, thrive and grow rich in the large cities? we are forced to accept one of these two answers:

1. A bad social state, based upon enormous wealth and enormous poverty,—a social state which gives to the few the very extravagancies of luxury, and deprives the countless many of the barest rights and comforts of life,—finds its natural result in the existence of this Madam Resimer.