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. Tirrell observed the mandate with the most indifferent contempt, and spatting a ten dollar bill on the counter, bawled out for Wine! 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:
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.