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                         PRICE, 12 1-2 CENTS.

                                  THE
                            LIFE AND DEATH
                                  OF
                         MRS. MARIA BICKFORD,

                      A Beautiful Female, who was
                          INHUMANLY MURDERED,

           In the Moral and Religious City of Boston, on the
                night of the 27th of October, 1845, by

                          ALBERT J. TIRRELL,

           Her Paramour, arrested on board the Ship Sultana,
                    off New Orleans, December 6th.

                            [Illustration]

                   BY A CLERGYMAN, OF BRUNSWICK, ME.

                                BOSTON:
                   PUBLISHED AND FOR SALE BY ALL THE
                          PERIODICAL DEALERS.

                                 1845
                       SECOND EDITION,--REVISED.

        Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845,
                      by SILAS ESTABROOK, in the
Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.




PREFACE.

“I COME NOT TO DESTROY.”--_Our Savior._


For the principal facts embodied in the following narrative, the Author
is indebted to the ill-fated female who is the subject of them. It was
his lot to be the bearer of a letter to her, in the spring of 1845, from
a companion of her childhood. Aware of her forlorn condition, and of
many acts of atrocity which characterized the latter part of her erring
life, he made it his purpose to learn the history of her career, which
was frankly communicated by her own lips.

The Author tenders his acknowledgments to the person who generously
placed in his hands the original letters which reveal the passion flame
of her FIRST LOVE with a medical student of Brunswick, in Maine. The
contents of these letters establish the fact that this student became
her seducer, and that he afterwards heartlessly abandoned her to
remorse, and the jeers of a scoffing world. She was but fifteen years of
age at the time of writing the letters, and they evince not only much
purity and depth of feeling, but likewise a mind endowed with rare
gifts.

It is not a pleasing duty to record the vicissitudes of the unfortunate.
To draw aside the veil which conceals the cherished treasures, the
blighted hopes, and the undying remorse of an erring soul, traced
through long seasons of unredeeming, rayless wo, is to perform a labor
for the benefit of the living. In this the author has striven to be
faithful, impartial, and truthful.

Life, as a spectacle, is but dimly seen and feebly comprehended; as a
mystery, it is unfathomable indeed. Blown, as it were, a bubble--dark as
the transgressions by which it is checkered, it bursts in an hour we
know not, as the globe of glass is dashed into fragments. We look on the
wreck, and wonder why it had a being, to gather in its train a
multitudinous throng of evils, and make its exit in ignominy and shame.
The author, it will be seen, is a fatalist--a believer in an unalterable
destiny. It is unnecessary here to enter into a defence of that
belief--he hopes that all people have an opinion of their own upon this,
as on other subjects.

Ye rich and great! ye poor and destitute--children of sin and wanderers
from virtue--ye world wronged! cast your eyes over the panorama spread
out to your view in the following pages, and, from the sounding depths
of crime, learn lessons of wisdom.




CHAPTER I.

     _Maria’s Birth--Strange Omens at the time of it--Speculations of
     the Old Maids and Old Women concerning the same--Singular Traits of
     her Youth--Mysterious Spiritual Visitings--Meditations in the Woods
     and Fields--Theology and Philosophy--Penitence--Remarks--What
     constitutes True Religion?_


Mrs. Maria Bickford was a native of Oldtown, a small parish near the
city of Bangor, in Maine--the daughter of poor but respectable parents.
Her maiden name was Dunn. She was born in the year 1822, and was,
consequently, twenty-three years old at the period of her awful and
untimely end. It is said of her, that, from earliest childhood, she had
been the sport of ill omens and startling reverses. At her birth, which
occurred before sunrise on a beautiful morning in autumn, a light of
strange radiance shone into the apartment, and a sparrow fluttered
against the window panes, uttering a plaintive wail, as if seeking
admittance.

Whether these occurrences were the results of unexplained natural
causes, or were the foreshadowings of an invisible fate, the judgment is
not for us to pronounce--perhaps a future life and another world will
interpret them. But certain it is, that their recital made a most
fruitful theme for conjecture with the wonder-loving neighborhood, at
the time. Old maids tied their cap-strings with a double knot for many a
night thereafter.[1] Old women spun long yarns while smoking their
old-fashioned iron pipes in the chimney corners--and the old men scoffed
at what they declared to be ridiculous. However it might have been, a
marked singularity of thought and action was developed in the succeeding
years of Maria’s youth. Her childish prattle was unlike that of other
children--she saw not as others see--she heard not as others hear--she
laughed not as others laugh--but in all and with all there seemed to be
a new development--a strangeness.

At about the seventh year of her age, those visitings of mysterious
thoughtfulness which, in after years, imparted to her a peculiar fame,
first began to be observed. During the recurrence of these periods she
would remain for hours unmoved, regardless of all that was passing
around her--as if in communion with the ascended spirit of some loved
playmate, or in happy contemplation of the joys to be realized far away
in the dim future. It was then that she discovered charms in solitude,
Alone, in the fields and in the woods, she laughed with the flowers, and
talked with the shadows of the trees--and that oaken giant, near her
father’s house, which had sternly derided the blasts of many centuries,
creaked as though it were glad when Maria came, as she often did, and
leaned against its brawny trunk, and exchanged salutations with the
sentinel of time.

“They say I have a soul,” she would say, in a revery, “an immortal
soul--that a good man, who was the son of God, died for me, that I might
live. What have I done to need such an awful atonement? Is it very wrong
to while the Sabbath hours away, out here, with these birds, and bees,
and squirrels? Is it a sin to love these pretty violets?--And this cool
shade, too, and the breeze which fans me so gently--how calmly I sleep,
and how pleasant are my dreams, in their refreshing presence! But they
tell me it is not right to cherish the endearments of this world. It is
neglecting God. I will kneel down here and pray.”

And this was Maria’s theology. What a mistake it is to teach the young
to restrain their love of nature in the desire of “serving God!” As
though his works had not the impress of his greatness and beneficence!
We cannot but regard this very prevalent practice as the vulgar
offspring of ignorance: and we trust that the time is at hand when the
religion of nature will assume, in the human mind, the place and
importance so long usurped by the hypocritical and soul-deadening
religion of formality.[2] What honest heart can entertain a doubt that
Maria returned from her Sunday rambles amid the luxuriance and
enlivening beauties of nature, a purer and better child than when she
had, all the tiresome day, been listening to the dry and repulsive
jabbering of a hireling pulpit sycophant? Oh, had the wisdom of the
child been the monitor of the woman, varied and sweet would have been
the closing years of the life of Maria Dunn.




CHAPTER II.

     _Educational Trainings--Maria’s Departure from her Childhood’s
     Home--Musings in the Coach--The Seeress of Lucky Basin--Maria’s
     Interview with her--The Result, and the Mystery--Fate imprisoned by
     Sealing-wax--Burning Words from a Crow-quill--The Fatal Promise--A
     Terrible Dream--Arrival at Brunswick._


Maria was blessed with kind and doting parents, who, in the plenitude of
their regards for her welfare, were inexorably solicitous that her whole
youth might be devoted to the acquirement of knowledge. Themselves
ignorant of the common rudiments of education, of course they were
incapable of selecting the best methods of instruction. Knowledge, they
imagined, came from the school-house. It was manufactured there by some
peripatetic old bachelor. To school, then, Maria must go, armed with a
spelling-book, at first, and afterwards, an arithmetic: and at school
the golden, unreturning hours of her youth rolled into the lap of
oblivion, until time had notched her fourteenth year upon his dial. And
now there was to be a change in her tuition. Arrangements were completed
for her attendance at the high school in Brunswick, an interesting
little village, some seventy-five miles distant. The day of departure,
for the first time, from beneath the paternal roof, was an important
event in her life. It was at hand. She bore it with but little apparent
emotion, and brushed from her cheek but a single tear.

“Adieu, ye pensive shades and early joys! I will not say farewell. They
tell me there is a recompense for every sacrifice--but my swelling
heart--”

The remainder of the sentence was not uttered. The clock struck nine,
and the rattling of wheels announced the coach for Brunswick. On this
occasion it was full of passengers of high and low degree, from far and
near--all strangers. The driver was belated and impatient. In a few
moments all was in readiness, and Maria opened the wicket gate, which
seemed to swing reluctantly upon its hinges, and entered the coach.

Along they went, at full gallop, leaving grove, and meadow, and friend,
and every cherished thing, behind. It was a July morning. The air was
soft and fragrant, and merrily the birds rang out their joyful songs.
Though ladened with heaviness of spirit, Maria could not but be pleased
with the new sights that met her view, and the sounds that saluted her
ears.

“And this is the world, the great and wicked world, of which I have
heard so much--so long desired to see. How enchanting! And how favored
are they who can travel it all over! Such fortunes and pleasures are not
mine; they never can be, for I am poor and helpless. But it must be so.
Well, I will be contented with a humbler lot: there are millions who are
even less fortunate. It is my destiny: I am satisfied.”

These were silent reflections. On and on they rode. Now they ascended a
mountain, now launched into a valley, and jolted across a pole-bridge.
At length the tall pines laid their shadows on the earth, and other
thoughts came into her mind--other emotions into her heart. Day’s
parting smile played upon the green foliage, and soon the mellow light
announced a golden sunset. Half an hour after this, the driver reined
his wearied horses up to a dilapidated hotel, in front of which dangled
an old sign, bearing the words, “Half-way House.” They all alighted, to
tarry for the night.

This place is known, to this day, by the appellation of the “Lucky
Basin,” a title which it then bore. Now (as then) there may be seen some
eight or ten slab-sided houses, the largest and best of which is the
hotel. Here might have been found, at that time, a very select
community, whose reigning queen was a shrivelled old Quakeress who,
during twenty years, and until death made a requisition upon her bony
frame, enjoyed a world-wide reputation as a fortune-teller. And really a
good old dame was she, in head and in heart; for it appeared that not
only the name, but the good fortune of the place, was attributable to
her fame; that, but for her, the poverty-stricken habitations
thereabouts, with their inmates, would have gone to perdition long
before. She was respected and venerated, of course, and loaded with
caresses, praises, and blessings, by the whole circle of her dependent
neighbors--and she was surely a true philosopher’s stone to them, in her
own person, even if there was no virtue in that green pebble which the
old lady pretended to have received by spiritual bequest, and which was
always wrapped in a shiny covering.

It would be out of our province here to enter into any lengthened
commentary on fortune-telling. This much we will allow--that when we
hear of any helpless woman turning her wits to account in that manner,
thereby delighting the countless votaries of curiosity, and earning a
lucrative livelihood for herself at the same time, we rejoice heartily,
for her sake. Now no one of “the profession” ever made sharper guesses
than Quakeress Jemima Soule, (that was her name,) and deep was the
frequent surprise thereat. And it was sometimes truly marvellous that
her predictions were fulfilled with such exactness. She was honored with
visits from many seemingly intelligent persons, some residing more than
three hundred miles distant. And when we consider the excitement
produced upon those who lived in her own vicinity, or not farther away
than a day’s ride, we need not wonder at the fact that Lucky Basin was
thronged with anxious, and often bewitching faces, at a rate of not less
than three thousand a year.

And let it not be supposed that her visiters were only from among the
poorer classes of society. Her widely-spread fame frequently excited
deep anxiety among many wealthy persons, who never failed, in their
visits, to reward her with gold: and thus was she enabled to extend the
sphere of her unostentatious benevolence, and to secure the fervent
blessings of the unfortunate.

Maria regarded the present opportunity of being able to see the renowned
Seeress, and of having her own fortune read from the book of fate, with
inexpressible delight. As soon as the supper was over, away she hurried,
with impatient step, to the humble dwelling of Jemima, gave a low tap at
the door, and was admitted, without question or ceremony, and motioned
to a chair. Several others were present, but none indulged in
conversation. To some, the moment and the scene were of much sublimity;
to others, inimitably farcical. A part of those present suppressed a
rude giggle as it fell to their turn to be ushered, one by one, into the
presence-chamber of the Oracle--while others brushed a trembling
tear-drop from their cheeks, as they tottered fearfully to the door. It
was Maria’s turn at last. All the others had been served, and were gone.
On entering the apartment, (which was a three-cornered one,) she
encountered the venerable matron, who had risen to meet her. “Daughter
of earth,” said the Oracle, “thy hand.” It was given tremblingly, and
Maria followed the Seeress to a low stool, (which was by the side of
Jemima’s own seat,) and sat down. Fifteen minutes in silence, the blood
shot eyes of Jemima being riveted upon the fair girl. Then came a
suppressed groan, at which Maria involuntarily shuddered. “Daughter,”
said the Seeress, “if the ways of the Lord thy God were as our ways, he
were cruel to thee.” “Why so, good Mother?” “Hush! I write.” Jemima then
took from a glass case a leaf of fine gilt-edged paper, turned her back
towards Maria, and, after consulting the green stone in a yellow box
that had strange hieroglyphics scratched all over it, she laid hold of a
pen made from a raven’s quill, and wrote the following words:
“TO LOVE SO YOUNG--A LAMB AND A WOLF--SO YOUNG--A KILLING
FROST--DESTITUTION--MARRIAGE--CRIME--THERE IS BLOOD--DEATH.”[3]

It was doubled, and strongly sealed with wax. Then turning her form and
face towards the girl, she thus spake: “Daughter, I have written--but
before I give it thee, there is a condition. Thee must promise not to
open this until thou hast looked upon the sun of thy eighteenth year.
Dost agree to the terms?” “I? No, indeed--I cannot,” said Maria,
bursting into a laugh, “delay would make me so anxious to know what it
contained, that I should die of curiosity, long before the time.”
“Daughter, thou art a child of destiny--God wills it. It is hard--but
there is a heaven hereafter. Agree to the condition, or the flames will
devour the record. Promise, child, before thy God.” A short pause. Maria
faltered; her cheeks turned to an ashy paleness; she tried to speak; her
heart leaped up to her throat. “I promise,” was all that she could say.
“It is thine,” said the Seeress, taking a piece of silver from the hand
in which she placed the paper. “Daughter, good night.” And Maria rose
immediately, left the dwelling, and hastened back to the hotel. But she
came not as she went. There was a change in her whole nature from that
moment. The plastic hand of the Divinity remoulded, as it were, her
features. She gazed upon the letter, turned it over and over, with
ill-concealed anxiety--and then, in the first involuntary burst of
indignation at the conditions, cursed the Seeress and the hour of her
own birth.

This was disappointment in most provoking shape. The same night a dream
disturbed her slumbers. We will relate it, as nearly as memory serves
us, in her own language.


THE DREAM.

“A spirit came to me during a fearful tempest, and tendered me wings. I
accepted them with feelings, if not with words, of gratitude. She flew,
and beckoned me to follow. I then flew with her to the brow of a rocky
cliff, where we both alighted. Here we were joined by a troop of my
companions and kindred, who immediately struck up a chorus which rang
through the arch of heaven, and brought back echoes still more musical.
Methought I heard the voice of Gabriel mingling those answering sounds.
I clapped my hands with an ecstasy of joy, when lo! all was silent, save
the growling tempest beneath. They were gone. I dropped my head and
wept. Then a horrible voice accosted me from the cavern below:--‘Thou
wert my friend; thou art my enemy--begone!’ I reeled in the dread gloom
that enveloped me, and uttered a scream for mercy. At that instant the
lightning opened to me a fiery path. My wings lifted me up, and again,
though now alone, I flew.

“On and on--there was no rest. At length I espied a sunny island, a
thousand leagues at sea. I alighted, and walked, and ran, and danced
upon the velvet grass--or methought I was alone at last. Alone, alone!
where temptation could not assail me, nor the flatterer’s words beguile!
Alone before God, and in prayer! But, as I knelt, that awful voice cried
out to me again:--‘Thou wert my friend; thou art mine enemy--begone!’
Where was the source of this awful mandate? It came from the earth; it
came on the winds. Then my soul drank from the waters of affliction, and
despair gnawed at my brain. The voice came again, but with other
words--‘To love so young!--a lamb and a wolf--so young!--a killing
frost--destitution--marriage crime--there is blood!--death!’ How little
I suspected these words (to me so thrilling) were the very same which
the Seeress had just interwoven with my eternal destiny! Alone, and yet
alone! Oh now for a friend--ONE MORTAL FRIEND--to support and guide me!
Truly, none can estimate the value of human sympathy but they who are
destitute of its consolations!

“At this instant a youth saluted me, and clasped me in his arms. His
smile was sweet, and in his demeanor there was such an appearance of
deep affection for me that, in my ecstasy, I did not, could not, resist
his embrace. ‘I am thine!--thine forever!’ he whispered, ‘I have known
thee from childhood!--I furnished thee with wings!’ As he spoke, Love’s
sweet delirium took possession of my soul, and I was conscious only of
intense, unearthly delight. After the vividness of this rapture had
subsided, we sank into slumber, imparadised in each other’s arms.

“When I awoke, the youth was gone. I thought he would return, and was
satisfied. BUT HE CAME NOT. Then the air was filled with hisses. Ten
thousand angry serpents could not have uttered a noise so dreadful. I
thought my lover’s name was Theodore, and called to him, when, awful
presence! a legion of demons rose up at the sound of his name! They were
a black, bony, frightful throng, and they greeted me with a terrible
shout of exultation. They danced round and round me,

[Illustration]

until, from dizziness, I could not see. Then I cursed most bitterly, but
they only laughed and hissed. Then the spirit of Murder came into my
heart, FOR I KNEW MY SHAME!”

       *       *       *       *       *

The cold sweat stood on Maria’s fair forehead--and this dream, so
fraught with terror, (and, as time proved, with reality,) lived in her
heart. On awakening at the moment, though in a fright, she believed it
to be a visitation of nightmare, and soon slept more quietly.

On the evening of the next day, the company reached Brunswick. Maria
arrived at the apartments previously allotted to her, in cheerful
spirits, and full of glowing hope. She did not know the feeling of
homesickness. Her whole mind was wrapped up in the anticipation of great
intellectual advancement. It was Saturday night. Every thing was new and
interesting which greeted her eyes. Some of the students, to render her
new abode more pleasing at the beginning, serenaded her with very sweet
music, beneath her window, at midnight. When the music ceased, she
noticed in it a resemblance to that which she had heard in her singular
dream at the hotel in the Lucky Basin. As she heard the footsteps of the
departing serenaders, she fell into a profound reverie, which was
succeeded by a deep, dreamless sleep.




CHAPTER III.

     _Sleigh Rides--An Ardent Son of the South--The Author in the
     Pulpit--The Flash of First Love, and Love at First Sight--First
     Love Letters--Note of a Seedy Genius--Virtue with a
     Slaveholder--Evidence of Maria’s Seduction--Her Affecting Appeal to
     the Seducer--His Indifference and Inhumanity--The Evils of
     Imprudence stare Maria in the Face--The Spot upon the Soul--Her
     Promise Violated--The Words from the Crow Quill--She faints away._


Six months after the time which brought our last chapter to a close,
Maria attended the church of which I was pastor, in Brunswick. It was on
a Sabbath morning in midwinter. The snow lay deep on the ground, and the
merry bells and the happy faces of that morning of gay sunlight and
sparkling frost bespoke the pleasures to be anticipated from many a
sleigh-ride. On this occasion Maria was accompanied by a young man who
had arrived in the village the week previous, and entered the medical
college as a student. He was from Georgia, and his manly bearing,
brunette face, jet-black eyes, and curling ringlets, indicated his
temperament to be as ardent as a Southern sun could make it. His name
was Theodore Maxwell. His father trafficked in human flesh, and bartered
virtue for a price; and the loose improvidence of the son told plainly
of there being great wealth in the family. His demeanor indicated that
he was on the best terms with himself, and, moreover, that he had a
taste for licentious gratifications. He was rich, (no matter by what
means,) and that was quite sufficient to place him in full favor with
the women, and render him “a good fellow” with the men. Theodore and
Maria entered the church, and seated themselves in a pew on the broad
aisle.

I commenced the worship of God by reading the 44th Psalm, the singing of
which was followed by an Address to the Throne of Grace. I then read a
hymn, which, as well as the psalm, was very well executed by the choir.
I then commenced my sermon, from the following text: “Remember Lot’s
wife.” As I proceeded, the utmost of my ability was thrown into the
subject. I enlarged upon the development of the affections, the
gratitude we owe to the Almighty for a thousand gifts, and the blessed
union of two hearts by divine sanction: the nature of the evil thoughts
that should be cast away, and the principles which secure to virtue the
fruits of a blessed reward: the penalty of disobedience, and the
iniquity of the seducer. Few there are, among even the most earnest
admirers of the Bible, who truly appreciate its sublimity and poetry.
From the first line of Genesis to the last of Revelations, it is filled
with evidences of its divine origin. As I reached that point in my
discourse which depicted the bereavements of Lot, the cords of whose
heart were all severed by a decree of God’s wrath, I perceived that
Maria and her companion were deeply affected. THEIR EYES MET: IT WAS
LOVE!

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no genuine love but love at first sight. This is the pure
offspring of unpolluted sympathy. All other love is merely the result of
observation, reflection, and compromise. The enduring passions flash
like the lightning; they scorch the soul, but it is warmed forever!
Miserable the creature whose love rises by degrees upon the frigid
morning of the mind! Amid the gloom and sorrow of existence, suddenly to
behold a form having a kindred soul, and to feel an overwhelming
conviction that, with that form, our destiny must be forever entwined;
that there is no more joy but in his joy, no sorrow but when he grieves;
that in the warmth of his love, in his smile of fondness, is all future
bliss--this is love. Magnificent, sublime, divine sentiment! An intense
flame burns in the breast of an adoring girl: she is an ethereal being.
She is out upon the sea of life, with a gaze fixed to a single star. If
that do not shine, there is no further joy in existence!

Oh Indiscretion! Oh Love! In vain are the teachings of moralists, that
thou art a delusion! Love, that can illumine the dark hovel and the
dismal garret, that can gladden the heart of the slave, and lighten his
shackles! The sage may assert that the gratification of vanity is thine
aim and end, but Love glances with contempt at the cold-blooded
philosophy of calculation.


LETTERS.

MARIA TO THEODORE.

_Sunday Night, 11 o’clock._

     Dearest, Dearest Theodore: I have not yet lain down. Did you reach
     home in safety? That was a swift, ugly horse! I would give worlds
     to hear from you, Theodore, even one word! What joys hath God
     revealed to me this day! Can our love endure forever? May angels
     guard you, Theodore, and learn you to think of your betrothed
     Maria! It begins to rain dreadfully, and I know not what to do. I
     beat about my chamber like a silly bird in a cage. What a destiny
     broods over us! Write me one line, only one line, to tell me of
     your welfare. I shall be in despair until I hear from you. Do not
     delay the bearer an instant. He promises to return in a very, very
     short time. I will pray for you all this night, that seems as if it
     would never end. God bless you, my darling Theodore! Do not fail to
     write, and, till we meet again, believe me your own

MARIA.



_Monday Morning._

     Sweetest, Dearest One: Yours found me quite safe and well, at home,
     smoking over a glass of wine. I love you, if that could be, more
     than before. You was a darling, to send to inquire after my safety
     and health so soon! A wet jacket frightens not me. God bless you,
     enchanting one! I will pledge your name and welfare in a glass of
     sparkling liquor--I will, ’pon my suavity.[4] Won’t that be
     sublime! I sigh for the regaling drinks of my mother’s cupboard!
     Your penny-wise people here in Maine would grudge a dog his bone,
     and would starve one of my big Cuba hounds, I am sure. But when we
     get off there, eh? Won’t you shine, a princess? I’ll pistol the
     fool that says you’re not one. By my honor, you shall have a
     hundred servants at your heels, deary, eh? Well, good bye for a
     short time, love. I love you, and that’s gospel truth. I’ll be back
     to-morrow. My soul goes forth after you, as the sunflower follows
     in the wake of the sun.

Believe me to be your own       THEODORE.



       *       *       *       *       *

Such was the beginning of a correspondence of over a hundred letters,
and continuing nearly a year. A careful perusal of all of them, in the
order in which they were penned, indicates most clearly the phases of an
attachment as fatal to an innocent, unfortunate girl, as it was
heartless and betraying on the part of Maxwell. The first impulses of
their affections were doubtless mutually sincere. Afterwards the feeling
of Theodore changed, or his lust triumphed over the better qualities of
his nature. And the truth is not here to be disguised, that the love of
a man long immersed in the vices of slavery, and nurtured in slavery’s
very lap, (as Maxwell had been, from birth,) cannot be reckoned but as
the offspring of unmitigated sensuality. The infamy of such a life is
seldom surpassed by the atrocities of ocean piracy. A slaveholder cannot
appreciate the sublimity and purity of the guardian angel, Virtue.
Deadened in feeling by long familiarity with vice, and steeled to all
substantial goodness by the inhumanity of the traffic in female
loveliness, he desires no higher or purer delight than sensual
indulgence. Where earthly prospects are full of promise, the dark demon
of lust intrudes, and, strengthened by possession, flaps his wings in
exultation that the laws of a _Christian community_ are inadequate to
prevent the accomplishment of his dark designs. He riots in the
possession of numberless victims to his rapacious appetite! Youth,
innocence and beauty are immolated, at his bidding, on the altars of
licentiousness!

Wo to the fair daughter of the North, whose pure soul is at the mercy of
the Southern hyena! Wo to that spirit of slavish reverence for wealth,
which winks at any crime, if the criminal be only a man of wealth! In
this penurious and licentious age, money is the arch destroyer of female
chastity. Wo to the female votaries of Wealth and Fashion, whose feet
are in the snares of the soul-destroying seducer! Better to pine in want
till the coming of grey hairs, and die unbefriended, than yield thy
honor, poor worldling, to the exacting blandishments of wealth!

The letter of young Maxwell, as above given, may be regarded not only as
a fair specimen of the literature of slavery, but likewise as an
ebullition of that chivalric spirit which is the peculiar boast of the
Southron. Love, pistols, seduction, murder, dogs, horses, alligators,
and _improvident indolence_, are the ingredients of Southern chivalry.
All the letters of Theodore to Maria, now in our possession, abound in
the same swaggering emptiness. Many of them are filled with the grossest
obscenity. It would be foreign to our purpose to insert them here; our
history is sufficiently blackened with human frailty, without them.

But we cannot well refrain from presenting the reader with one more of
Maria’s letters, evidently written under the withering influence of
disappointment and shame. Still the repulsive brutality of Maxwell could
not stifle the flame of FIRST LOVE, that burned within her confiding,
forgiving, repentant heart. To his iron scoffs she returned tears,
tenderness, and supplications.

       *       *       *       *       *

_June, Wednesday Evening._

Beloved Theodore: Shall we ever again meet? Shall I indeed ever again
listen to that sweet voice--that voice which sometimes bears such unkind
words--and will it tell me again that it loves me, with the selfsame
accents that ever ring in my fascinated ear? But oh, Theodore, speak
unkindly no more--no more neglect. I feel that there is a stain upon my
soul which all the waters of Jordan could not cleanse. But, Theodore,
you swore your fidelity in the face of Heaven. If you continue your
neglect, I shall die.

Oh, this love is a fever--a fever which has no antidote but death for
me! Could I but blot that fatal night from the scroll of time, my bliss
would never end. Why did the moon look down so palely, and the gold
stars laugh? You bathed my temples in the pearly dew, and spoke so
kindly--Oh, were you false even then? And _I_ your victim!

Avaunt! avaunt! thou horrid dream! Begone! He is still true--my soul’s
light--my Theodore! But seldom he comes, or writes to me, of late.
Dearest love, I thought to meet you yesterday, at your boarding-house. I
called with Miss R. But you were gone, and (would you think it?) your
landlady tossed her head slyly, and said: “Perhaps he went out of town
to some grave-yard, last night!” Horrible! How ugly in her to say that!
I heeded not her base insinuation.

Would you suppose it? I went into your bedroom. I contrived to get there
unobserved. I was there but a moment--a precious moment. Don’t think it
wrong, don’t scold me, dear--but I kissed your pillow, and left a
tear-drop on it. I could not help it, dearest, when I reflected that
your darling head had rested there so often and so lately. Oh, that I
were now at your side! Every thing is so desolate without you--every
thing so harrows up the past! Oh that I could forget the past! But I
will not be miserable. I will be grateful to Heaven that I have been
loved by you.

Theodore! do not let your brow be clouded when you read this. Smile,
smile! as when you first greeted me, a stranger! God knows how much
devotion I lavished upon you for that kindness. Shall it now curse me?
Pray write to me. There is no misery so long as we love; but in the
flickering light of hope I see darkly.

To-day I have looked over all your letters. Some I pressed to my bosom
as priceless treasures; others dropped from my fingers like lead. Oh my
heart! Theodore, you are changeable. I am an unprotected, unbefriended
girl. I have reposed all in you. Your love is the only sunlight that can
illumine this life. Hot tears gush from my eyes, but that’s no matter.
God bless you, Theodore! All will yet go well, will it not? It cannot be
that you despise me, as the tongue of envy interprets your indifference.
If you do, I can endure this life no longer. Write, write! or visit,
this evening, your betrothed but unhappy

MARIA.

       *       *       *       *       *

This letter, like a dozen others which had preceded it, produced no
response of any description. About ten days afterwards, towards evening,
there was a tap at the door of the house where Maria then was, alone. It
was Maxwell. She fell into his arms, and fainted. He had, on that day,
been apprised, through a tobacco warehouse in Boston, that his father
desired his speedy return to Georgia. He had now come to say
farewell--and a long and last farewell he meant it should be. When she
regained composure, and wiped the tears from her cheek, she pressed to
his forehead a kiss. Then he spoke: “Maria, I am summoned home.
To-morrow I go. I am here to bid you farewell. I have long avoided you;
now you will trouble me no more. It’s strange that you hang about me
so.” “Hush!” interrupted Maria, in a low tone; “speak not, but go.” The
blood of pride suffused her face; she saw the fruits of her fidelity
trampled in the dust, in these words of Maxwell--her devotedness the
mark of his derision. He had now come to announce his abandonment. As
this thought broke in upon her brain, she gazed at him with the
intenseness of despair.--Maxwell burst into a laugh. “Why, ma chere
amie,” said he, “such undauntedness of spirit as that would put two
thousand dollars upon your head, at a slave market. Suppose you go to
Georgia, and let my father advertise you for sale. Many slave-girls are
as white as you are. Then you would be provided for: all your wants
supplied. Perhaps some covey would make you his bed-favorite, with the
full freedom of his plantation.”[5]

Not a word or emotion escaped Maria during the utterance of this jargon
of slavery. Maxwell rose unbidden, and left the dwelling. When he was
out of sight, Maria gave utterance to a wild despair. From that moment
her nature again put on strange garments, and underwent another change.
A new lustre beamed in her eyes. It was the embodiment of an unsleeping
revenge. She saw her own wreck: and now that all was engulphed within
that avalanche of death, _disgrace_, she summoned to her aid the powers
of a long-slumbering fortitude--the fortitude of an injured woman, and
formed a stern resolve.

“I am lost. All is over. A thousand demons are hissing at me. I shrink
from the faces of my friends. This night I, too, will leave thee,
beautiful village, scene of my destruction! Henceforth my life shall be
dedicated to the society of strangers. Bravely will I play my part. I
will smile when I curse. I will win to destroy.”

Scarcely were these incoherent sentences finished, before Maria recalled
to her mind the old Seeress at the Lucky Basin--the letter of fate, and
her own solemn promise not to break its seal before the arrival of her
eighteenth birth-day. “Two long years yet,” said she, musingly; “I may
cease to breathe before that time; all is blighted even now. I will heed
my pledge no longer.” Immediately she started for her portfolio, up
stairs, in which it lay. She seized and broke it open in an instant:
“_To love so young; a Lamb and a Wolf; so young; A Killing Frost;
Destitution; Marriage; Crime; there is Blood! Death!_” One shriek
announced that the forbidden contents were known. Maria lay senseless
upon the floor!




CHAPTER IV.

     _The Bay of Portland--Departure for Boston--First Impression of the
     Ocean--The Snares of a Passage--Arrival at Boston--First
     Impressions of it--The Journey of a Cab--An Omen of Evil--A House
     of Ill-Fame--The Heartlessness of Men--A Word on Destiny._


In the beautiful bay of Portland, at night--the last night of June,
eighteen hundred and thirty-nine--a noble steamer swung at her moorings,
pawing the water most impatiently, and spouting smoke and steam from her
great nostrils. There was confusion, such as was never known before the
days of invention; carriages turning over; people of all classes and
ages, on shore and on board, hurrying to and fro. When bedlam was in its
zenith--legs breaking, oaths in plenty--the bell rung out the chime of
the inferno and away she went.

Out on the sounding sea and in a thronging multitude--the salt spray
anon dashing furiously up against the gunwale of the vessel--there moved
a stately female figure, seemingly alone. It was the ill-fated subject
of these memoirs. Her countenance wore an expression of resoluteness
seldom to be seen on the features of woman. Her feet had never trod the
deck of a steamboat before, and now, for the first time, her eyes
feasted on the sight of ocean. Listlessly, and as if enwraped in
spirituality, she gazed on the surging waves. They were crested by the
silvery moonlight, each frolicksomely chasing the other, and
collectively presenting the appearance of a steel-clad host rushing into
battle. Maria was filled with the deepest awe. Words were utterly
inadequate to express her emotion. This was that mighty, boundless,
fathomless ocean of which she had heard and dreamed so much. It kissed
Arabian sands, and sighed its lullaby to a thousand islands, and roared
in terror, and lashed the icebergs around the pole! Often and often, in
earlier years, had her fancy covered its surface with armed genii in
their tiny skins, and with birds of sparkling plumage; a thousand
hymning echoes from a thousand sources enchanted the ear. Now all things
were trooping fantastically; now they vanished in a twinkling. Peris
weaving hair and song and coral; old Neptune careering in the plenitude
of power; great serpents snapping their tails: whales swallowing and
vomiting Jonahs; these, and many more, were the themes of legend and
story which thrilled her nature with wonder and delight! Oh, not as then
did her soul now drink from the fountains of pleasing, alluring
anticipation and fairy nonsense! Pennyless, forsaken, friendless, in the
undulating world; an ardent and a confiding heart already scorched by
the living embers of despair, Maria had a part to play in the unknown
future, which the genius of a conqueror could not execute or comprehend.
A man is brave and bold because he is armed and strong; but where is the
man who can or ever did surmount the difficulties and trials which beset
the pathway of an unprotected female, whose bark is launched on the
precarious tide of a sensual, selfish, scoffing, devilish world? Not all
the heroes of all the Greeks and Romans subdued a foe so terrible, as
mankind to woman! I have said she was pennyless. When the steward of the
boat dingled his bell, giving notice for “all who had not paid their
passage to walk up and settle,” she sent word to the Captain requesting
an interview. Shortly he came, when, in a most affecting manner, she
expressed her inability to pay her fare, and implored his generosity to
allow her to pass without charge. He assented, conducted her to a state
room, and told her to take courage and sleep without sadness. Generous
man! thought she, some of nature’s noblemen are yet living; and with
gratitude and prayer she undressed and went to bed. Sleep soon came to
her eyelids, for she was weary. But scarcely had sleep veiled the
memory, before a portly, well dressed man, stealthily entered the room
without a light, took off his clothes and crawled into the same bed! She
waked not until his arms were firmly clasped around her form. Then she
uttered a scream, but amid the tremendous noise of the boat’s machinery
and the dash of the waters, that cry was drowned. She struggled
furiously to get away from his grasp, but failed. Then he put his lips
to her ear and whispered, “A free passage; you are without money, and I
have an abundance; be quiet, and all shall go well with you.” Her brain
was confused; her mouth was dum. She felt that her hour had come. He
accomplished his purpose, and remained with her through that long,
bewildering night.[6]

Gaily broke the morning, and with its coming the boat landed at Foster’s
wharf, in Boston. Maria had already risen. She went out, and up the
stairway to the promenade deck, to look at Boston. The world seemed new
to her. It was not that abode of honor, nor of love, nor of joy, which
the years of her fancy had painted it. Boston! to her, a great and
wonderful city. How much she had heard of Boston. It was before her, but
she did not dream about it now as she had done so many, many times
before, when her imagination played upon its hundred spires or traced it
through and through. Her eye now drank the great reality, and the
confused roar which she heard, and the still greater confusion of human
beings and animal, which she saw, with the uneven, smutty-looking
buildings, and the narrow avenues which threaded its pulsating heart,
made her tremble. Oh! for a friend or a beggar to guide her footsteps.
While in this state of uncertainty, a cab driver approached her, and
very politely inquired if she wished to be taken to any part of the
city? His pleasant and obliging demeanor gave her encouragement, and she
frankly explained to him that she was here a stranger; that she must
find a boarding house and secure a frugal sustenance by labor. At this
he smiled and said “Certainly, step into my cab, and I will find you a
good place without difficulty.” She assented; and the cab driver, sure
of his prize, drove rapidly from the wharf, as a low and heartless laugh
burst from the throats of a gang of starched loafers standing near, who
knew both the purposes of the driver and the circumstances of the
previous night.

Through winding streets and cross lanes, by sudden turns and jumbles,
they drifted along. Now, cabby was in Washington street, amid a sea of
trucks and horses, huge omnibusses and small fry, groping as in the
dark; now he dashed through another street, on the west side of which
spread out, like a moss carpet, the Common; the broad, the beautiful,
the world-famed Boston Common. Then a turn was made, and Maria thought
that they were going back to the very wharf they had left. But he soon
bore off to the right, over by a large brick edifice, standing on an
eminence and commanding one of the loveliest prospects which creation
affords. As she saw it, through a pane in the cab door, she almost
forgot her destitute situation and her sorrows. Passing this, they
descended a hill, and at length cabby halted before a house in Lowell
street. It was a house of ill-fame. The character of its inmates were of
course unknown to her; her heart was even gladdened by the light of a
bevy of gay faces at the window. As she alighted on the pavement, a
raven, so unusual in that place, darted by so close to her that its
pinions brushed the ribbons of her bonnet. She entered the house and was
familiarly but respectfully welcomed, saying all the while in her bosom,
“Thank God, it is well at last.”

[Illustration]

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 to her 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.




CHAPTER V.

     _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._


About four 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 not give 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.


TO A REFORMED FEMALE FRIEND.

Life has its hours of sentiment and romance, which Time, with his
envious wing, can never darken or obliterate. Such bright and pleasant
hours _we_ have 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 power to 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 the coming 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:


A SHORT DIARY AFTER MY 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 reason together. 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.”

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 of pomatum 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!




CHAPTER VI.

_The Person and Character of Albert J. Tirrell._


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.

[Illustration: “=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. 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.

[Illustration: Tirrell’s Flight.]

       *       *       *       *       *

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 a LETTER; 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.
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:

[Illustration: The Unexpected Letter

_A Truthful Journal of News and Miscellany.... Edited by an Invalid._]


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 SHIP SULTANA.

Off New Orleans, December 6th, 1845.

[Illustration]


     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.


FINIS.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.







End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life and Death of Mrs. Maria
Bickford, by Silas Wilder

*** 