_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.