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BOSTON POST. THURSDAY MORNING. NOV. 7, 1872. ABOUT HOME MATTERS. HORRIBLE MYSTERY. A Mutilated Dead Body Found Floating in a Barrel in Charles River—Great Excitement in Cambridge. [REPORTED FOR THE BOSTON POST.] The citizens of Cambridge were thrown into a state of great excitement yesterday, upon the report that another murder, and one rivalling in atrocity the cold blooded and seemingly premeditated slaughter of Hampden by a fellow-workman named Foley, at the Dover Stamping Company’s works in Cambridgeport, a few weeks since. Although it is not known whether or not the horrible tragedy, the account of which is about to be related, took place in Cambridge or else where, yet the authorities of that city have taken the remains of the victim in charge, and will investigate the circuumstances and, if possible, unravel the appa rently at present impenetrable mystery which en velops the tearful affair, THE DISCOVERY. Shortly after 5 o’clock, yesterday afternoon,Stephen McFadden,a laborer employed by the Cambridge Gas Company, whose works are situated at the foot of Everett place, in that part of the city known as Old Cambridge, and on the line of the Charles river, while attending to some work near the bank of the river discovered a barrel floating in the water a short distance from the shore. The man watched the ob ject for a few minutes and then determined to pos sess it, and for that purpose procured a boat and rowed out to where the barrel was floating down the stream, the tide at that time being at the ebb. Reach ing the barrel McFadden attempted to lift it out of the water into the boat, but after several trials, and finding this feat beyond his strength, he made it fast to the boat and then rowed ashore, where he was met by his fellow-employee of the works, who assisted in getting, as the finder at first supposed, a considerable prize ashore. The barrel is an ordinary flour barrel, both heads being well se cured and to such an extent as to lead the workmen to imagine that it was some merchandise, the buoy ancy of which notwithstanding its great weight, had prevented it from sinking. Scarcely had the men got the barrel ashore when the discoverer looking towards the river exclaimed,* look, boys, there is another one, and as I first saw it,why it belongs to me.”’ McFadden then started to get the other one, and during his absence his brother workmen prompted by curi osity to learn the contents of the first discovery broke open the barrel, when they were almost para lyzed with fear upon the discovery of the shocking sight which was revealed to them. The men stood stil for several seconds, unable to utter a single word, and they had sufficient cause for such an ex hibition of fear and amazement, for the awful con tents of that barrel was a dead body, with the head almost severed, the arms drawn up and clasping the body, showing, whoever the terrible perpe trators of the crime were, that after depriving their victim of life they carefully deliberated and planned the manner in which they should dispose of the remains. Both legs were cut completely off and close up to the trunk. Scarcely had the men re covered from their astonishment when McFadden again arrived with another four barrel, but the men for some time could not be persuaded to help him to get it ashore until commanded to do so by one of the officers of the works. THE SECOND BARREL was lifted from the river with feelings of great ter ror, and upon opening it, which was done with less haste than the previous one, the legs of the unfortunate owner of the trunk were found drawn two and packed crosswise so as to fit the space. The severed members clearly proved that the mur der had been recently committed, as the blood was flowing profusely from the body and lower extremi ties, while the skull bears evidence that the man was first struck on the head by some powerful, blunt in strument,inflicting several wounds which undoubted ly caused death. The police authorities were imme diately notified of the discovery, and soon Chief of Police Stymson, with several officers, were on the ground and took charge of the remains until the arri val of Coroner Wellington, who caused them to be taken from the barrels and laid on the ground, APPEARANCE OF THE BODY. Upon placing the severed parts together, it was shown that the murdered man was about five feet five inches high and weighing about one hundred and forty pounds, apparently an American about 50 years old, nearly bald, with a moustache and whiskers on both sides of his face and under his chin. The body was dressed with a blue tricot sock overcoat, dark brown vest, dark pants, a finely-made white shirt, which as might be expected under the circumstances, was saturated with blood, dark blue underclothing, with woollen socks, and sewed calf-skin boots. When the body was taken from the barrel a valuable gold watch fell out of the vest pocket, and a few other articles, demonstrating that whatsoever cause induced the mur derer to commit the dreadful crime, robbery at least was not a motive. The news, as heretofore men tioned, that another murder had occurred in Cam bridge spread with the speed of electricity, and was repeated in almost numberless versions, until one rumor was that a laborer at the Gas Works had been killed by another of the employes. Among the other effects of the murdered man found in the pockets of his coat was a Liberal Republican ticket ot Ward Ten in this city, which would seem to indi cate that the man was a resident of Boston, and, per haps, might have been a Voter in the above ward, but whether this theory is correct or not could not be ascertained last might, as he person answering to the description of the body, was reported at any of the various police stations as being missing. Diligent inquiry was also made ‘ens the reolients of the Tenth Ward, but nothing which would lead to the identification of the body could be learned up to an early hour this morn ing. The place where the remains lay were visited by large numbers of people, eager to get a glimpse of the dismembered and ghastly body. As usual, nearly everyone present had his own theories as to the cause of the tragedy,some main taining that it grew out of political matter, while others presumed that it resulted from revenge, and that the ballot was placed in the pocket to lead to the supposition that the victim was murdered by some resident of that section of Boston. The remains were placed in a coffin by un dertaker Wyeth and taken to the Shepard Church on Holyoke street, by order of the coroner, where they remained last night to await identification. From the time that the body was received at the sacred edifice and until midnight, crowds of people visited the church and gazed at the remains, but no person could recognize them, and it is fair to assume that the unfortunate man was not an inhabitant of Cambridge. The locality where the deed was committed is a pro found mystery. The finding of the car ners so far up the river, and following each other in such close proximity, gave origin to the ru mor that the murder was committed in some lone ly or unfrequented part of Cambridge border ing on the banks of the river, and to conceal their work the perpetrators mutilated the body and patter packing it in the barrels, cast it into the river at some deep point, supposing that the weight of the body would sink the barrels and thus put out of sight the terrible deed. But it appears that, camping and diabolical as the mur derers were, they forgot to add to the great Weight of the barrels and so securely fastened and coppered Them is to cause them to be out tight, and therefore buoyant; hence the discovery. Coroner Wellington has summoned a jury and will hold an Inquest This merning, “ PRINCES OF THE PEN,” Second Lecture by Edmund Yates—Remi niscences of Dickens, Thackeray and Ten nyson—Lecture by Rev. Robert Collyer, REPORTED FOR THE BOSTON POST, The second appearance of the distinguished novel ist, Edmund Yates, before a Boston audience was of itself enough to create no little furore in the minds of lecture-goers, but when it was known that the sub ject of his lecture was to be “ Princes of the Pen,” in which he would give an interesting array of personal reminiscences touching Dickens and Thackeray and Tennyson, and perhaps others of the novelist and poetic field, a most intense desire was felt to know what one who had been so actively intimate with these gentlemen would have to say about them. Conse quently, despite the unpleasant state of the weather, the Berkeley Street Church was early nearly filled with an interested and eager audience last evening. A single glance at the speaker’s stand would have given an intimation of what the nature of the subject was to be, if no announcement had pre viously forshadowed it, for, on the right was a large painting represented Gad’s Hill, the late resi dence of Charles Dickens, while on the left a similar view was presented of the library in which Dickens was wont to pass most of his laboring hours. At half-past 7 precisely Mr Yates stepped forward to the reading desk, and when the lively greeting of ap plause had subsided and the gentleman who intro duced him had retired, he spoke substantially as fol lows :— MR YATES’S LECTURE, My FRIENDS—I propose endeavoring this evening to draw your attention awhile from the tumult of politics and request you to be good enough to give me your attention while I speak to you of my personal acquaintance with those pre-eminently rominent men, Charles Dickens, William Makepeace ,hackeray and Alfred Tennyson. On the morning of Friday, the 1ith of June, 1870, as I was in my library in London, I picked up a copy of the Daily Tele raph newspaper, and the sheet fell at once from my rip as my eyes rested on the words, ‘‘ Charles Dickens is dead.” On the evening of that very day I was to have gone down with friends to visit him,and we were designing to talk over, at his country house, a letter he had written to his American publishers, and which was the last letter he ever wrote. This letter was afterward received by the parties named but long after the news of his death had reached your shores. What manner of man was this whose death was thus heralded in every land? What maunner of man he was I propose now to tell you, I cannot give you his pedigree, for he had none, and he would have been the last man on earth, had he had one, to boast of so empty an honor, I shall not speak of his biography, because in this country the matter is being ably handled. I shall not criticise his works, because the judgment of the world has been passed upon them. But I shall speak to you of him as a dear, dead friend whom I loved for fourteen years, and I shall tell you the anecdotes characteristic of the man, for it is in such things, as Wordsworth has truly said, that the real inner life of a person is mir rored. I wish to put him before you as I saw him, tak ing a few telling lines from his letters and a few words from his works, and present him to you as he moved among us when untrammelled by the forms of society. Too frequently the history of a man is but a descrip tion of his struggles, his successes or failures in all the dry details of their occurrences, without those un studied, unthought words and actions which present him as he really is. What the world wants of its favorite is a tangible flesh and blood creation, natural and full of life. We all feel a sort of contempt for that chattering Scotchman Boswell, yet when we come to read his life of Jonson with all its minute ness of detail, all its descriptions of the very actions as well as the sayings of that great man, we cannot but feel grateful that such a person had such a follower. We see the master as the man saw him, the rolling head, the squalor of his apartments, his peculiar gait, and all the little outgrowths of his genius and oddity. Who has not wished that there could have been Boswells to give us an insight into the inner life of Milton as he sat as Cromwell's Secretary, of Washington in his retire ment at Mount Vernon, just as the wisdom of Jonson was shown and the brilliancy of Burke was pre served. Let us trust there will be an American Bos well, that the literary culture and poetic taste of Long fellow, the broad perception of Holmes and the keen edged wit of Lowell may not be lost. In this manner will I then speak to you of Charles Dickens. The portrait of him by a Royal Academician, made in his early public life, is said to be wonderfully like him. He had a tendency then to brilliancy in dress, and I may say here, parenthetically, that this great fondness for dress followed him to his death. This was Charles Dickens in 1847, when he had just startled the world by leaping from the posi tion of a short-hand writer and contributor to maga zines, to a most prominent place in the list of great writers. The Dickens of my acquaintance was a different person, very much the same as shown in the photographs with which you are all familiar. His cheeks were shaved, but there was a heavy beard upon the chin ; the eyes were marvellous for their deep, brilliant expression, but the most noticeable thing was the deep lines which furrowed his face, and the complexion of his features. There are none of us who escape the ravages of time, but Dickens bore in an especial degree the marks of his doings. The lines from the corners of his eyes were deep marks, not the crow tracks many present, and they were indicative of hard labor and unrest. The deli cate color which was so noticeable in his earlier years had become almost red. There was a curious nauti cal appearance about him, so much so that he ap peared like a weather-beaten sea captain, a likeness which was made more striking by his often wearing in the streets a pea-jacket and some of the other habiliments of those who follow the water, with the free manner of such persons, and his friends noticed that the remarks made in the public prints upon his sailor-like appearance on these occasions did not seem to be distasteful to him. I have provided myself with a slight outline sketch of him as he appeared at this time, made from an unpublished photograph placed at my disposal by Mr Dickens’s family. (The lecturer here displayed the drawing.) It may be seen at a glance that there are lines of care there. He is stand ing in an easy attitude at his home, Gad’s Hill, watch ing a game of croquet. Notice the pose of the figure, and the sly look of those humorous eyes! I mentioned Gad’s Hill. Charles Dickens had several houses in London, one of which was named “ Bleak House,” where he rested with his family at times, but he had only one country residence, and that was Gad’s Hill, in Kept. Before talking to you about this house, let me tell you an anecdote which is strictly true. When a little boy, Dickens passed this house with his father, and, after contemplating it for a time, said, ‘I would like to live in that house.” To this his father replied, ‘so you shall if you stick to your books.” Half a century later,when again passing this house in company with his assist ant editor, Henry Wills, he made a similar remark in regard to the property. Through his friend’s en deavors he shortly afterward found himself in pos session of the premises. The house stands in the midst of a very large garden, and is approached from the road by a broad carriage drive, rarely used, how ever. The stable yard bore the inscription *‘ Beware of the dogs,” a caution which was made necessary ,for three large animals were kept there. One was a broad hound named Turk, another a mastiff called Bumble, and third was one of the Mt. St. Bernard breed. The speaker here minutely described the house at Gad’s Hill, pointing out the prominent features on the painting nearby. The dining-room he said was long and square. The walls were hung with pictures, among which some represented scenes taken from Dickens's own works. The library where he did most of his work, was in one end of the house, and had a bay window looking out upon the garden. His writing desk was of wood and had a sloping top, cov ered with leather. A pair of candlesticks were al ways here, and a little gift ewer, as well as a quaint representation of two frogs fencing. Gad’s Hill, as all Shakspearian readers know, was the spot selected by Prince Hal and Poins to play a trick upon Sir John Falstaff and his attend ants. The library had many books in it, but there were also many backs of books so arranged as to seem to be real volumes, and these were inscribed with titles which the humorous fancy of Mr Dickens had devised. Among some of these were “ A History of the Middling Ages,” Scotch “Fiddle, by Burns,” “Shelley on Oysters,” “‘ History of a Short Chancery Sut in Twenty Enormous Volumes.” The habits of life of Mr Dickens were generally very regular. He almost uniformly took his breakfast at 9 o’clock and began work at 10, remaining shut up in his study till 2 in the afternoon. It was his belief that by thus having stated hours for his work a far greater amount could be made with less strain than in any other way. If the ideas came, good; if not, he was there ready to take them nevertheless. He wrote slowly and with great difficulty, so that a page of his manuscript could only be read by an ex perienced compositor. “I have just finished my book,” wrote the to Lady Blessington, *‘and have come out of it looking like a murderer.” It was the Chimes upon which he had been engaged. The out side world had an idea that he was only the nominal editor of All the Year Round, but in this there was n great mistake. Wills was assistant editor and usually read articles submitted for publication, if there was no doubt about their fitness, but in case of any uncertainty, the judgment of Mr Dickens was ever to be obtained. After being set in type every line was passed under his eye, and he not infrequently altered and amended the phraseology or sentiment of an article at these times. After 2 o’clock in the after noon he usually took a lunch—generally of biscuit, with a glass of ale, after which he would take a walk, often in company with a tripnd. The style of his walk is well known. I hear it said here, however, that these walks were for the purpose of get ting rid of the effects of the previous night’s putations, but nothing could be more absurd. He was jotting down in his brain peculiarities of char acter as he saw them manifested in the great drama of life. For the last years of his life there was scarcely a week when I did not take a walk with him. When not in the green fields it would be in the back streets. During these peregrinations he learned his characters as they were afterward made to appear in his writings. From these localities, unseemly and re pulsive, he brought pictures of life and a character which have been the wonder and delight of millions. Upon everything the bright light of his fancy glowed, and in his hands poor human nature was made to look her best. In these journeys he often pointed out to me the things which had given the hints for the principal characters of his works. When I think how often it has been my privilege thus to accom pany him, I can scarcely feel that Charles Dickens is dead. His power of impersonating character was wonderful, and many who have seen him on the stage declared that In the characters he chose he was without an equal. He was a wonderful letter writer, and being a constant target for beggars, he often brought his talent in play. The idea has spread abroad that his domestic afflictions sat lightly on him, but I know of a certainty that such was not the case, and once, when writing to me on the subject, he closed his letter by saying that his feelings that day did not leave him hand enough to shape the letters. Mr Yates then spoke of his changed appearance after his American trip, and then remarked upon the singular neglect which he experienced from the English royal family in the early years of his fame, but said that after his death it was known that various titles had been offered him, and when he had declined them all, it was understood that a position as one of the Queen’s Privy Councillors was to have been open to him. The speaker then described with cir cumstantial minuteness the death of the illus trious novelist and his final resting place in Westminster Abbey, and continued, I thought, my friends, that when I crossed the Atlantic I would lay this poor flower upon the grave of one you appreci ated so generously and loved so well. Nearly seven years before this, that brilliant novel ist and keen humorist, William Makepeace Thack ery, was found dead in his bed. The first rumor of this bereavement was doubted by those of his friends who had known and seen him but a short time before. The news was but too true, however, and the writer of the purest English prose belonging to the nineteenth century, and the novelist with the clearest insight into human nature, except ing William Shakespeare, was struck down almost without warning. It seemed almost impossible to realize the fact. Scarcely a day had passed that he was not to be seen on Pall Mail, and countrymen had pointed out to them as an object of the greatest in terest this great writer. His towering stature, his snowy locks, his listless, slouchy gait, like that of a tired giant, are all known too well to have been his characteristics to need more than a mention before the American public. But as a number of years have passed since he left these shores, I have provided myself with a sketch which may be considered a perfectly faithful likeness. He was the owner of a fine house, built from designs drawn by himself. A room built out from the rest was the library. The morning was the time for his writing, and his bedroom was the place. Hr from head to foot in a dressing-gown, he would drag a spider-legged stand to the window and commence work. He was a slow and laborious writer. Mr Yates then alluded to his quarrel with Mr Thackeray which he said was mainly chargeable to himself. Mr Thackeray was very sensitive to criticism, and on one occasion bitterly replied to a review by the London Times with a sketch entitled “ Thunder and Small Beer.” It was rarely that the stragling locks of the poet laureate were seen in London. He had the greatest horror of notoriety, and had now built him a house called Hazel Mere,in the county of Surrey, and in a most secluded place, being literally hunted out of his old home by the visits of the inquisitive. The speaker in conclusion described a visit of his to Mr Tennyson, and bowed his adieu to the audience, Mobilier schemes. The farmers—thanks to Mr Greeley—were both numerous and prosperous, and the horn of plenty was to be found wherever industry and frugality was exercised. The school houses dotted almost every hillside the country over, and materially at least the people were on the high road to fortune. Notwithstanding all this outward pros perity, there were evidences that in many places and at many times we had missed our way. By carelessness, inattention or pure cussedness the full fruits of our advantages were not attained, and our condition was far below that which our cir cumstances warranted. The evils which exist in so ciety were then pointed out ; the improvidence of the man who loved at first, sight and thus in so many cases found himself deprived of the blessed influences that surround that best of all schools—the nursery ; the various organizations which are constantly rising up to resist the progress of industry ; strikes, trades, unions and the like, all of which were detrimental to the workingman as well as to the capitalist. The low state of political morals was also one of the re tarding influences of our civilization. Bad off eers controlled the government. It was almost essential that a man should be corrupt and dishonest, in order to be elected to office. It was the voice of no less a statesman and patriot than Charles Sum ner, that told us some bare, sugged truths, only a short time since, about the condition of our public civil service. And when I read that noble speech of the great Liberal leader, I said, look out for New England office-holders. All the bills should re-echo the words spoken by him, and though Horace Gree ley is not elected, the truths uttered by the great Mas sachusetts Senator should become an intimate part of the Republic. The lecture was plentifully inter spersed with anecdotes illustrative of the lecturer's ideas, and was received throughout with the greatest favor. CONCLUSION: The large assemblage had been closely attentive to the entire lecture, and bursts of applause frequently interrupted the speaker. As he disappeared from the stage many pressed forward to get a nearer view of one who had given them so great pleasure, but they were unsuccessful, and soon the church was completely deserted. ROBERT COLLYER IN MUSIC HALL. Robert Collyer lectured in the Boston Lyceum course, last evening, to an audience which filled the house from the farthest tier to the footlights. Unac companied and unannounced the blacksmith preacher came upon the platform, and taking a stand behind the desk, announced as the subject which he wished to talk about, “ Our Folks and Other Folks.” He had chosen a homely title for his lecture, because he wished to speak of homely things. There was a sug gestion of the fireside about it that at once opened the heart and the mouth and was sweet from its familiarity. The condition of the people of the country was never 50 good as now. The broad acres that are possessed by them, though less in number are greater by far in fertility. The last census shows that they five at present engaged in thousands of gainly occu pations, exclusive of gambling, lobbying and Credit
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Thu, Nov 07, 1872
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