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I dissect the ‘Dear Boss’ letter and pronounce it filled with Francis Thompson. This reading of the ‘Dear Boss’ letter will be comparing it to Thompson. If you dislike him as a suspect, stop reading. If you dislike Ripper articles, filled with writer bias, stop reading.
The history of the ‘Dear Boss’ letter is that On Thursday September 27 1888, it arrived at the Central News Agency in New Bridge Street, London. The Central News was the centre of news distribution in London. A woman mail sorter first opened the letter, before calling journalist Thomas John Bulling to look at it. The letter bore an East London Postmark dated September 27. It had a one-penny Inland Revenue stamp, and it was addressed to 'The Boss.' Jack the Ripper is remembered as the murderer of a cluster of 5 women in the East End. The press widely reported that the wanted man was some of sexual lust murderer. The papers published somewhat conflicting articles upon the serial murders, saying that police thought the murders were the work of a butcher, other that the killer’s skill in anatomy meant it might even be a doctor. The criminal would usually kill his victims with great speed. He would first strangle them. Then once the heart had stopped pumping blood, the killer would lie his victim’s down on the ground, further reducing blood flow. He quickly cut into them with a long sharp blade. The writer of the letter claimed to be the person who had already killed at least two women. He promised to kill more. Nobody seems to know where the writer gained his pen name, but the last well publicised multiple murders occurred in 1811, with the Ratcliffe Highway murders, when a tool described as a ‘ripping hook’ was used to kill a family. Pressman Bulling, was unsure what to make of this letter. He first thought it was probably kind of sick joke, till it dawned on the enterprising journalist that possibly the prostitute murderer dubbed 'Leather Apron' by the press, had given himself a new name. Most Ripperologists suspect Bulling for having written the letter. Assistant Commissioner, Dr Robert Anderson, was placed in charge of the murder investigation. He seemed be pointing the finger at Bulling, when he wrote of where he thought the letter had originated. Anderson’s remark, is used by Ripperologists to discount it as a forgery. The Assistant Commissioner wrote, [Bold mine)
'The "Jack the Ripper" letter is the creation of an enterprising London journalist...I am almost tempted to disclose the identity of the murderer and the pressman who wrote the letter.'
Particulars on Francis Thompson when the ‘Dear Boss’ letter arrived to Bulling, Thompson was living in the East End, perhaps in Limehouse, looking for work as a journalist. He had been just ended a yearlong affair with a prostitute. He was living as a vagrant, sometimes walking the streets around Mile End Road in the East End. His bed, if he could find it, was in one the night shelter for the homeless. Thompson’s shelter had narrow wooden boxes for the men to sleep that were covered by a leather apron. Thompson was known to joke often about the leather apron, saying it was all the fashion. Thompson, having studied for six years to become respected surgeon, was a failed doctor who was now reduced to wearing rags. He endured three London winters, largely sleeping on the pavement before being ‘discovered’, at the end of 1888, as a journalist. Thompson, the seemingly gentle writer and poet, lived a solitary life. It was one as secret and contradictory as the dissecting scalpel from his hospital days, which he kept concealed under his clothes, while he walked Mile End Road. Thompson’s outlook can be summed up by his favourite motto. One that said that under extreme conditions, we are bound to fail,
'Every scope by immoderate use turns to restraint.’
Thompson’s relationship, with his prostitute, ended in a massive argument. He had gone to tell her that finally a magazine had published his work and his dream of becoming a journalist had come true. Thompson had included, with an article sent to a magazine editor, a few specimens of poetry. One poem, never published, was about a ‘knight’ who amuses himself by roaming the land after dark, hunting down and killing women. The night slices open their stomachs with a knife. Here is some of it and the main verse. [Bold mine)
‘…A lusty knight,
Ha! Ha!…
A rotten mist,
Ha! Ha!…
No one life there,
Ha! Ha!…
'Swiftly he followed her
Ha! Ha!…
Into the fogginess
Ha! Ha!…
Into the fogginess
Ha! Ha!
Lo, she corrupted
Ho! Ho!
Comes there a Death..
And its paunch [stomach] was rent
Like a brasted [bursting] drum;
And the blubbered fat
From its belly doth come
It was a stream ran bloodily
Under the wall
O Stream, you cannot run too red…’
Everard Meynell, the son of Thompson’s publisher and a biographer, detailed the final conversation, between this Ripper suspect, and his, since vanished, secret admirer. Meynell told of and her growing resemblance to Thompson’s dead mother and dead sister, [Bold mine)
'After his first interview with my father he had taken her his news "They will not understand our friendship." She said and then, "I always knew you were a genius." And so she strangled the opportunity; she killed again the child, the sister; the mother had come to life within her.'
After this final fight, Thompson’s prostitute disappeared, never to found. Thompson came to hate this profession. He equalled them to the puss filled ulcers he encountered on the many cadavers he had cut into. When he hoped to get work one day as a Doctor, [Bold mine)
'These girls whose Practice is a putrid ulceration of love, venting foul and purulent discharge- for their very utterance is a hideous blasphemy against the sacrosanctity [sacred ways] of lover's language!'
Although having become a man of letters, Francis Thompson, held a trait of dumbing down his writing style, shown here by this example,
‘Onurd Sir,
I see. Now, wot I ave to say is, as I ‘ave no personal animosity… I ‘ave ‘im set this food while, bein’ a man of critical taste as keeps a oservant eye on his fellow-litteratures; and I size ‘im up as a gent of some littery ability, take my tip, and look at me…I don’t take much stock of potes as writers of Bleedin... I sign myself by a name-de-plum. Fly-by-night.’
Thompson was paradoxical in many ways. He wrote that it was his fear of the sight of flowing blood, as his reason for leaving medical school, yet he worshiped and feared the colour red itself as grand and powerful in its connection to blood, [Bold mine)
'Red has come to be a colour feared; it ought rather to be the colour loved. For it is ours. The colour is ours and what it symbolises is ours. Red in all its grades...to that imperial colour we call purple, the tinge of clotted blood,...proudly lineal; a prince of the Blood indeed.'
The son of Thompson’s publisher wrote on this Ripper suspect’s behaviour, when mailing letters to the press, [Bold mine)
'he sitting in gray lodgings, who crowded into the chilly ten minutes before 3 am, the writing of a long letter to be posted, after anxieties over address and gum [glue] of which we know nothing and a stumbling-journey down dark stairs, in a pillar-box still black with threatening dawn.'
Here is the threatening ‘Dear Boss’ letter, sent to the press, one very early morning - the one supposedly sent by an‘enterprising’ journalist.
'September 25th
Dear Boss,
I keep on hearing that the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope Ha ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get the chance. Good Luck.
Yours truly
Jack the Ripper
Dont mind me giving the trade name'
Richard Patterson.2014. Paradox.
The history of the ‘Dear Boss’ letter is that On Thursday September 27 1888, it arrived at the Central News Agency in New Bridge Street, London. The Central News was the centre of news distribution in London. A woman mail sorter first opened the letter, before calling journalist Thomas John Bulling to look at it. The letter bore an East London Postmark dated September 27. It had a one-penny Inland Revenue stamp, and it was addressed to 'The Boss.' Jack the Ripper is remembered as the murderer of a cluster of 5 women in the East End. The press widely reported that the wanted man was some of sexual lust murderer. The papers published somewhat conflicting articles upon the serial murders, saying that police thought the murders were the work of a butcher, other that the killer’s skill in anatomy meant it might even be a doctor. The criminal would usually kill his victims with great speed. He would first strangle them. Then once the heart had stopped pumping blood, the killer would lie his victim’s down on the ground, further reducing blood flow. He quickly cut into them with a long sharp blade. The writer of the letter claimed to be the person who had already killed at least two women. He promised to kill more. Nobody seems to know where the writer gained his pen name, but the last well publicised multiple murders occurred in 1811, with the Ratcliffe Highway murders, when a tool described as a ‘ripping hook’ was used to kill a family. Pressman Bulling, was unsure what to make of this letter. He first thought it was probably kind of sick joke, till it dawned on the enterprising journalist that possibly the prostitute murderer dubbed 'Leather Apron' by the press, had given himself a new name. Most Ripperologists suspect Bulling for having written the letter. Assistant Commissioner, Dr Robert Anderson, was placed in charge of the murder investigation. He seemed be pointing the finger at Bulling, when he wrote of where he thought the letter had originated. Anderson’s remark, is used by Ripperologists to discount it as a forgery. The Assistant Commissioner wrote, [Bold mine)
'The "Jack the Ripper" letter is the creation of an enterprising London journalist...I am almost tempted to disclose the identity of the murderer and the pressman who wrote the letter.'
Particulars on Francis Thompson when the ‘Dear Boss’ letter arrived to Bulling, Thompson was living in the East End, perhaps in Limehouse, looking for work as a journalist. He had been just ended a yearlong affair with a prostitute. He was living as a vagrant, sometimes walking the streets around Mile End Road in the East End. His bed, if he could find it, was in one the night shelter for the homeless. Thompson’s shelter had narrow wooden boxes for the men to sleep that were covered by a leather apron. Thompson was known to joke often about the leather apron, saying it was all the fashion. Thompson, having studied for six years to become respected surgeon, was a failed doctor who was now reduced to wearing rags. He endured three London winters, largely sleeping on the pavement before being ‘discovered’, at the end of 1888, as a journalist. Thompson, the seemingly gentle writer and poet, lived a solitary life. It was one as secret and contradictory as the dissecting scalpel from his hospital days, which he kept concealed under his clothes, while he walked Mile End Road. Thompson’s outlook can be summed up by his favourite motto. One that said that under extreme conditions, we are bound to fail,
'Every scope by immoderate use turns to restraint.’
Thompson’s relationship, with his prostitute, ended in a massive argument. He had gone to tell her that finally a magazine had published his work and his dream of becoming a journalist had come true. Thompson had included, with an article sent to a magazine editor, a few specimens of poetry. One poem, never published, was about a ‘knight’ who amuses himself by roaming the land after dark, hunting down and killing women. The night slices open their stomachs with a knife. Here is some of it and the main verse. [Bold mine)
‘…A lusty knight,
Ha! Ha!…
A rotten mist,
Ha! Ha!…
No one life there,
Ha! Ha!…
'Swiftly he followed her
Ha! Ha!…
Into the fogginess
Ha! Ha!…
Into the fogginess
Ha! Ha!
Lo, she corrupted
Ho! Ho!
Comes there a Death..
And its paunch [stomach] was rent
Like a brasted [bursting] drum;
And the blubbered fat
From its belly doth come
It was a stream ran bloodily
Under the wall
O Stream, you cannot run too red…’
Everard Meynell, the son of Thompson’s publisher and a biographer, detailed the final conversation, between this Ripper suspect, and his, since vanished, secret admirer. Meynell told of and her growing resemblance to Thompson’s dead mother and dead sister, [Bold mine)
'After his first interview with my father he had taken her his news "They will not understand our friendship." She said and then, "I always knew you were a genius." And so she strangled the opportunity; she killed again the child, the sister; the mother had come to life within her.'
After this final fight, Thompson’s prostitute disappeared, never to found. Thompson came to hate this profession. He equalled them to the puss filled ulcers he encountered on the many cadavers he had cut into. When he hoped to get work one day as a Doctor, [Bold mine)
'These girls whose Practice is a putrid ulceration of love, venting foul and purulent discharge- for their very utterance is a hideous blasphemy against the sacrosanctity [sacred ways] of lover's language!'
Although having become a man of letters, Francis Thompson, held a trait of dumbing down his writing style, shown here by this example,
‘Onurd Sir,
I see. Now, wot I ave to say is, as I ‘ave no personal animosity… I ‘ave ‘im set this food while, bein’ a man of critical taste as keeps a oservant eye on his fellow-litteratures; and I size ‘im up as a gent of some littery ability, take my tip, and look at me…I don’t take much stock of potes as writers of Bleedin... I sign myself by a name-de-plum. Fly-by-night.’
Thompson was paradoxical in many ways. He wrote that it was his fear of the sight of flowing blood, as his reason for leaving medical school, yet he worshiped and feared the colour red itself as grand and powerful in its connection to blood, [Bold mine)
'Red has come to be a colour feared; it ought rather to be the colour loved. For it is ours. The colour is ours and what it symbolises is ours. Red in all its grades...to that imperial colour we call purple, the tinge of clotted blood,...proudly lineal; a prince of the Blood indeed.'
The son of Thompson’s publisher wrote on this Ripper suspect’s behaviour, when mailing letters to the press, [Bold mine)
'he sitting in gray lodgings, who crowded into the chilly ten minutes before 3 am, the writing of a long letter to be posted, after anxieties over address and gum [glue] of which we know nothing and a stumbling-journey down dark stairs, in a pillar-box still black with threatening dawn.'
Here is the threatening ‘Dear Boss’ letter, sent to the press, one very early morning - the one supposedly sent by an‘enterprising’ journalist.
'September 25th
Dear Boss,
I keep on hearing that the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope Ha ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get the chance. Good Luck.
Yours truly
Jack the Ripper
Dont mind me giving the trade name'
Richard Patterson.2014. Paradox.
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