The String of Pearls (1850), p. 157

"Surely," he said, "she might have been content to tell me she had discovered my plans, without adding this practical sneer to it."
He lifted the letter from the door, and found it was addressed "To Mrs. Lovett's Cook, Bell Yard, Temple Bar;" and what made it all the more provoking was, that it seemed to have come regularly through the post, for there were the official seal and blue stamp upon it. Curiosity tempted him to open it,
and he read as follows:—
"Sir—Having, in a most delicious pie, received the extraordinary communication which you inserted in it, I take the earliest opportunity of replying to you. The character of a highly respectable and pious woman is not, sir, to be whispered away in a pie by a cook. When the whole bench of bishops were proved, in black and white, to be the greatest thieves and speculators in the known world, it was their character that saved them, for, as people justly enough reasoned, bishops should be pious and just—therefore, a bishop cannot be a thief and a liar! Now, sir, apply this little mandate to Mrs. Lovett, and assure yourself; but no one will believe anything you can allege against a female with so fascinating a smile, and who attends to her religious duties so regularly. Reflect, young man, on the evil that you have tried to do, and for the future learn to be satisfied with the excellent situation you have. The pie was very good."

I am, you bad young man,
A Parishioner of St. Dunstan's,
Sweeney Todd."

"Now was there ever such a piece of cool rascality as this?" cried the cook.
"Sweeney Todd—Todd—Todd. Who the devil is he? This is some scheme of Mrs. Lovett's to drive me mad."
He dashed the letter upon the floor.
"Not another pie will I make! No—no—no. Welcome death—welcome that dissolution which may be my lot, rather than the continued endurance of this terrible imprisonment. Am I, at my time of life, to be made the slave of
such a demon in human shape as this woman ? Am I to grow old and grey here, a mere pie machine? No—no, death a thousand times rather!"
Tears! yes, bitter scalding tears came to his relief, and he wept abundantly, but those tears were blessed, for as they flowed, the worst bitterness of his heart flowed with them, and he suddenly looked up, saying—
"I am only twenty- four."
There was magic in the sound of those words. They seemed in themselves to contain a volume of philosophy. Only twenty-four. Should he, at that green and unripe age, get rid of hope. Should he, at twenty-four only, lie down and say—"Let me die!" just because things had gone a little adverse, and he was the
enforced cook of Mrs. Lovett?
"No—no," he said. "No, I will endure much, and I will hope much. Hitherto, it is true, I have been unsuccessful in what I have attempted for my release, but the diabolical cunning, even of this woman, may fail her at some moment, and I may have my time of revenge. No—no, I need not ask for revenge, justice will do—common justice. I will keep myself alive. Hope shall be my guiding star. They shall not subdue the proud spirit they have succeeded in caging, quite so easily, I will not give up, I live and have youthful blood in my veins, I will not despair. Despair? No—Hence, fiend!—I am as yet only twenty-four. Ha—ha! Only twenty-four."