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A Brief Note From 1890 About A Hungry Man

April 7, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the February 3, 1890 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“San Francisco, Cal.–The following is given by a correspondent in Santiago, Chile: ‘Bo Perez, accompanied by Enrique Bello, 7 years of age, left Valparaiso to travel on foot for Santiago. Upon their arrival at the railroad tunnel near San Pedro, Perez seized the boy and undertook to eat him alive. He ate the fingers off one hand and part of one foot and bit pieces out of his cheek. He then commenced sucking the lad’s blood and the latter fainted. The guard of the tunnel surprised Perez in the midst of his feast, but the cannibal fled up the mountain. The boy was taken care of and Perez was subsequently captured.”

Tags: Bo Perez, Enrique Bello

Old Print Article: “A Young Monster,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1871)

April 6, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

“He was obliged to shut the boy up or keep him chained, as he would eat all the eggs and chickens unless restrained.”

A growing boy with a healthy appetite was the focus of an article in the Detroit Tribune, which was republished in the September 1, 1871 Brooklyn Daily Eagle. An excerpt:

“Johnson, Mich.–A great deal has been said in our local papers lately about the wonderful and unnatural appetite of the boy William Henry Forbes, now confined to the jail in this city, and to-day your reporter availed himself of the opportunity presented to witness an exhibition of the boy’s capacity. The feat, disgusting enough I assure you, was nothing less than the eating of a chicken raw.

Quite a crowd assembled in the jail barn to see the sight which was literally performed. A live chicken and a knife were placed in the boy’s hands when the revolting operation commenced. The chicken was laid on the floor and held down between the boy’s knees, while he sawed the head off with the knife. The boy then placed the bleeding neck in his mouth and deliberately sucked the warm blood from the body. He then began tearing the skin from the body, which proved quite a difficult task, at the same time, as a sort of pastime, chewing pieces of the skin which had been partly denuded of the feathers. Then beginning with one leg, the disgusting lunch began. I say lunch, for it was three o’clock in the afternoon, and the boy had already eaten three men’s rations for his dinner. After finishing both legs, he stopped long enough to remove the entrails, when he proceeded to finish the chicken. The fact of his eating the chicken in this way was no less surprising than his manner during the performance. He stood in the middle of the floor, apparently regardless of lookers on or their jokes, his whole attention seemingly engaged in what he was doing, and his inhuman meal was also eaten with evident relish. While eating the chicken, in reply to some questions he said he once swallowed a young duck alive, and no one doubted the statement after seeing him.

“He said he once swallowed a young duck alive.”

In conversation the boy seems quite intelligent. He is nearly 15 years old, but is not larger than a boy of 12, and has a hungry wolfish expression, which creates the impression that he has been starved at some period in his life. He was taken from the poorhouse about six years ago by Ira Gavitt, a farmer in the Township of Summit, and at that time ate no more than ordinary boys of his age. He was brought into notice by the arrest of Gavitt on complaint of his neighbor for abusing the boy. Gaviitt claims that he was obliged to shut the boy up or keep him chained, as he would eat all the eggs and chickens unless restrained. The boy will not say anything against Gavitt or his family.

The case is one well worthy of the attention of the medical fraternity. The boy was placed in jail on a charge of stealing, but really it was done to get him out of Gavitt’s hands. He really ought to be sent to the House of Corrections or the Reform School, where he can receive good medical attention, as there can be no doubt that his terrible appetite is a disease. He was asked if he could eat a baby, and he replied that he could if he should try. It is said that he attacked a boy on one occasion, telling him he must kill him to get his blood, for he must have blood.”

A Brief Note From 1929 About A Wounded Man

April 6, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the October 26, 1929 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“El Paso, Texas–Strapped to an operating table, James Clifford, 28-year-old self-styled scion of a wealthy Oakland, Cal., family, declared today he shot himself on order of a secret cult, whose heads gave him a pistol and demanded he commit suicide because he had fallen in love with the wife of another cult member. Police were forced to handcuff the injured man and he was strapped to the operating table while physicians worked, because of violent attempts to complete what he said was an attempt to kill himself. He was not wounded dangerously, one of two shots going wild and the other inflicting a surface abdominal wound.”

Tags: James Clifford

A Brief Note From 1903 About A Corseted Woman

April 3, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the October 30, 1903 New York Times:

“Niagara Falls, N.Y.–Physicians of Niagara Falls are mystified by a remarkable discovery made during an autopsy on the body of Mrs. Mary E. Halliday, who died suddenly.

She was seized with a strange attack, and a doctor relieved her by administering stimulants. When the doctor had departed she grew worse and soon died.

Coroner Slocum directed that an autopsy be performed. Two pieces of corset steel were found in her heart, their total length being eight and three-quarter inches. Where they rubbed together the ends were worn to a razor edge by the movement of her body.

There is no information as to how or when the steel entered her body. None of Mrs. Halliday’s relatives ever heard her complain of an accident of that kind.

The doctors say it may have been swallowed and worked its way from the intestines to the heart, or might have penetrated the skin and worked around until found.

She was forty-two years old and the mother of six children. She suffered greatly and at times was confined to her bed, but rheumatism was her supposed ailment.”

Tags: Coroner Slocum, Mrs. Mary E. Halliday

Old Print Article: “Aaron Burr’s Deathbed,” New York Times (1895)

April 2, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

Aaron Burr, statesman and murderer, spent his last days reclusively on Staten Island, New York. He was a decidedly a shadowy figure in the borough, and his funeral services were lightly attended. But there was one entrepreneur who kept a close check on the former Vice President during his waning moments. An excerpt from an article in the September 8, 1895 New York Times:

“It is not generally known that Aaron Burr spent the last days of his life and died on Staten Island. A few paces back from the Staten Island Ferry landing, at Port Richmond, stands the St. James Hotel, which is anything but a pretentious structure, and was originally a two-story boarding house in the year 1836, kept by a couple named Edgerton. It was during the early part of that year that Burr took a room there, and Mrs. Edgerton became his faithful servant and nurse. He sought seclusion and peace for his last days on earth, and, to an extent, found his desire within the great city of his choice, where he had realized the greatest triumphs of his life. The town was then composed of but a few scattered houses, and the Jersey shore was covered with a pine forest to the water’s edge, a clear view of which could be had from this old dwelling house. He rarely left his room, which was the front apartment on the second floor, now used as a parlor in the hotel. The furniture was antique and the room about eighteen feet square. The bed upon which Burr died was an old-fashioned, four-post, chintz-curtained one. Over the mantel now hangs a profile steel engraving of Burr, undoubtedly cut from some biography of the man, simply framed, to which, until recently, there was attached the inscription: ‘Aaron Burr died in this room Sept. 14, 1836.’

Upon rare occasions, and when he was confident that he would not be noticed, he wandered a short distance from his place of refuge, but the old man was too well known by the villagers to escape observation, and many eyes were upon him at every step, the villagers being proud of their visitor and observant of every action of so celebrated a man. He was an under-sized, sparsely built old man at this time, but he was also, to the end, erect and soldierly in bearing. His attire was always very fine, and he dressed with the utmost neatness, was quite the aristocratic gentleman of the old school, and the refinement and elegance of his manner were invariably conspicuous. He could be singularly winning and gentle even with the humblest. His complexion was pale and like parchment for years before his death, and at this time he was upward of eighty years of age. The dignity of his face was slightly marred by a thin, aquiline nose, which had a decided bend to one side, either through some accident or by nature’s malformation. Despite his advanced age, his eyes were keen and magnetic to a remarkable degree. He had learned or rather grown to dislike the curiosity seeker, and finding that he could not take his short walks abroad without being gazed at continually by the natives of Staten Island, he became more seclusive as the days went by, and finally refused to leave his room. In this room, rendered historic by his presence, this old decrepit, wornout, once great man passed his time with memories and sought consolation in the love letters of the women who had once loved him, among which were those of Mme. Jumel, filed with affectionate regard and regrets that a cruel fate had separated them. All those letters were scattered about his room, and when he died hundreds of such letters loose and in packages tied with ribbons were scattered upon his bed and upon the floor of the chamber. Among the evidences of his intriguing disposition, not at accusers, but as tokens of the loves of his victims, the old man breathed his last. …

The old man had no attendant. He lived alone, with his old joys and his new sorrows, waiting for death to claim him and take him he knew and seemed to care not whither. A mysterious stranger haunted the house for many days and nights before the death of Burr. He never was admitted to the recluse, but always made interested inquiries concerning his health, and he was supposed to be either a relative or interested friend of the statesman, although he was neither. This man was faithful to the determination, and almost immediately after Aaron Burr’s death put in an appearance, and, without saying, ‘By your leave,’ opened his satchel and proceeded, as if he had a right to do so, to take a plaster cast of the dead man.”

Tags: Aaron Burr

A Brief Note From 1895 About An Elopement

April 1, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the July 31, 1895 New York Times:

“Watertown, N.Y.–Jayville, a village on the fringe of the Adirondack forest, above Carthage, has been the scene of the punishment of a woman, in a manner which has been outraged decency.

Mrs. Bert Covey of Jayville left that place some time years ago, and it was alleged that she had eloped with a man of the place. Nothing was heard of until Saturday, when she suddenly returned. Sunday two men called on her, telling her that if she did not immediately leave the place, she would be tarred and feathered. She went to Pitcairn on Monday, and swore out a warrant for the arrest of the two men who had threatened her. She returned home in the evening.

When the train stopped at Jayville, and the woman stepped off, she was suddenly surrounded by a crow of men, who seized her, and took her into the railroad freight house, where they stripped her. There was a crowd of women present, dressed in men’s clothes, and with blackened faces.

The men held the woman down on the floor while the women applied tar and feathers with a paint brush, completely covering her with the stuff. Then they left her. She was taken to her mother’s house, where a physician was called, who found that one arm and a number of ribs were broken. It is said that almost all of the parties concerned in the case are known, and warrants will immediately be sworn out for their arrest.”

Tags: Mrs. Bert Covey

Old Print Articles: Joseph Faber’s 1840s Talking Machine (1870-87)

March 31, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

Nearly 170 years before Siri, German inventor Joseph Faber demonstrated his Talking Machine, most commonly known as “Euphonia,” which was able to speak sentences in a human if monotone voice. The marvel became a staple of Barnum’s shows, but Faber died without much to his name in the 1860s and his wife–and his contraption–fared just as poorly. Two brief articles follow about the inventor and his machine from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.

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“Talking Machines” (October 15, 1870): ”Some readers may remember Professor Faber’s automaton speaking figure, called THE EUPHONIA, when exhibited in London. It was a draped bust with a wax face. Concealed from the visitors were sixteen keys or levers, a small pair of bellows, and numerous little bits of metal, wood, and India-rubber. When any word or sentence was spoken out, either by Faber or by one of the audience, the exhibitor mentally divided all the syllables into as many distinct sounds as they embodied; he pressed upon a particular key for each particular sound, which admitted a blast of air to a particular compartment, in which the mechanism was of the kind to produce the sound required; there were thus as many pressures as there were elementary sounds. By a modification of the movements, whispering could be produced instead of speaking.”

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“The Talking Machine Was There” (July 24, 1887): “Mrs. Mary Faber, the wife of Professor Faber, who had traveled around the country for years with his talking machine, took Paris green yesterday at 207 East Twenty-Fifth Street, New York. When the police were about to take her from the room Mrs. Faber recovered consciousness for a moment and, pointing to a satchel, declared that the talking machine was there. She wanted it sold to pay the rent. She will probably die.”

A Note From 1902 About A Monkey Dinner Guest

March 31, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the July 10, 1902 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“Newport, R.I.–Friends of Harry Lehr deny that he had entertained a monkey at dinner and declare that the story was a fabrication from beginning to end. He and they say that no monkey dressed in evening clothes or as nature has made him ever has sat among his guests.

Mrs. Lehr especially is indignant at the newspapers for publishing such a story and her friends say that they would not be surprised if she should determine to take legal action. It is known that the Lehrs feel keenly the editorial comments made upon the incident.”

Old Print Article: “Floating Hotel Off Tonight,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1901)

March 27, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Photography, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

John Arbuckle’s dream stayed afloat far longer than many expected. The coffee magnate and humanitarian decided, at the dawn of the twentieth century, to combat the lack of affordable lodgings in Manhattan by converting ships into floating apartment buildings for single, working-class folks. For roughly three dollars a week, hundreds of renters would get room and board and motion sickness. It wasn’t meant to make money (and did not since it never became as popular as the proprietor had hoped) but to be a gift to struggling people from a kindly man who was known as both a capitalist and a trust buster.

There were problems from the start, and the New York Times even sank the plan prematurely, but the company continued to offer “water beds” for a pittance until 1915, withdrawing its gangplank for good soon after Arbuckle’s death. Just three dozen women were residents at that point.

From an article in the July 17, 1901 Brooklyn Daily Eagle about the maiden voyage:

“John Arbuckle will open his floating hotels, now organized under the name of the Deep Sea Hotel Company, for business to-morrow evening. This evening he will take as guests a number of his friends and a party of newspaper men on the inaugural trip of the Jacob A. Stamler. The tugboat John Herlin will leave the foot of Atlantic Avenue at 6 o’clock with the guests and take them over to the ship, which is anchored off the Statue of Liberty. The Stamler was towed over there this morning, in order to be in readiness to sail this evening.

The yachts Giana and Hermit are anchored off Thirty-ninth Street, South Brooklyn, and will be placed in commission when their services are called for.

The final preparations on the vessels are only just completed. Handsome carpets have been laid down in the saloons, smoking room and on the berth deck. Every stateroom is handsomely carpeted and fitted up. The lower deck of the Stamler is mainly occupied by bath and toilet rooms of the latest design. The awning deck has been fitted up with seats, which can be converted into comfortable beds. The main and women’s saloons are fitted with Pullman berths, and the seats can also be used as berths. These saloons are fitted with handsomely upholstered chairs, hard wood tables and lounging chairs. The smoking room is equally well equipped. The ship is remarkably cool below decks, the air being kept in constant circulation by a large fan driven by steam. The entire ship s brilliantly lighted up with electric lights furnished by a dynamo in the engine room. The engine is utilized for hoisting in the anchor, getting coal and supplies on board and it does much of handling of the sails as well.

The kitchen is splendidly equipped. There is an immense range of the latest design, a large broiler and several soup and vegetable kettles. A ten ton ice refrigerator occupies one section and a dumb waiter connects the culinary department with the pantry on the saloon deck. What is said of the Stamler applies equally, but in a smaller degree to the schooner yachts Hermit and Gitana.

Every precaution will be taken to prevent the semblance of rowdyism, as Mr. Arbuckle said to an Eagle reporter today: ‘I will have a couple of special policemen, big and strong enough to shake the toe nails of any one who attempts to cause annoyance on board, and pitch him in the blackhole of the John Herlin afterward. I sincerely hope there will be no need to call on their service, but nothing wrong will be tolerated for an instant.’

The floating hotels will open for business to-morrow evening.”

Tags: John Arbuckle

A Brief Note From 1870 About “Lulu Johnson”

March 26, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the July 28, 1870 New York Times:

“About eight months ago a sprightly, prepossessing boy about seventeen years of age, came to this city from Philadelphia, and obtained employment in a respectable family. He was not only exceedingly bright and intelligent, but was well educated for a boy of his age, and his manner about the house in which he was employed made such a favorable impression upon the mistress of the establishment that she took quite a fancy to him, and according to his statement she induced him to cast off his ‘unmentionables’ and don female ‘toggery.’ He was known as ‘Lulu Johnson,’ and was regularly installed in the house as a female servant, no one, it appears, about the establishment doubting his sex, or knowing that he was not what his dress indicated, except the mistress. In this way matters continued for a considerable length of time, even up until one day last week, when ‘Lulu,’ thinking he was not receiving full compensation for his labor, concluded to leave his new home and seek another, and when he left, by some unaccountable means a breastpin and a pair of ear-rings, valued at $7, the property of Mrs. C., the lady of the house, left with him. The husband, on hearing of the departure of ‘Lulu’ and the loss of the jewelry, made information before the Mayor charging ‘Lulu’ with larceny. A warrant was issued, and placed in the hand of Officer Moon, who found her employed in a saloon on Woodstreet, but to his surprise ‘Lulu’ was a boy. When he was informed that he was wanted at the Mayor’s office on a charge of stealing jewelry, he frankly stated to the officer, who thought still that ‘Lulu’ was a girl and had donned the male attire to escape detection, that he was the identical ‘Lulu’ Johnson he was in search of, but that he was not a girl, neither had he stolen the jewelry, but he had taken it as compensation for services performed while he was in the house. The officer was willing to believe a part of the story but not all of it. He could not be persuaded that ‘Lulu’ was a boy, not a bit of it. ‘Lulu’ was taken to the Mayor’s office, and after satisfying His Honor that he was what his apparel indicated, he gave a full statement of the affair. The prosecutor was present but could not be convinced but that ‘Lulu’ was a girl. The jewelry was returned, and ‘Lulu’ allowed to return to the saloon at which he was employed, with a promise to return to the Mayor’s offices in the morning at 10 o’clock for a hearing.”

Tags: Lulu Johnson, Mrs. C., Officer Moon, The Husband, The Mayor, The Prosecutor

Old Print Articles: Francis Schlatter, Faith Healer Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1896-1901)

March 25, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

A Rasputin-like figure from the 19th century, Francis Schlatter, a cobbler who turned to faith healing, was rumored to have retired or died in 1896 or so. But the Brooklyn Daily Eagle subsequently ran an assortment of stories about him–or others purporting to be him. At some point, it seems he became more idea than flesh, “appearing” in cities all over America. The following are a few pieces about those strange years.

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“Schlatter on a Wheel” (July 15, 1896): Guthrie, Okla.–A man claiming to be Schlatter, the healer, from Denver, rode into town yesterday on a bicycle and is creating a sensation. He was dressed in a trailing gown of black and wore a curling beard and long, flowing hair. As soon as his identity became known a great crowd gathered about the man and since then hundreds of people have constantly dogged his footsteps. Last night he addressed an immense throng, laying on hands to heal people and blessing hundreds of handkerchiefs.

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“Schlatter the Healer” (August 19, 1897): Pittsburgh, Pa.–Late last night it was positively announced that Mrs. Margaret Ferris, widow of the builder of the Chicago wheel, had been married in Pittsburgh to Francis Schlatter, healer, of Canton. The ceremony was performed by Rev. Mr. Ward, pastor of St. Peter’s Episcopal Church. Mr. and Mrs. Schlatter are now at a downtown hotel.”

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“Schlatter the Healer” (January 10, 1899): Lynbrook, L.I.–A tramp, who resembles Schlatter, the healer, and who is evidently deranged, applied for lodging at the Rudd Farm, East Rockaway, and was permitted to sleep in the coachman’s room. He spent a week in fasting and prayer and was only seen to leave his room once in all that time. He refuses all food and it is supposed that he is preparing by fasting and prayer for forty days to resume the work of preaching and healing. He seems younger than Schlatter and his features strikingly resemble those of Christ as depicted by modern artists. Although evidently a cultured and scholarly man he refuses to talk and is apparently anxious to conceal his identity.

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“Small Audience Attracted” (January 30, 1899): Brooklyn–Before an audience of about two hundred spectators, the Rev. Charles McLean, M.D., who claims to be the original Schlatter, the divine healer in a resurrected form, gave an exhibition of his healing powers. The meeting was held at the Antheneum, Atlantic Avenue and Clinton Street. Among the two hundred were those afflicted with every ill flesh is heir to. Some hobbled up as early as 7 o’clock. although it was after 8 o’clock before the alleged healer began to talk. Others were led, and about the whole crowd was an air of tragic expectation. About thirty came up on the front seats to be treated when the call was made for subjects. The healer rejected all but ten, after a hurried questioning as to the nature of their ills. He explained that he did work where he felt called and those subjects not treated must report at future meetings. One by one as rapidly as he could apply his method these ten were led up to the stage and were seated in a chair with back to the audience. For a minute the hands of the healer would be pressed over their foreheads. At the same time he would recite an inarticulate prayer. Then he would interview his subject as to the result of the treatment and announce the decision.

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“Divine Healer” (July 21, 1901): Washington–Francis Schlatter, the so-called ‘divine healer,’ was tried in the police court to-day as a vagrant and fined $10 or thirty days in the workhouse.

As he returned to the cells he pleaded that the workhouse authorities refrain from shearing his locks. Schlatter stated to the court that he had come here to get his wife, who had deserted him to approve the sale of some English property. Becoming discouraged, he had commenced to drink. A policeman testified that he found Schlatter surrounded by a boisterous crowd and that he admitted having been on a “drunk” since July 3.

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“Schlatter Sent to the Island” (August 25, 1901): Manhattan–Francis Schlatter, who calls himself ‘the divine healer,’ was sentenced to three months in the workhouse on the Island yesterday by Magistrate Zeller, in the Harlem police court. Mrs. Elizabeth Muller, the janitress of the house at 44 Bradhurst Avenue, where Schlatter’s wife had been living since she quarreled with and left him, was the complainant against the prisoner. The healer’s wife left the house a few days ago, and Mrs. Muller charged that he constantly annoyed all the tenants in the house, persisting in visiting the rooms to see his wife. On each of these visits, the complaintant said, Schlatter was in an intoxicated condition, bordering on delirium tremens.

When the sentence of three months was pronounced Schlatter said that he did not care, as he had powerful friends who would have him set free. Among these he named President McKinley.•

A Brief Note From 1909 About Revenge

March 24, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the November 28, 1909 New York Times:

“One of the diversions of the New York tenement house boy is flying captive pigeons from the roof of his home. While three little boys, Anthony Koenig, of 638 East Eleventh Street, Henry Flannigan, of 187 Avenue C, and Rudolph Poharley of 174 Avenue C, were flying pigeons from the roof of the Koenig boy’s home, yesterday afternoon, Poharley lost his string, and his black pigeon fluttered off.

He reached after the string as it trailed over the edge of the roof and lost his balance, falling to the ground, six stories below. Dr. Reiter, of 630 East Eleventh Street, just across the street, saw Poharley strike the sidewalk on the side of his head. He ran to him, and after an examination, found that he had been killed instantly. His neck was broken.

An ambulance took the 18 year old boy’s body to the Union Market Police Station.

When his companions, who are 12 and 13 years old, had dried their eyes they returned to the roof and hid behind the chimneys, waiting for the pigeon that Poharley had been flying to return.

It was a black pigeon, and among the boys of the East Side, a black pigeon is called a ‘hard luck’ pigeon.

At last the pigeon returned, and the boys pounced upon it and killed it by wringing its neck.

Thus the hoodoo of the bird was ended.”

Tags: Anthony Koenig, Henry Flannigan, Rudolph Poharley

Old Print Article: “Lost To Himself For Fourteen Years,” New York Times (1911)

March 23, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

“Rogers, his head swathed in bandages, with part of his skull missing where physicians had removed a portion of the bone, asked for pen and paper.”

For well over a decade, S. Chandler Rogers was not feeling like himself. According to an article in the October 22, 1911 New York Times, the messenger and sometimes prizefighter was waylaid by three men on a Manhattan sidewalk, suffered brain trauma, and couldn’t recall his identity for the next decade and a half. One day in Seattle, a second mysterious incident brought the attack back to him in great detail. Unfortunately, the beleaguered man said the latter episode completely erased memories of his life during the intervening 14 years.The story:

“Seattle, Wash.–In a fight with three toughs at Sixteenth Street and Eighth Avenue, New York, on May 1, 1897, S. Chandler Rogers had his skull fractured, and later he was thrown into the Hudson River. For fourteen and a half years he lived under the name of George Kelly. He became demented at his home in Port Blakeley on Oct. 10, and to-day regained his senses and announced his right name at Providence Hospital.

Rogers, his head swathed in bandages, with part of his skull missing where physicians had removed a portion of the bone, asked for pen and paper and wrote a clear, concise, intelligent letter to his half sister, Miss Florence Douels, 418 West Thirty-second Street, New York. He wrote:

‘I am in a hospital and all O.K.’

Then he added a paragraph asking that Father Dougherty of the Paulist Society, New York, come to see him.

When Rogers had finished his letter, after telling his physicians and his nurse that his right name was Rogers and not Kelly, he asked for a newspaper. It was handed to him and he read at the top of the first page:

‘Seattle, Saturday, Oct. 21, 1911.’

Rogers turned one look of appeal and wonderment toward the physician, Dr. Milton G. Sturgis, and to his nurse.

‘Am I really in Seattle?’ he asked. And then he broke down and wept.

Although the man is still in a serious condition, he was strong enough to suppress his grief after a few moments and then told a straight and apparently reliable story of his marvelous experience.

‘I do not know where I have been or what I have been doing for fourteen years,’ he said. ‘I know that I was born in New York City in 1880, that I lived with my grandmother, Mrs. Elizabeth Douels, 418 West Thirty-second Street, and that my name is S. Chandler Rogers. I was first a newsboy in New York and then a messenger with a big trust company. I used to box in a theatre to earn a little side money. On May 11, 1897, I took a vacation.

‘With a friend I went to a theatre accompanied by two girls. I took my girl home, then started to walk to my own abode. At the corner of Sixteenth Street and Eighth Avenue, I met three men who asked me for a match. I told them, ‘I am no match factory.’ Then one made a pass at me. I struck at him with brass knuckles on my right hand–I always wore them at night. It was then near midnight. Another man of the three struck me with a blackjack and I fell to my knees. The next I knew I was swimming in the river, almost stark naked. I remember catching hold of a pile and calling for help. I can remember being dragged from the river, and that is the last I know, except that I woke up here in this hospital in Seattle, Tuesday morning.’

Dr. Bruce Elmore, who became interested in the case, talked to Rogers about people he knew in New York. As an intern in Roosevelt Hospital fourteen years ago, Dr. Elmore knew many of the men and places of which Rogers told. He also knew Father Daugherty, for whom Rogers asked as soon as he was able to talk coherently.

Married two months ago, Rogers, as George Kelly, left his home on Tuesday evening, Oct. 10, for a trip to the mill town. He had not been feeling well for some time. He went to a store on Port Blakeley and ordered some groceries for his wife. Then he disappeared. Three days later he was found by bloodhounds in the dense forest near Port Blakeley. He was stark naked and was crawling around on his hands and knees and snapped and barked at the dogs.

On Friday, Oct. 13, he was brought here, and Dr. Sturgis was asked to examine him. He was unable to speak, could not see, and apparently was paralyzed. Sunday last an operation was performed and a portion of his skull removed, where it pressed on his brain for fourteen years and more.

Rogers does not now remember his recent marriage.”

Tags: Dr. Bruce Elmore, Dr. Milton G. Sturgis, Elizabeth Douels, Father Dougherty, Florence Douels, George Kelly, S. Chandler Rogers

A Note From 1892 About A Mound Of Skulls

March 20, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the December 29, 1892 New York Times:

“San Antonio, Texas–A dispatch from Carrizo Springs, Dimmit County, says that twenty-five miles south of that place, near the Encinal Road has been discovered an oval-topped mound covered with petrified human skulls. The mound is about 100 feet in height, circular in form, and joined on one side to a short range of hills of about the same height.

On the summit, and for some distance down the sloping side, it is covered with what appear to be smooth, spherical bones, which upon close inspection prove to be petrified human skulls distorted into grotesque shapes.

By removing the sand and loose dirt from the orifices of the face, the unmistakable human countenance is revealed. Bones of other classes are found there, and from all appearances the whole mound is formed of human skulls. The subject of opening the mound has been agitated, but as of yet it has not been done.”

Old Print Article: “First Volunteer For Leap To Mars,” New York Times (1920)

March 20, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

Some had too little faith in Robert Goddard and his rockets, but Captain Claude Collins had too much. The president of the Aviators’ Club of Pennsylvania offered, nearly a century ago, to be blasted to our neighboring planet, fueled in his dreams to a good extent by Goddard’s exciting work. From an article that contains a telegraph from the would-be spaceman in the February 5, 1920 New York Times:

“By Telegraph to the Editor of The New York Times.

PHILADELPHIA–In order to aid science and arouse the people of the nation to act to make America the peer of other nations in the air, I make the following proposal in full seriousness and stand ready to carry out its stipulation at any time. I am connected with no commercial concern, and am not making this proposal for monetary gains.

Believing the plans of a noted scientist to send a super-rocket from the earth to Mars, in the body of which a person would be stationed, can be developed into a reality, I hereby volunteer to attempt this inter-planet leap and offer to do so, gratis, in an endeavor to realize these aims of science and to successfully alight in the neighbor-world, providing the following stipulations are carried out and to reciprocate for the danger entailed. I am first enabled to make a tour of the nation by air to appeal directly to the people in an endeavor to awaken America to the menace we face in the air and to bring some action which may result in placing the United States on a par with other nations aeronautically, before possibly terminating my earthly existence.

It shall be agreed that:

1. I shall be permitted to assist in planning the construction of the rocket and the details of the venture.

2. Communication, either by radio, light or other means shall be definitely established with Mars and a rocket, similar to that which I am to make the leap, be constructed and successfully launched and landed on that planet previous to my start.

3. A board of ten prominent scientists shall agree to the practicability of the completed rocket and possible success of the same in reaching the planet with me safely.

4. Ten days before the scheduled start of the leap insurance to the amount of $10,000 shall be taken out for me in favor of my heirs, with the understanding and consummation of a further agreement to the effect that none of the parties to this agreement be held responsible for anything which may happen to me under any circumstances.

5. Representatives of the press of New York City in co-operation with the Aircraft Manufacturers; L.L. Driggs, President of the American Flying Club; Jefferson de M. Thompson, President of the Aero Club of America; the scientist who shall make the rocket, as well as any other persons desired by the aforenamed, heads of the institutions he represents, shall supervise all plans and arrangements for the proposed leap and equipment; they shall also back up and assist me in compiling addresses and successfully completing the tour of the nation and visits to all large American cities with the understanding that an airplane be furnished by the aircraft manufacturers and my expenses be covered in the usual lecture method to be later agreed upon.

This agreement shall become valid upon the date signed by the first of those parties named and expire six months after that time, date of expiration being not later than Dec. 31, 1920.

Under no circumstances shall I fail to make the leap after the above stipulations have been complied with during the life of this agreement, unless with the approval of those who have become party to it.

(Signed)
CAPTAIN CLAUDE R. COLLINS
New York City Air Police.
President Aviators’ Club of Pennsylvania; Organizer Philadelphia Air Force; International Licensed Airplane Pilot.”

Tags: Claude Collins, Robert Goddard

A Brief Note From 1897 About Girls In A Pigpen

March 18, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the October 11, 1897 New York Times:

“Poughkeepsie–The charge that three girls, inmates of the Orphan Home for Girls at Tivoli, were confined in a pigpen by way of punishment, was not denied by the Superintendent, E.F. George, when he was asked about it to-day. He says that three girls were thus punished for what the doctor said was laziness, and that the punishment cured them. The only part of the story which Mr. George denies is that the children were kept in the pigpen for forty-eight hours. He says that they were kept there twelve hours instead.

The village talk goes so far as to intimate that the children and the pigs were inclosed in the same building, but this Mr. George denies. He says that no pigs were in the barn at all. The pens are all filled with pigs now, however.

The children were put in the pens a month ago. The names of the little ones are Hazel Cahill of New York, eight years old; Beulah Delehanty of Poughkeepsie, eight years old, and Mabel Moore of New York, nine years old. The matron of the home is Mrs. George, the wife of the Superintendent. She says that the people of the village are down on her husband because he tried to break up gambling and horse racing in the town. The management of the home was discussed a year ago, when May Conklin, twelve years old, committed suicide by taking paris green, because, as it was said, the matron had cut off her hair.”

Tags: Beulah Delehanty, Hazel Cahill, Mabel Moore, May Conklin, Mrs. George, Superintendent E.F. George

Old Print Article: “Death Of The Bearded Woman,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1862)

March 17, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

A bearded lady who was an attraction at dime museums managed to have an even odder “existence” after her death, as revealed by this article in the March 28, 1862 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“Julia Pastrana, the ‘Bearded Woman,’ who was exhibited for some time at Barnum’s Museum, and subsequently in various parts of this country and Europe, died in Moscow in 1860. A London paper gives the follow strange particulars of her posthumous career:

‘On the following day she was embalmed by her medical adviser at the request of her husband, on the understanding that she should be his property, he paying the process of embalming. A dispute arose subsequently as to his right to the body, which rendered it necessary for him to produce the marriage certificate, which he went to America to fetch, and having transmitted the necessary documents to his agent here, he died in New York. The body thus fell into the hands of his agent, and after being shut up for two years, it is now exhibited at the Burlington Gallery, Piccadilly. The figure is dressed in the ordinary costume used during her life, and her bust, face and arms present pretty much the appearance of a well-stuffed animal.

The embalming is effected by injecting a fluid at an opening in the chest. The limbs are plump and round as in life, with the the exception of the fingers, which are somewhat shriveled, and as a specimen of the art of preserving a human body, Julia Pastrana is as great a curiosity now as when she was alive. Her child, which lived thirty-six hours, is also exhibited; its flat nose and thick hair on the head give it an appearance which is most unpleasant to contemplate.”

A Brief Note From 1885 About A Petrified Giant

March 16, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the August 17, 1885 New York Times:

“Victoria, British Columbia–The body of a petrified giant has been found by two farmers who were sinking a well 10 miles from town. Its appearance closely resembles that of a human being. The head gives the appearance of having been scalped. The material is as hard as flint and the arms and legs are broken short off. The veins and ribs are plainly traced. A party has gone out for the legs, arms, and hands, which lie in a hole. The man when alive must have been about 12 feet in height.”

Old Print Article: “Failure Of A Womanless Eden In The Pacific,” New York Times (1905)

March 14, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Photography, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

August Engelhardt, far right.

August Engelhardt wasn’t the only European thinker to run Kurtz-like into the heart of darkness, but he may have been the maddest of all.

In 1902, the 25-year-old German health reformer, who practiced sun worship and a strict coconut diet, retreated from Bavarian university life to Kabakon Island in New Guinea, which he purchased from his mother country with an inheritance. He brought a library’s worth of books to keep him company and invited others from home to join him in “paradise.” Things did not go well, and it’s a marvel that Engelhardt was able to survive until 1919, though some of his acolytes weren’t nearly so “aged” when they expired.

Despite the title of this New York Times piece from the October 15, 1905 edition, as you can see in the top photo, some women eventually made their way to Engelhardt’s folly, though they were very infrequently attracted by Kabakon’s severe cocovorism and nudism. The far larger error in the Times story, however, is the fact that 1905 wasn’t nearly the end of his life or experiment; Engelhardt recovered from his serious illness and returned to Kabokon, unable to to depart from his radical lifestyle anymore than T.E. Lawrence could leave the sands, drawn again and again by some ineffable void inside.

I suppose the most generous assessment of Engelhardt came from an Australian captain after visiting the colony: “Could the world do without living examples in self-sacrifice—even if their ideals are wrong? And would we not all fall asleep, if it were not for a sprinkling of extremists?”

An excerpt from the Times article:

August Engelhardt was at least sincere in his faith and in the observance of its tenets. For days he lived alone, eating nothing but bread fruit and cocoanuts, swimming in the sea or the still lagoon; studying in the fauna and flora of his island by day, or lying on the hot beach; by night sleeping in a hollow scooped out of the sand.

Occasionally he saw, or thought he saw, men moving in the cocoa groves, and once when he went to investigate he discovered for a certainty that he was not alone on the island. A number of lithe, naked, dark-skinned men and women ran hastily away. But the natives were few and harmless; apparently, too, they feared if they did not actually worship this great man with white skin and shaggy yellow hair who emerged glistening from the lagoon, or appeared suddenly in the cocoa groves. They kept away from him and were even more exclusive when his companions came.

It may be supposed that Engelhardt led a dreary life on Kahakua while awaiting the arrival of his disciples, but if one may judge the student’s temperament from his acts it seems more likely that this was the happiest period of his existence on the atoll. He had left the world behind him; he was free. Of the food of his choice he lacked none, and the balmy air of the Pacific, the warm sun of the tropics, and the cool spray of the ‘combers’ were his playthings. At dawn the nature feasted upon his eyes with beauty as the sun, his god, climbed over the horizon, tinted the palm crests with gold, the sea with amber and opal and crimson, and bathed the kneeling figure on the beach with a mantle that was his inspiration. By day Engelhardt’s joy was that of a dream realized. At sunset the lagoon clasped his god in a broil of molten lava; then came the night, with the great dome of stars, the breeze rustling though the cocoa fronds, and the Pacific chanting like a great organ, lulling him to sleep.

But there was an end to this, and a beginning to disillusion. The vessel which was to have brought his converts dropped anchor in the lagoon. A boat came ashore with four men in it, two of them sailors, the other two Engelhardt’s staunchest disciples. They were Max Lutzow, at one time director of the well-known Orchestra of Berlin, and Heinrich Eukens, a student of Bavaria and a native of Heligoland. The other converts, upon the departure of Engelhardt and his eloquence, had received the attention of other sects, and been convinced that Kahakua was full of cannibals, sweltering with fever miasma; in brief, that Engelhardt was leading them to death.

It was a great blow to Engelhardt, but the die had been cast. The vessel sailed away, and he, with Lutzow and Eukens, was left on the island. The two new arrivals were delighted with the appearance of Engelhardt. Weeks of life under the sun, in the salt sea, and living upon fruit, had brought him to a state of wonderful physical perfection. His skin was like copper and against it his yellow hair shone like gold. The two disciples immediately joined him in his method of living. For days theirs was an idyllic state, and they were contented. But an end came. The sudden change had been too much for the less-rugged constitution of Eukens, who contracted a cold, developed fever, and died quite suddenly. He had been given no remedies, as it was contrary to the faith of the sun worshippers.

His companions buried him in the sand. For days they wandered listlessly about the island, the spell of which had been broken. But at length they realized that such an undertaking could not be expected to succeed without suffering.

They began again, and things went well, although the gloom attending the death of Eukens never left them. Lutzow, the musician, developed the physical strength which characterized Engelhardt. For a year the two men lived comparatively happily, except for one thing, which is the one ray of humor in the whole history.

It was understood that the world of civilization–art, letters, dress, and diet–had been forgotten, but the genius of Lutzow was something which was all Lutzow and nothing of Engelhardt. Lutzow and his music could not be separated. Donizetti was his favorite, although the long hours of the idle day he did not forget passages from Wagner, Verdi, Mascagni, Bach, Liszt, Beethoven, and others. Engelhardt loved music, but he had a particular aversion to Donizetti and a positive horror of Bizet, who was associated in his mind with “Carmen,” who in turn was the bête noir of his faith.

Engelhardt tolerated the music as long as he could; then, unable to associate with a human musical, he quarreled with Lutzow. It was a bitter quarrel, for the student had hurt the musician to the quick. Eventually the two men became so estranged that Lutzow applied one night for permission to sleep away from the island on the Wesleyan mission cutter from Ulu, which was in the lagoon.

That night the cutter dragged her moorings and was carried on the tide through the narrows to the open sea. Cross-currents prevented the craft from pulling back for two days, during which Lutzow still observant of the sun-worshippers’ faith, refused to take shelter, and also refused all nourishment that was not fruit. There was no fresh fruit on board, consequently he starved. He lay upon the deck of the cutter, too, for two days and two nights, exposed to a cold, wet wind. Shorty after the cutter put back into the lagoon the musician developed a high temperature. He grew worse, lingered for a week, then died.

He was buried in the sand by Engelhardt beside the unfortunate Eukens. The Wesleyan missionaries offered to take Engelhardt back to civilization. He flew into a rage, said he owned the island, and forbade them ever to drop anchor in the lagoon of Kahakua again.

So the cutter sailed away to Ulu and Engelhardt was left alone in the Palm Temple. For nearly two years more he continued to live the ‘pure, natural life,’ but the charm had been completely broken by the death of his two disciples.

Then in 1903 came a drought which reduced the fruit crop. The little left of it was wiped out in the Spring of 1904 by a storm. Engelhardt had the alternative of casting in his lot with the natives and eating hogflesh, or sending a request for succor to Ulu or Herbertshohe. He did neither in his stubborness, and starvation and thirst did their work.

One day a canoe paddled into Herbertshohe, driven by two natives who said the white man was sick and possessed of devils; wandering about Kahakua preaching his doctrine to the trees and frightening the natives. Would the German officials please come and take him away?

Engelhardt refused all nourishment to the last, refused all medicine, and accused the missionary of interfering with his convictions. He wrought himself up to a great frenzy, fell upon the deck, and was restrained only with difficulty from flinging himself overboard and swimming back to his island. Before the beach had sunk below the horizon the man was dead. Then the launch put back.

Wrapped in a German flag, August Engelhardt, founder and last survivor of the sun worshippers, was laid to rest beside Lutzow and Eukens on the beach at Kahakua.”•

Engelhardt in 1911, six years after his “death.”

Tags: August Engelhardt, Heinrich Eukens, Max Lutzow

A Brief Note From 1898 About A Lucky Man

March 13, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the June 3, 1898 New York Times:

“Sioux City, Iowa–Loaded with wealth, but deserted and starving, John Rochel, once a well-known manufacturer in Sioux City, perished last April on the trail between Dawson City and Alaskan points. The news of his death reached here in a letter to his widow, written by Richard Hendrickson, from Seattle, under date of March 24.

The details of Rochel’s death are meagre, but from what can be gleaned it appears that he was returning from the mines, after disposing of a valuable claim. His party was short of provisions, and as Rochel, who was quite an old man, delayed the march, it was decided to abandon him. Rochel had been engaged here in the manufacture of brick, but was tempted from home by the stories of immense wealth in Alaska. From all accounts he was among the luckiest of the miners at Dawson City, but was unable to bring his winnings back to civilization. His body will be brought here for burial.”

Old Print Article: “The Snapping Cure,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1896)

March 12, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

“He had big, muscular fingers, and he snapped them with a sound like the crack of a black snake whip.”

Prior to antibiotics and penicillin, lesser methods were used to treat a raft of ailments–including, um, finger snapping. From an article about the fad in the December 19, 1896 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“A friend who was born in Central Illinois asked me the other day whether I have ever heard of the snapping craze that raged in the back country districts in his part of the state some thirty odd years ago. I have inhabited this planet for a little over half a century and have always been interested in popular delusions, but I had never before heard of the snappers. My friend said that a snapping doctor, who came from nobody knew where, started a curious movement by lectures in rural schoolhouses and churches. His theory was that all diseases could be thrown off by bringing the body up to a condition of high nervous tension by a peculiar method of snapping the fingers, which he had discovered and which he alone was competent to teach. He had big, muscular fingers, and he snapped them with a sound like the crack of a black snake whip. He soon got his audiences to work snapping and made them believe that they were experiencing marked benefits from the performance. For complete instruction in the art, however, he charged $50.

The craze had a run of a few months, and while it raged the school children snapped their fingers at recess time, and in the farmhouses men and women gathered evenings to practice the marvelous new healing art.”

A Note From 1899 About A Severe Toothache

March 10, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the August 5, 1899 New York Times:

“Mount Holly, N.J.–Frederick W. Pope, the fourteen-year-old son of Charles A. Pope of Columbus, is paralyzed hopelessly as a result of an application of cocaine by a dentist, and has lost the power of speech. Seven weeks ago the lad suffered from a severe toothache and went to a dentist to have the tooth extracted. It was necessary because of the lad’s nervous condition for the dentist to administer some drug. He used cocaine to relieve the pain.

A short time after the tooth was pulled paralysis set in on the right side of the body. It was thought by the physicians that the attack would pass away and leave the lad unharmed. Yesterday the boy was stricken speechless. Several physicians have examined him, and all agree that the case is a hopeless one. The general opinion is that the cocaine went to the brain.”

Old Print Article: “The Impostor Matthias,” The New York Times (1892)

March 10, 2014 in Books, Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

“He gravely announced himself as the ‘Spirit of Truth,’ being the Matthias mentioned in the Scriptures who had risen from the dead.”

Gilbert Seldes’ magnum opus, The Stammering Century, first published in 1928, is the true story of the stranger-than-fiction twists and turns that religion took in 19th-century America, as it splintered into cults and manias, driven by charismatic mountebanks who passed themselves off as messiahs. (In that sense, it’s much like our age.) One section focuses on New York-based Robert Matthews (a.k.a. Robert Matthias, Jesus Matthias, etc. ), a struggling carpenter who in the 1830s managed to convince a band of wealthy Baptist apostates to make him the head of their crazy, cult-like sect, “The Kingdom.” From “The Impostor Matthias” in the December 25, 1892 New York Times:

“The delusions of the period, thus far harmless, had assumed a progressive character that was destined to develop rapidly to a tragical conclusion. Among the leading spirits of the ‘Holy Club’ was a Mrs. Sarah Pierson, whose husband, Elijah Pierson, was a successful and highly respected merchant. She was a woman of wide culture and engaging manners, and the couple were among the most esteemed members of the Baptist society of that day. They resided on Bowery Hill, an agreeable suburb of New York, sixty years ago, somewhere in the vicinity of the present Madison Square. In this rural locality were situated, on a breezy, shaded eminence, a number of handsome houses, the summer residences of the well-to-do merchants of that period.

In the year 1828 Mr. Pierson came to regard himself as being in constant direct communication with the Almighty, through the agency of the Holy Spirit, and his wife being equally impressed with his divine associations, the operations of the Christian world were too slow for their heated imaginations, and in 1829 they withdrew from their affiliation with the Baptist Church and organized an independent religious society, with a nucleus of twelve members, which they called ‘The Kingdom.’ Meetings were held daily and often twice a day in the Pierson residence on Bowery Hill, brief intervals only being allowed for sleep and light refreshment. The labors and vigils of the new faith, together with the protracted seasons of entire fasting, broke down the health of Mrs. Pierson, and in June, 1830, her husband having, while riding one day down Wall Street in an omnibus, received the Divine command in these words: ‘Thou art Elijah, the Tishbite. Gather unto me all the members of Israel at the foot of Mount Carmel,’ anointed her with oil from head to feet in the presence of the assembled elders of ‘the Kingdom.’ A few days later the unfortunate woman died.

“The delusion that his beloved wife was still to be raised from the dead possessed the unhappy husband’s mind for many months afterward.”

On the day of the funeral, about 200 persons being in attendance, Mr. Pierson endeavored to effect the miracle of her resurrection, attributing his failure to the lack of faith of the bystanders. The scene was harrowing in the extreme, and the delusion that his beloved wife was still to be raised from the dead possessed the unhappy husband’s mind for many months afterward. In 1831 Mr. Pierson removed to a spacious house in Third Street, where he held forth daily to the elect of ‘The Kingdom,’ which now numbered quite a large congregation of converts, some, indeed, being attracted from points outside the city. Among the latter were a Mr. Benjamin Folger and his wife, persons of wealth and standing, who had recently removed their residence from New-York to a handsome country place, near Sing Sing, or Mount Pleasant, as the place was then designated. Another conspicuous member of the strange association was a Mr. Sylvester H. Mills, a well-to-do Pearl Street merchant–a man whose naturally gloomy temperament had been intensified by the death of a beloved wife, a few months previous to the decease of Mrs. Pierson. These people, with many others of all social grades, gathered about Mr. Pierson, to listen to his denunciations of the churches, and his exhortations to place their faith in the Lord in order that, like the Apostles, they might be enabled to ‘heal the sick, cast out the devils, and raise the dead.’

While those extravagances were in progress and the inflamed imaginations of the fanatical leaders were worked up to a high pitch of expectancy, there appeared among them on May 5, 1832, a stranger, whose pretensions, while according with the tenor of their diseased minds, were so far in advance of their own most enthusiastic flights that he was at once accepted as their leader, and worshipped as a divine being. He gravely announced himself as the ‘Spirit of Truth,’ being the Matthias mentioned in the Scriptures who had risen from the dead and possessed the spirit of Jesus Christ. He further declared that he was God the Father, and claimed power to do all things, to forgive sins, and to communicate the Holy Ghost to such as believed in him.

A short account of the previous history of this singular character is necessary at this point, in order to explain how he came to fasten himself thus on ‘The Kingdom,’ with his monstrous claims of divine powers. His name was Robert Matthews, and he was born in Washington County, New York, about the year 1790. He followed the trade of carpentering, and in 1827 he lived in Albany, where he was known as a zealous member of the Dutch Reformed congregation, over which Dr. Ludlow presided. Happening to attend a service conducted by a young clergyman named Kirk, who was visiting Albany from New-York City, he returned home in a state of great excitement, and sat up all that night discussing the sermon he had heard. His enthusiasm was so great that his wife remarked during the night to her daughter: ‘If your father goes to hear that man preach any more he will become crazy.’ He did go to hear him a number of times, and the reader may gather from the sequel of this story whether the wife’s prediction was fulfilled.”

A Brief Note From 1856 About A Double Talker

March 9, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the April 16, 1856 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“The Napoleon, Arkansas, Sentinel, of March 24, says:

‘We were shown by Dr. Legrader, a few days since, a most singular and remarkable head–that of Fouchee, a celebrated chief of the Creeks. The singularity of the head consists in two perfect mouths–a front and rear mouth, with a double set of masticators to each. It is a remarkable fact that it made no difference in his eating or feeding operations which mouth he used, as either answered the same purpose, but whenever he imbibed from the rear mouth, drunkenness ensued much sooner than if he had taken it by the front. Such a head is worthy of the study of anatomy of the medical faculty.’”

A Brief Note From 1895 About Horse Power

March 6, 2014 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

From the February 9, 1913 New York Times:

“In 1895, when electric pleasure cars were new, a certain manufacturer noted with alarm that these strange vehicles running around through the streets frightened horses, then unused to such a spectacle. So this enterprising man, with a touch of imagination, constructed a model on the dashboard of which were attached the head and shoulders of a horse. This he believed would reassure his equine brothers.”

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