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Old Print Article: “Professional Bee Trackers,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1900)

February 12, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

Bee Tracker is not a career path I was aware of until reading an article in the September 15, 1900 Brooklyn Daily Eagle, which was originally published in the New Orleans Times-Democrat. An excerpt:

“‘Talk about your queer trades,’ said a man from Texas, ‘what do you think of bee tracking as a means of making a living? I know several professional bee trackers who have never done anything else in their lives, and their skill is something almost incredible. What is the work like, do you ask? Well, I’ll explain. Down in Bee County, in my state, where some of the greatest apiaries in the world are located, all honey is graded and marked according to the bloom from which it was obtained. For example, you may have your choice of cotton blossoms, wild clover, horse mint and several other brands, each distinct in flavor. This seems mysterious to a stranger, because the bees range wild over miles of countryside; but it was discovered long ago that the colony from each hive or cluster of hives always draws its sweets from some one particular flower and religiously shuns the others. At the beginning of the honey making season the proprietor of a bee farm wants to know, of course, how much of each flavor he is going to have, as a basis for calculations; so he sets a tracker to work. The tracker, who is always a native Mexican, mounts his tough little bronco, rides over to a row of hives, waits until a big, healthy looking bee emerges, and, when it flies away on its daily quest, he gallops along in its wake. Often the feeding ground is miles distant, and the bee takes anything but a bee line. On the contrary, it makes long detours, frisks and frolics through gardens, loafs in shady groves and has a good time generally; but it is the rarest thing in the world for it to shake off its ‘shadow.’ How the Mexican manages to keep it in sight and distinguish it from other bees it meets en route I have never been able to understand. The business seems actually to develop a special faculty. When the bee finally reaches its destination the tracker makes a mental note of the variety of flower and then returns home. Next day he verifies his observations by following another honey gatherer, and then labels the hive and proceeds to the next one. When his task is done the apiary man knows exactly what he can depend on in the several flavors. The trackers are well paid–enough to let them loaf between seasons.”

Old Print Article: “Merciful With Madmen–Lunatics Are No Longer Treated Like Wild Beasts,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1893)

February 7, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

"The poor wretches in the cells were chained by the neck to the bars of the grated windows."

A lot of people in the world are still treated horribly, but it was even worse in the past. An excerpt from a report about progress from the February 5, 1893 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“Men who have the honor and pleasure of attending a dancing party at the Flatbush lunatic asylum, where the agreeable company assembles for music, singing, dancing and social converse, can hardly conceive of the lunatic asylum of one hundred years ago. Bad as was the prison, the asylum was far worse. It was more hopeless, as the inmates were more helpless. In the middle ages the lunatics were supposed to be possessed of devils and all sorts of tortures were applied to them to oust the fiendish tenants of their bodies. As this belief in the supernatural cause of insanity gave way the maniac came to be regarded in the light of a savage wild beast. Before the establishment of asylums the insane were kept in cages in the market town. Their delusions were the subject of much amusement to the market folks and all kinds of plans were tried to cure them. One physician of Elizabeth’s day gravely recommended rotating cages, like those in which squirrels are confined, the idea being to shake the lunatic up so thoroughly as to stir his brains up, just as a clock is sometimes shaken to set it going.

When asylums were established at first they were merely huge cages, where those who were looked upon as human wild beasts were confined. Society’s idea then was confinement, just that and nothing more. The consequence was brutality and degradation so appalling that when the result of the parliamentary investigation was known in England in 1815 people deemed it hardly credible.

"I never saw nature subdued to such lowliness."

In Dr. Madden’s ‘Travels in Europe,’ is the following upon the subjects of asylums in Cairo, Egypt, as it was in 1840: ‘I was led from one passage to another, door after door was unbarred, the keeper armed himself with a kourbash, a whip with a thong of hippopotamus hide, and we at length got into the open court, round which the dungeons of the lunatics were situated. Some who were not violent were walking unfettered, but the poor wretches in the cells were chained by the neck to the bars of the grated windows. The keeper went round as he would in a menagerie of wild beasts, rattling the chain at the window to rouse the inmates and dragging them by it when they were tardy in approaching. One madman, who spat at me as I passed his cell, I saw the keeper pull by his chain and knock his head against the bars till blood issued from his nose. I forced him to desist. Each of them, as we passed, called out for food. I inquired about their allowance and to my horror I heard that there was none except what charitable people were pleased to afford them from day to day. It was now noon and they had no food from the preceding morning.

‘Two well dressed Turkish women brought in, while I was there, a large water melon and two cakes of bread. This was broken into pieces and thrown to the famished creatures. I never saw nature subdued to such lowliness. They devoured what they got like hungry tigers, some of them thrusting their tongues through the bars, others screaming for more bread. I sent for a few piastres’ worth of bread, dates and some milk. Its arrival was hailed with a yell of ecstasy that pierced the very soul. I thought they would have torn down the iron bars to get at the provisions, and in spite of the kourbash, their eagerness to get their portions rendered it a difficult matter to get our hands out of their clutches. It was humiliation to humanity to see these poor wretches tearing their food with their filthy fingers. Some of their nails were so long as to resemble the talons of a hawk.'”

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Old Print Article: “A Maniac In A Street Car,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1890)

February 5, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"The crazy tramp gave his name as Billie Patterson, a circus roustabout, but refused to assign any reason for his murderous assault on the passengers of the car."

The shared good of public transportation reduces costs and pollution and allows for social exchanges among a variety of people, but it also increases certain risks. What if a crazed roustabout with a butcher’s knife is your traveling companion? A report about just such a crazy street car trip from the April 17, 1890 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“Chicago–A maniac made a desperate assault with a butcher’s knife on the passengers of a State Street car, near Sixteenth Street, about 1 o’clock this morning. Four men were badly cut, but no one was fatally wounded. The injured are Archie Patno, a saloon keeper, who received a cut six inches long extending from beneath his right ear around under his chin, and an ugly stab in the arm; Henry Patno, whose cheek was laid open to the bone and his upper lip cut off; Thomas Brennan, who was cut across the top of the head, and Ben Sweeney, who received a slight cut on the left forearm.

After a desperate struggle the madman was captured and the knife taken from him. At the station the crazy tramp gave his name as Billie Patterson, a circus roustabout, but refused to assign any reason for his murderous assault on the passengers of the car.

The street car had just crossed Sixteenth Street going north when Patterson jumped on the rear platform. With a howl like a Zulu warrior he drew a large butcher knife and made a lunge at the conductor, who saved himself by jumping from the car. Then the madman dashed into the car, in which were seated fifteen or twenty passengers. With one sweep he laid bare the cheek of Mr. Patno. In an instant every man was on his feet and there was a wild rush for the front door. In their haste to get the door open it was sprung and would only open about a foot. Through this narrow aperture three or four escaped. Meanwhile the maniac was wielding the knife with terrible effect. At length the conductor got his carhook and with a heavy blow on the fellow’s arm sent the knife spinning through a window. Patterson was then seized and the patrol wagon was called. Patterson looked as though he had been on a protracted spree, and it is believed he was suffering from delerium tremens at the time. When locked up at the station house he tore about and howled like a wild beast.”

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A Note From 1885 About A Headless Chicken

February 3, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"The chicken is now doing well."

Some good news for a change, courtesy of “Living Without a Head,” a brief piece from the January 11, 1885 Brooklyn Daily Eagle, which originally appeared in the Wilson Echo of Kansas:

“A Barton County man has a living chicken without a head. Attempting to cut off a chicken’s head, the axe passed through the head of the chicken immediately in front of the ears, thus leaving a small portion of the brain attached to the neck. The chicken did not take this as an execution of his death warrant and got up and stood on his feet, to the astonishment of this would be executioner, who then contrived a plan to feed him by dropping food and drink into the thorax, which has so far proved a success. The chicken is now doing well.”

Old Print Article: “Speech Of Monkeys,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1893)

February 1, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"He claimed also to be perfectly familiar with the languages of cats and dogs and to speak the languages of apes."

A real-life Doctor Dolittle, Frenchman Jules Richard talked to animals–and despised priests. An article about him from the July 21, 1893 Brooklyn Daily Eagle, which was originally published in Popular Science Monthly:

“In 1857 Jules Richard had occasion to visit a sick friend in a hospital, where he made the acquaintance of an old official of the institution from the south of France, who was exceedingly fond of animals, his love of them being equaled only by his hatred of priests; he claimed also to be perfectly familiar with the languages of cats and dogs and to speak the languages of apes even better than the apes themselves. Jules Richard received the statement with an incredulous smile, whereupon the old man, whose pride was evidently touched by such skepticism, invited him to come the next morning to the zoological garden.

"He was exceedingly fond of animals, his love of them being equaled only by his hatred of priests."

‘I met him at the appointed time and place,’ says Mr. Richard, ‘and we went together to the monkeys’ cage, where he leaned on the outer railing and began to utter a succession of guttural sounds, which alphabetical signs are scarcely adequate to represent–kirruu, kirrikie, kuruki, kirikiu–repeated with slight variations and differences of accentuation. In a few minutes the whole company of monkeys, a dozen in number, assembled and sat in rows before him with their hands crossed in their laps or resting on their knees, laughing gesticulating and answering.’

The conversation continued for a full quarter of an hour to the intense delight of the monkeys, who took a lively part in it. As their interlocutor was about to go away they all became intensely excited, climbing up on the balustrade and uttering cries of lamentation. When he finally departed and disappeared more and more from their view they ran up to the top of the cage and, clinging to the frieze, made motions as if they were bidding him goodbye. It seemed, adds Mr. Richard, as though they wished to say. ‘We are sorry to part and hope to meet again, and if you can;t come do drop us a line!'”

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Old Print Article: “Size And Brains,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1901)

January 30, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Science/Tech, Urban Studies | Permalink

"There is absolutely no relation between intelligence and stature."

While it’s true that taller people aren’t necessarily smarter than shorter people, that would seem to be the only correct scientific fact presented by Dr. Charles E. Woodruff in this January 6, 1901 article from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. An excerpt:

“From investigations among soldiers and from the literature on the subject, there is no doubt in my own mind that if a man’s development is so unstable that he has physical stigmata, he is invariably of bad physical development also. As far as I know, there are few, if any, cases of abnormal minds in average bodies devoid of stigmata. It is a fair inference, then, that if a man’s body is nearly an average in all respects–height, weight, proportions, etc.–there must also be an average brain, and, therefore, a normal mind–excluding. of course, normal men who have acquired insanity. Beyond this we dare not go, for there is absolutely no relation between intelligence and stature. Men of genius may be big, like Bismarck, or little, like Napoleon or Da Costa, and the same may be said of the feeble-minded as well as those of average intelligence. George Washington’s physical measurements are said to have been identical with those of Jeffries, the giant pugilist. Other illustrations might be given indefinitely.

It is true that the human brain weight depends upon the body weight, for the muscles require many brain cells. In like manner the sparrow needs but a few grains of brain, while the whale and the elephant must have more than man. Yet the indescribable and immeasurable variable called intelligence depends upon other things in addition to weight of brain, and the increased stature consists of tissue which may not and probably does not, have any bearing on intelligence.

A big physique, with immense reserve power and endurance, is a decided element in forcing men to the front in the struggle of life. This is in accordance with recent investigations among Chicago school children, which are said to show that the best scholars in any class are apparently bigger than the rest. Hence, other things being equal, the big men, having an advantage, should have a larger percentage of their number successful than the little men. Yet, statistics show the very opposite, for Lambroso mentions (“Man of Genius,” page 6) but twenty-six great men of tall stature, while he names fifty-nine who are short, some of them being even dwarfish or less than five feet in height. As the anomalies of height are equally distributed to each side of the mean, there must be some tremendously active cause to make the little men more than twice as brilliant as the big. The two classes, being equally removed from the average, should be equally abnormal mentally.”

A Brief Note From 1901 About The Humble Beginnings Of Department Stores In The U.S.

January 29, 2012 in Excerpts, Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"One of the greatest department stores in the West was the creation of a man who used to exhibit an educated pig in a travelling circus."

From a 1901 edition of Ainslee’s Magazine:

“The department store is an evolution of the dry goods store, which exists no longer as an ambitious retail business. One of the greatest department stores in the West was the creation of a man who used to exhibit an educated pig in a travelling circus. When his estate was probated it was appraised at $15,000,000. This man opened a small dry goods store in Chicago and annexed one business after another in his neighborhood until he owned what some declare was the first department store in America. However that may be, the idea is older in England and France.”

Old Print Article: “How Victor Hugo Was Cured Of Crying,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1897)

January 25, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"Make her a pretty frock at once."

Generals in Napoleon’s army apparently didn’t want their sons crying, as little Victor Hugo learned, much to his chagrin. From an article in the August 1, 1897 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“The great French writer, Victor Hugo, tells this story about his own childhood–his father it is remembered, was one of Napoleon’s generals.

‘When I was five or six years old, I was crying. My father, who heard me, did not reprove me, but this is the way he punished me:

‘Why, the poor, dear little girl,’ he said, in a cool, ironical manner. ‘What’s the matter with her? What’s making her cry? She shan’t be found fault with. It’s right for little girls to cry. But how’s this? What have you been dressing her in boys’ clothes for? Make her a pretty frock at once, and to-morrow she shall go and take a walk in the garden of Tulleries.

‘Sure enough, the nurse put the girl’s dress on me the next day, according to order, and took me to walk at the Tulleries. I was well mortified, as you may perhaps imagine. But I never again cried from that day until I had become a man grown.'”

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Old Print Article: “Thaw Cuts Throat But Will Recover,” New York Times (1917)

January 22, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"He slashed his left wrist and throat with a razor this morning in a room where he was hiding in a little two-story brick boarding house."

Last week, I posted old print articles about Harry K. Thaw and Evelyn Nesbit, in the years after the murder of the third member of their twisted love triangle, architect Stanford White. In the story about Thaw, he was sought for horsewhipping a very unwilling participant in his sadomasochistic fantasies. Thaw was eventually returned to a mental asylum where he would remain until 1922–after a failed attempt at paying off his victim’s family. But first he had to be apprehended. The story of Thaw’s arrest courtesy of a couple of passages from a story in the January 12, 1917 New York Times:

“Philadelphia–Harry K. Thaw, slayer of Stanford White, added attempted suicide to his escapades today. Hunted down by detectives with a New York warrant that charged him with whipping Fred Gump Jr., the nineteen-year-old schoolboy, and depressed by the effects of heavy drinking, he slashed his left wrist and throat with a razor this morning in a room where he was hiding in a little two-story brick boarding house run by Mrs. Elizabeth Tacot at 5,200 Walnut Street, West Philadelphia.

Thaw’s wounds, while severe enough to make it probable that he actually attempted to end his life and was not simply courting sympathy because of the new ordeal he faced, will not cause death unless unexpected complications arise. He was taken to St. Mary’s Hospital in the Kensington section, seven miles from the house. There several bichloride of mercury tablets were found in one of his pockets, but there was nothing in his condition shortly before midnight to indicate that he had swallowed any of them. He was very weak from loss of blood and he was unable to make a statement. He is under arrest in the hospital, not on a charge of attempted suicide, but on the New York whipping charges. 

Landlady Discovers Thaw’s Plight

Mrs. Tacot, who said she knew Thaw only as ‘Mr. West,’ and did not realize his identity, was the first to learn what Thaw had done. At about 10:15 o’clock this morning she knocked on the door of the parlor which she had fitted up as Thaw’s bedroom and got no response. She pushed open the door a few inches and saw Thaw fully dressed, lying on the bed. He had pulled his overcoat up above his throat. He was moaning and blood was running from his left hand, which was extended over the side of the bed. The landlady phoned to the local branch of the O’Farrell Detective Agency to Maloney, a former policeman, Harbor Master and Republican boss of the Fifth Ward, who is in charge of the branch. Dr. E.A. Bateman, who lives near the house, was notified, and he summoned in turn Dr. A.F. Shiezle.

"Several bichloride of mercury tablets were found in one of his pockets."

While this was going on at the Tacot house Maloney was telling Chief Tate that he was prepared to surrender Thaw. The chief sent Lieutenant Theodore Wood and two detectives to the house in a taxicab, with instructions to call Dr. John Wanamaker 3d, the police surgeon. Magistrate George A. Persch also went into the house. Thaw seemed to be in a daze.

‘Have you anything you want to say?’ the Magistrate asked him. ‘Do you know that you may die? Will you make a statement of any kind?’ Thaw’s body shook but he made no response.

At the hospital Thaw was placed in comfortable quarters. He was arrested on the charges made in New York and not for the attempt upon his own life. As soon as his condition permits, the police plan to return him to New York.”

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Old Print Articles: Harry K. Thaw And Evelyn Nesbit, After Stanford White’s Murder, New York Times (1917, 1926)

January 18, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

Everyone is familiar with the crime. On a June day in 1906, Harry K. Thaw fired three bullets at close range at architect Stanford White, on the roof of Madison Square Garden, wounding him fatally atop a building the victim had designed. The gunfire was apparently provoked by jealousy Thaw felt over his wife, the comely chorus girl, Evelyn Nesbit, who had previously been White’s mistress. After a couple of trials, Thaw spent some time in a mental asylum, but not long after a failed escape to Canada, he was declared sane and set free. But neither Thaw nor Nesbit were ever free of themselves, liberated from their destructive impulses. Excerpts from two New York Times articles about their lives after the most shocking murder.

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"The terrified lad saw Thaw, armed with a short, stocky whip rushing for him."

“Whipping of Boy Starts Hunt for Harry K. Thaw” (January 10, 1917): “The police of every city last night sought Harry Thaw. Accused in the Stanford White trial of having used a silver-capped dog whip on girls, Thaw was indicted here yesterday charged with having whipped a nineteen-year-old boy.

In a room high up in the Hotel McAlpin Thaw on Christmas Eve is alleged to have lashed Frederick Gump, Jr., a Kansas City schoolboy, almost to unconsciousness, after having enticed the lad to this city on pretenses of educating him.

‘Thaw’s acquaintance with young Gump goes back to December, 1915,’ said Mr. Walsh at the Holland House yesterday. ‘The elder Mr. Gump is one of the leading citizens of Kansas City, and I have known his only child, Fred, since infancy. The boy’s father became ill about two years ago, and when Fred was graduated from the Kansas City High School the family moved to Long Beach, Cal. Fred enrolled in the Berkeley Polytechnic Institute, but spent the week-ends with his parents in Long Beach, and it was on one of these occasions that Thaw met the lad in an ice cream pavillion.

‘Fred, a fine-looking chap, appeared to interest Thaw, who told the boy he would like to have him go back to Pittsburgh with him, where a fine job could be had. Gump declined the offer and they parted. This was early in December, and the next Gump heard of Thaw was when a postal came wishing the young student a merry Christmas. Letter after letter came to Mrs. Gump addressed to her son, and in nearly all of them Thaw repeated his offer. Finally on December 20 last he wrote, offering Gump $50 a month and expenses either to take a job in his plant or to enroll for a course in the Carnegie Institute. Thaw inclosed a certified check for $50, and urged Gump to accept the offer.

After thinking the matter over, Mr. Gump advised his son to take the chance at the Carnegie School and Thaw was advised of the decision. In a wire, he directed Gump to come to New York and put up at the McAlpin, where further instructions would be wired to him.

‘At the hotel Thaw had reserved a big suite on the eighteenth floor and had even rented two adjoining rooms which, I think, he did to prevent strangers from hearing the cries which later came from his apartments. It was Gump’s first trip away from home. The splendor of his bedroom rather bewildered him, and it was some time before he retired.

‘Soon Gump heard his door opened cautiously. Almost immediately the lights were switched on and the terrified lad saw Thaw, armed with a short, stocky whip rushing for him.

‘The boy leaped to his feet, and dodging Thaw, tried to get out of the door, and even to jump out of a window. All were locked. From that time until Gump was almost insensible his captor drove the young lad around the room, raising great welts upon the boys’s unprotected back. When he had beaten the lad so that his back and legs were covered with blood, Thaw quit the room as suddenly as he had entered it. Young Gump lay on the floor all night, and in the morning Thaw again came in, this time accompanied by his body guard. Thaw instructed the guard to keep the boy a prisoner, and then left.'”

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"An examination of her throat revealed that there is hope of saving her voice."

“Thaw to Visit Chicago Reconciliation Rumor” (Jan 8, 1926): “Chicago–Harry K. Thaw, whose former wife, Evelyn Nesbit Thaw, attempted to kill herself Tuesday morning during a fit of despondency, will arrive in Chicago early next week to confer with his attorney, Charles S. Wharton, it was learned today.

The appearance of her former husband at this time, coupled with the interest he has shown in her behalf over a long period of years and which was climaxed by a personal inquiry sent to the hospital the other day, has caused rumors that a reconciliation might be effected between the two.

Thaw has been paying $10 every day to her through a Pittsburgh attorney for a number of years. He did this, it was said, as a ‘token of pleasant memories of the past when we were happy.’

It is also known that William C. Dannenberg, private detective, with headquarters in Chicago, has been receiving large fees annually from Thaw for ‘keeping tabs’ on Evelyn during her frequent stays in Chicago. It was through Dannenberg that Thaw made inquiry as to her condition a few hours after Evelyn was taken to the hospital.

Thaw telephoned to Dannenberg on Thursday, asking him to go to the hospital and deliver a message to Evelyn only in the event she were dying. The detective denied this later by saying he had been sent over to get a personal report on her condition, but had no message to deliver.

At the hospital it was announced that Miss Nesbit had rallied from the sinking spell which made her physician apprehensive during the crisis of her illness, and she was pronounced out of danger. An examination of her throat revealed that there is hope of saving her voice. The burns from the disinfectant she swallowed were at first believed to have damaged her throat so seriously she might never sing again.”

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Old Print Article: “Richard A. Proctor Dead,” New York Times (1888)

January 16, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"The malady as diagnosed followed the typical course of languor and malaise, rapid prostration, remission, recurrence, collapse and insensibility, convulsion, black vomit, and death."

The 19th-century British astronomer Richard A. Proctor produced one of the first maps of Mars, but he was cut down in America at age 51 by the scourge of yellow fever. An excerpt from a report of his final hours in the September 13, 1888 New York Times:

“Prof. Richard A. Proctor, astronomer, lecturer, and author, died last night at the Willard Parker Hospital, Sixteenth-street and the East River, where he was quarantined as a yellow fever patient from Florida. He was prostrated in Room 88 at the Westminster Hotel Tuesday morning, and the malady as diagnosed followed the typical course of languor and malaise, rapid prostration, remission, recurrence, collapse and insensibility, convulsion, black vomit, and death. Prof. Proctor was at the time of the the attack suffering from cardiac uraemic troubles, and for some time it was suspected that a violent pilous attack aggravated and accelerated these affections, but the diagnoses of experts were apparently confirmed in his last moments, when the characteristic ejecta were noticed.

Proctor's map of Mars.

The Professor has a country seat and observatory at Oak Lawn, Marion County, Fla. He left there on Saturday, intending to sail for Europe on the 15th, and he was one of the first guests to register at the Hotel Westminster on Monday morning. He came here by rail and his family remained at Oak Lawn. He appeared fatigued and languid after he had taken a bath, but he was alert and bustling during the afternoon and evening. Tuesday morning he told a bell boy that he was ailing and asked for lemonade and a word with Boniface W.G. Schenck. Mr. Schenck admits that when he learned the Professor was not well he decided on ascertaining exactly what was the matter with him, because he came from Florida, so when he hailed him in the corridor outside his room in his customary hearty fashion he scanned him closely. The Professor, who looked like a very sick man, repeated his request for lemonade.

‘Better put a ‘stick’ in it, Professor,’ suggested Mr. Schenck, and the result was that the invalid drank a goblet of whisky  and lemonade.

Then Mr. Schenck had a chat with his guest, and it prompted him to suggest that a physician be sent for. Prof. Proctor did not appear to consider that his condition warranted it, but he permitted Mr. Schenck to summon Dr. George S. Conant, who was once a diagnostician in the division of contagious diseases. After seeing his patient Dr. Conant visited Mr. Schenck and told him that the Professor was going to be a very sick man. He could not, he said, say what he believed was the matter with him, but his diagnosis warranted him in suggesting that an officer of the Board Of Health he called in consultation, and Dr. Cyrus Edson, Chief Inspector of Contagious Diseases, was summoned. He made up his mind in a few minutes, and told Mr. Schenck that it was extremely probable that the Professor would be dead in 10 or 12 hours of yellow fever, and suggested that his family be notified.”

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Old Print Article: “Ants For Eating–They Are As Good As Pickles,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1889)

January 12, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"Ants are said by those who have tasted them to have a peculiarly agreeable, strongly acid flavor." (Image bt Muhammad Mahdi Karim.)

Dietary habits vary based on geography and according to an article in the February 11, 1889 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, which ran originally in the Pittsburgh Dispatch, Maine lumberjacks were partial to buckets of ants. The story in full:

“Should a Maine lumberman find a stump or rotten log with thousands of big black ants in it he scoops the torpid insects from their Winter domicile and fills his dinner pail with them. When he gets back to his camp at night he sets the pail in a cool place until his supper is ready, then brings it forth, and, while helping himself to pork and beans, helps himself also to ants. There is no accounting for tastes, and he esteems a handful of ants a very choice morsel.

Ants are said by those who have tasted them to have a peculiarly agreeable, strongly acid flavor. The woodsmen, whose food consists largely of salted meat, baked beans and similarly hardy victuals, naturally have a craving for something sour. ‘Ants are the very best of pickles,’ said an old logger, who confessed to having devoured thousands of them. ‘They are clearly insects, and there is no reason why they should not be eaten, if one can get over a little squeamishness caused by the thought of taking such crawling things into the stomach. There is nothing repulsive about them, and when a man has once learned to eat the creatures as pickles he prefers them to any kind.’

Ants have at various times and in different countries been quite extensively used in medicine, and formic acid, which was first obtained by distilling the bodies of those insects but is now artificially prepared, is a well known and useful chemical product.

"Herodotus tells of ants that live in the desert of India, which are in size 'somewhat less than dogs, but larger than foxes.'"

Herodotus tells of ants that live in the desert of India, which are in size ‘somewhat less than dogs, but larger than foxes.’ These creatures, in heaping up the earth after the manner of common ants, were a very efficient aid to the Indian gold hunters. The sand they throw up being largely mixed with gold, the Indians were accustomed to go to the desert in the heat of the day, when the ants were under ground, load the sand into sacks, pile their sacks upon their camels and hasten from the spot as rapidly as possible. The ants, according to the historian, were not only the swiftest of animals, but were gifted with such a sense of smell that they immediately became aware of the presence of men in their territory, and unless the Indians got away while the ants were assembling to attack them not a man could escape.”

Old Print Article: “Millionaire Kills Himself,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1897)

January 9, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"He was discovered by a servant and medical aid was summoned, but he died two hours later." (Image by Edouard Manet.)

Marriage doesn’t agree with everyone. Such was the case with plutocrat Nicholas C. Creede who preferred a massive dose of morphine to matrimony, as evidenced by an article from the August 17, 1897 issue of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. An excerpt:

“Los Angeles, Cal.–Nicholas C. Creede, millionaire mine owner, after which the town of Creede, Col., is named, committed suicide with morphine last evening at his home in this city, because his wife, from whom he had separated, insisted upon renewing their married relations.

On January 4 last, Creede and his wife separated and agreed to dissolve at once, so far as possible without legal process, their marital bonds. Mrs. Creede accepted $20,000 cash and surrendered all further claims upon her husband, at the time voluntarily withdrawing from his premises. It was understood, after the necessary time had elapsed, that Creede would institute legal proceedings and begin suit for absolute divorce. At that time it appeared that both husband and wife were well satisfied, and while Mrs. Creede considered that the amount of cash settled upon her was insignificant as compared with her husband’s wealth, she left him and took up her home in Alabama.

About three weeks ago Mrs. Creede returned to Los Angeles and proposed to her husband a reconciliation. This was much to Creede’s distaste and he endeavored to avoid his wife, but being unsuccessful, he determined to end his life. Last evening he took a large dose of morphine and went into the garden to die. He was discovered by a servant and medical aid was summoned, but he died two hours later. Mrs. Creede was notified of her husband’s death, but declined to discuss the tragedy. The 2-year-old child of Edith Walters Walker, the actress, adopted by Creede over a years ago, is in the care of his friends at Escondido.”

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Old Print Article: “One Thousand Prostitutes,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1869)

January 5, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

“If the wives relapse into their former mode of life, they are at once placed under the survey of the police.”

French society ladies arranging marriages between female prostitutes and male convicts–what could possibly go wrong? A brief article about these special nuptials from the February 5, 1869 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“One thousand prostitutes are at a St. Lazaire prison, near Paris. A novel plan for making good members of society is being tried lately with considerable success. A benevolent society of French ladies, with considerable means at its disposal, ascertains the dates at which unmarried male prisoners at Mans will be discharged; they ask them if they will be willing to marry one of the St. Lazaire prisons whose term expires at the same time, if a dower of 300 francs were given to the latter. This sum is amply sufficient for a young couple to commence housekeeping in France, and many prisoners are only too glad to avail themselves of the offer. If the wives relapse into their former mode of life, they are at once placed under the survey of the police, and may be imprisoned at any moment. The plan is said to work remarkably well. No complaints whatever have been made about the conduct of the thirty-five couples whose unions were brought about in this manner.”

Old Print Article: “Japanese Shampooing–The Amma An Ugly But Efficient Woman,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1887)

January 2, 2012 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"Only once have I yielded to their invitations to allow my body to be treated like a piece of dough."

One of the sensitive reporters at the Brooklyn Daily Eagle filed a piece in the December 25, 1887 edition about being rubbed down by a Japanese “shampooer” or “amma,” who was apparently not easy on the eyes. An excerpt:

“As I am sitting in my room there comes to my ears the sound of a shrill pipe, sounding not unlike a fife. The traveler in Japan, go where he may, almost invariably hears this sound at night, and will be told in answer to his inquiries that the performance is a professional shampooer or amma. Many of those people are blind, and at night pass up and down the streets, feeling their way with long sticks, which they hold in one hand, while with the other hand they play upon the bamboo pipe, which seems to notify the world of their presence.

The amma is not a shampooer in the American sense of the term. He does not confine the operations to the head and hair. He practices what is known by the French as the massage. His art consists of kneading all the muscles of the body and bringing them into play, and he is regarded as a useful functionary, second in person only to the physician as a healer of physical disorders. The art is not practiced only by men, but also by women, and at almost every inn where I have stopped among the first persons to proffer their services have been the ammas. Only once have I yielded to their invitations to allow my body to be treated like a piece of dough, and that was at Subasbirt, immediately after my descent from Fuji. Tired and aching from deep exertion of climbing the mountain, the suggestion of Dr. Knipping that it might be well to allow an amma to shampoo us was acceded to, more from curiosity as to the possible results than from any faith in the efficiency of the treatment.

"The first act in the drama deals with the abdominal cavity."

The particular amma who came to our room and shampooed us was an ungainly and awfully ugly woman of middle age, whose blackened teeth when she smiled look like a row of watermelon seeds set in her face. During the process I had an opportunity to question her fully as to the business, and learned from her quite a number of interesting facts. She informed us that before commencing the practice of her art she had been obliged to serve an apprenticeship of three years, during which time she read a large number of Japanese books about treating the human body, and especially the muscles, and had become learned in anatomy and physiology. She had practiced the massage for ten years already, and had by means of it gained her livelihood. She stated that she was able in one evening, from 6 to 10, to treat four persons, who paid her a fee of 15 sen apiece. Her daily earnings, however, were not more than 30 sen on an average, or about 24 cents of American currency.

In the operation of shampooing, as practiced by the amma, the patient lies upon a futon or rug, while the amma kneels beside him. The first act in the drama deals with the abdominal cavity. Placing one hand on either side of abdomen, above the hips, the amma compresses the body laterally a number of times , then drawing up the loose folds of flesh, he kneads and pinches them, at the same time making passes which correspond in their direction with that of the colon. This portion of the treatment ended, each leg is attacked and vigorously rubbed and kneaded, the process terminating by a smart bastinado administered to the soles of the feet.

In rubbing and kneading the muscles use is made of a round ball of box wood, though the amma to whose treatment I submitted, employed only her fingers and knuckles. The arms and chest are treated as the legs, and then the patient is turned over face downward, and the shoulders and back are punched until the breath almost forsakes the body. The entire performance ends with a vigorous rubbing of the neck, which, in my case, seemed to threaten the dislocation of the cervical vertebrae. The amount of strength in the fingers and wrists displayed by the amma is quite remarkable. Our amma shampooed four persons in succession the evening we engaged her, consuming four hours in the task, during which she was working with all her might almost constantly, only stopping to wipe off the perspiration, which flowed from her face.

The result of the experiment, so far as I was personally concerned, was, I think, such as to warrant a repetition of the treatment under like circumstances. I awoke on the morrow feeling far less tired and sore than I had reason to believe my mountain climbing would have left me.”

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Old Print Article: “Kentucky Mind Reader,” New York Times (1891)

December 29, 2011 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"He has shown his power of mind reading in a manner that would do credit to a Bishop or other person of like fame."

I have no idea what became of Flavius Taylor, but for a period of time in the late 19th century the lad from Kentucky received wide notice for his supposed mind-reading powers. An article from an August 1891 edition of the New York Times, which originally ran in the Louisville Courier-Journal:

“The wonderful feats of Flavius Taylor, the boy mind reader of Glasgow, Ky., continues to astonish all those who see him. Though only nineteen years of age, he has shown his power of mind reading in a manner that would do credit to a Bishop or other person of like fame.

The young man is very modest about his power. It is not often that he will consent to give a performance, even in private. When he does he has never been known to fail, even in the most severe tests. It makes him very nervous, and sometimes after a performance his muscles are in tremor the whole of the next day. Recently he attended a reception near Glasgow, and a Courier-Journal reporter who was present had an opportunity of witnessing some of his wonderful feats.

"As he always does, he took hold of the intermediary's hand." (Image by Keith Schengili-Roberts.)

Mr. Taylor was in another room when it was decided to ask him to give an exhibition of his power. Three coins–a dollar, a quarter, and a nickel–were first secreted by as many young ladies. The room was crowded, and a fourth person, who was a disbeliever in mind reading, went to the room where Mr. Taylor was engaged in conversation. He consented to the test, and then, as he always does, he took hold of the intermediary’s hand. The mind reader led the way in a rapid walk, and without hesitation went directly to the first young lady and asked her to please hand him the nickel from under the edge of her waist. Though the room was crowded, he had not the least trouble in finding the second girl and taking the quarter from her handkerchief, which lay under the fold of her dress. The third young woman was sitting in an opposite corner busily engaged in conversation, but he walked straight to her and took the dollar from her hand.

Perhaps the most remarkable part of this particular test then followed. When the money was his it was also the desire of the one making the trial that young Taylor should give the dollar to a certain person in the room, the quarter to a certain other, and the nickel to a particular third person. He did this without the slightest blunder, and the young mind reader had one more convert.

A physician who was present doubted even in the face of this test, and for his self-satisfaction he decided to give Taylor something that would be hard to do. Fifty yards from the front gate of the house, in a thick clump of trees, were hitched more than a dozen horses and vehicles in which the guests had come. One belonged to the doctor, and he thought of the whip which was in his buggy. Upon taking the physician’s hand, Mr. Taylor said that he knew what he was thinking of, but, to more fully convince him, he led the man to his buggy in the darkness, though he did not know one of the vehicles from the other, and took out the whip.

Small pieces of money were hidden in nooks and corners of the house, but he walked as straight to them as if he had secreted them himself. Some one thought of a certain book in the library. Without knowing what he was to hunt for, he went to the room, opened the door and took out the book. He also turned to a certain page and passage, of which the young man was thinking. He would grasp the hand of any one present and tell exactly what his thoughts were.

"In addition to his ability to possess himself of the secrets of the mind, the young man is a ventriloquist."

Mr. Taylor is a handsome young man, and until six months ago, when he first became aware of his power, the ladies and girls were not loth to shake his hand. He danced at all the parties, and his hand was grasped without fear or tremor. But things have changed, Mr. Taylor says, and not to his advantage. For six months he has been unable to find a girl who will allow him to touch her hand. He often steals a march on those unacquainted with his power, but he fears that his dancing days are over. In addition to his ability to possess himself of the secrets of the mind, the young man is a ventriloquist. He is overflowing with wit and good humor, and on every occasion he takes advantage of his power as a ventriloquist to provoke laughter. He has possessed this particular control of his voice for several years, and is an adept at its practice.

Mr. Taylor is about 5 feet 8 inches in height, weighs about 135 pounds, has light hair, regular features, with a very high, prominent forehead, and is altogether striking in appearance. He has a brother and sister near his own age, but in none other of the family have any of his remarkable powers been exhibited.

Scientific men over the country are beginning to be attracted by his feats, and he has had offers from several managers to go to some of the larger cities to exhibit himself, all of which he has declined, as his father fears that it would seriously impair his health to practice it continually. On account of his youth and the short time he has been aware that he is a mind reader his case is looked upon as one of the most remarkable ever known, especially as he has so far mastered the hardest tests that could be devised.”

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Old Print Article: “Brought Back To Life,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1889)

December 26, 2011 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"In two hours the invalid was pronounced dead by the ladies in the boarding house." (Image by Antônio Rafael Pinto Bandeira.)

The following article from the June 16, 1889 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, originally published in the San Francisco Chronicle, concerns an unusual Bay Area couple, and has echoes of Nathaniel Hawthorne at his most fantastic. The piece in full:

“The question of being buried alive and the recent case of Washington Irving Bishop were matters discussed by a party of gentlemen at the Bohemian Club the other night. A journalist who was present told the following story of local interest: Living in San Francisco to-day are two persons whose strange experiments have long been a mystery to me. Two years ago a Boston gentlemen came out to the coast. He brought with him his companion, a young woman in the last stages of consumption. She was pretty and talented and ten years younger than her escort. I am of the opinion that a sort of Platonic love existed between them. Three times in my own knowledge the young woman has apparently passed out of this life into the other world and twice preparations have been made for her burial. On one occasion her companion was out of the city when she was taken suddenly with a sinking spell and the landlady became greatly alarmed. In two hours the invalid was pronounced dead by the ladies in the boarding house who were in attendance upon her. As the day advanced the landlady, seeing no signs of the gentleman’s return, visited an undertaker near by and preparations were made for laying out the corpse. The body was cold and stiff when the undertaker arrived. He viewed the corpse and went back to his shop for his assistant.

During his absence the missing companion of the dead young woman arrived upon the scene. It was now about 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Upon being informed of her death some five hours before, the gentleman uttered an exclamation of surprise. Then, rushing up to the room where the body lay, he closed the door behind him and turned the key. When the undertaker returned he was refused admission. Two hours later the gentleman emerged from the room and ordered two suppers sent to the apartment. Later the young lady was seen sitting upright in bed, eating heartily. Her companion had brought her back to life by a method of rubbing and physical manipulation known only to himself. Twice after this he repeated the performance. Three times, to my knowledge, has the man brought the young woman back from the dead. She lives here today, still and invalid, and is liable to die again at almost any moment.”

Old Print Article: “Making Love By Letter,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1897)

December 20, 2011 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"I'll bet she's a daisy and I guess I'll get her, but I'll dream it over first."

Everyone in 19th-century Huntington, Long Island, was a complete ninny, so courtship wasn’t easy, as evidenced by an article in the September 3, 1893 Brooklyn Daily Eagle. An excerpt:

“Huntington has lots of pretty girls, and Joseph Schumaker is susceptible. Togged out to the limit of his salary as a compositor in a local printing office–kid gloves and cane not wanting–he fairly cut a swath on Saturday nights as he meandered through town. He gained access to the better society and was presented by friends to several young women who, according to his notions, would be pleased to become Mrs. Schumaker in the near future. His ardor outstripped his judgement, however, and in short order he was dismissed as being altogether too precipitate. Huntington girls favor long courtships, unless the catch is particularly handsome and flighty.

Joseph’s assiduity attracted the attention of his male associates, who had likewise noted the poor success with which his advances were meeting. Upon the advice of one of them he decided to try his luck out of town. He accordingly corresponded with a matrimonial agency in New York, giving his name as Joe Prescott and his address, Box 255, Huntington. His note to the agency met with prompt attention and the return mail brought him a letter assuring him of every success. A number of photographs of young women were also inclosed, with the guarantee that each was charming and anxious to marry. One photograph, named Evelyn No. 285, appealed more particularly to Joseph, who remarked: ‘I’ll bet she’s a daisy and I guess I’ll get her, but I’ll dream it over first.’

All this was last week. Schumaker’s dreams were propitious and he wrote Evelyn a letter in care of the agency. The agency reminded him that he had failed to make the remittance necessary to justify the disclosure of the young woman’s address, and that while she had read his letter, and was just dying to see him, she could not have his address or be allowed to see him unless the fees were sent at once.

"Togged out to the limit of his salary...kid gloves and cane not wanting...he fairly cut a swath on Saturday nights."

In the meantime several of Schumaker’s intimates fixed up an endearing letter, which purported to have been written by Evelyn, and sent it to him. The letter gave as her address a number on Third Avenue, New York, and urged him to call at once. The young man hastened to New York only to find himself the victim of a joke.

On his return he was informed that a man describing himself as the representative of Wellman’s matrimonial agency was in town searching for Joseph Prescott. Schumaker kept out of sight. The man applied to Postmaster Pearsall for the name of the owner of Box 255, and was told that no one by the name of Prescott lived in Huntington. Mr. Pearsall refused to divulge the name of the boxholder. The man has left town. Before he went he promised trouble for Prescott and also for the postmaster. He declared that the young woman listed as Evelyn was greatly smitten with Prescott’s style of writing and already loved him. Of the many hundreds of letters she had received, none had so impressed her as had Schumaker’s epistle. The agent also hinted that other Huntington people were in correspondence with marriageable women through the medium of their agency.”

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Old Print Article: “In A Sofa,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1886)

December 18, 2011 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

A brief note from the wacky world of upholstery, from the October 21, 1886 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“A Chicago upholsterer, in repairing an old sofa that had been brought to his shop, found the following articles, which had slipped down between the back and cushion: Forty-seven hairpins, 8 mustache combs,19 suspender buttons, 13 needles, 8 cigarettes, 4 photographs, 217 pins, some grains of coffee, a few cloves, 27 cuff buttons, 6 pocket knives, 15 poker chips, a vial of homeopathic medicine, 34 lumps of chewing gum, 19 toothpicks, 28 matches and 14 buttonhooks. The sofa belonged to a man who had seven unmarried daughters.”

Old Print Articles: “The Midgets’ Last Week,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1879)

December 15, 2011 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"Miss Lucia Zarate, his companion and intended wife, is over 15 years of age and weighs less than five pounds."

In a much earlier time before the phrase “little people” was the preferred term of usage, the tiniest among us were often exhibited at circuses, sideshows and dime museums. The May 18, 1879 Brooklyn Daily Eagle had a story about such a pair of Lilliputians. An excerpt:

“The ensuing week is the third and positively the last of the famous little people, known to the world as ‘Uffnor’s Marvelous Midgets.’ This week will close their tour of the United States, as they sail directly to Europe to remain some three or four years. These tiny morsels were first brought together about three years ago, and since the first day they were placed upon exhibition have drawn immense audiences in every city in which they were introduced. Many celebrated ‘little folks’ and ‘dwarfs’ have been from time to time brought before the public, but in searching history or biography there is no record of any couple so infinitesimally small as these two wonderful  beings so aptly called ‘Midgets.’ The largest of the pair, General Mite, is 14 years of age and weighs only nine pounds; Miss Lucia Zarate, his companion and intended wife, is over 15 years of age and weighs less than five pounds. To realize such a marvelous departure of nature from her ordinary productions requires quite a stretch of the imagination. Their combined age is nearly thirty years, while their united weight is only fourteen pounds. Such little creatures appeal to the sensibilities and sympathies of men, women and children alike, and awaken a peculiar interest akin to enthusiasm. These miraculous human wonders remain but six days longer, and will give afternoon and evening levees at Music Hall, at an admission fee of twenty-five cents.”

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Old Print Article: “The Pig Cried Out,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1897)

December 11, 2011 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"They saw the elephants lie right down, and had a laugh with every clown."

A firsthand account of the Barnum & Bailey Circus that was allegedly written by a 10-year-old schoolboy–but probably was penned by one of Phineas Taylor’s lackeys–was published in the April 28, 1897 Brooklyn Daily Eagle. An excerpt:

“A school boy who enjoyed last night’s performance of the Barnum & Bailey show sends the following description to the Eagle:

To the Editor of the Brooklyn Eagle:

Despite the gale outside the tent, some 20,000 people went with peanuts primed and eyes aglow, to see the great and only show. First baby camel met their eye and then the lady ten feet high, beside the smallest man on earth, provoked much inconsiderate mirth. The animals next, both caged and tied, were each and every one espied; the side show freaks and platforms, too, were passed before the public view, and then the bugles tooted loud, and to the ring sides rushed the crowd. They tried to watch three rings at one, and follow everything there done; but though they couldn’t quite succeed, they saw a lot of things indeed. They saw the elephants lie right down, and had a laugh with every clown; and watched the goats roll around the ring on a ball as easy as anything, and shooed the dove that rode the wheel and heard the pig’s ‘mamma’ appeal, and held their breath while in the air the slack rope walker combed his hair and trapeze artists swung and jumped, till finally into the net they plumped; and saw the ball roll up the spire, with a man inside to push it higher, and cheered the dog that kicked the ball with the tip of his nose and heard the fall of the clown who tried to stand on his head, but landed in a heap instead, and followed the man with the face so big that he scared the clown with the talking pig, and laughed at the rollicking monkey race, and the dogs that joined in the nightly chase, and watched the Jap shin up the pole and slide to the ground on his slippery sole, and hurrahed for the girl on the milk white steed who stuck to his back in spite of his speed, and marked the time for the horse quadrille and the juggler eyed with a creeping chill as he dallied with carving knives and things in one of the three entrancing rings. The same old circus? Well, hardly true–the same old show, with everything new.

Brooklyn, April 8, 1897

SCHOOL BOY.”

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Old Print Article: “Charles Dickens–His Methods And Habits,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1882)

December 7, 2011 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"The first thing he did on coming into the office was to comb his hair."

The Louisville Commercial scored an interview with someone who did dictatorial duties for Charles Dickens. The resulting article was republished in the August 16, 1882 Brooklyn Daily Eagle. An excerpt:

“‘You were an amanuensis of Charles Dickens, were you not?’

‘Yes, I did shorthand work for Mr. Dickens for eighteen months. I did not take dictation for any of his novels, only his fugitive pieces. He dictated to me most of his articles in All the Year Round. He was a very clever gentleman to those under him. He always treated me very well, indeed. Most people seem to think Dickens was a ready writer. This is by no means the case. He used to come into his office in St. Catherine Street about eight o’clock in the morning and begin dictating. He would walk up and down the floor several times after dictating a sentence or a paragraph and ask me to read it. I would do so, and he would, in nine cases out of ten, order me to strike out certain words and insert others. He was generally tired out by eleven o’clock, and went down to his club on the Strand. A singular thing was that he never dictated the closing paragraphs of his story. He always finished it himself. I used to look in the paper for it, and find that he had changed it very greatly from what he had dictated to me.

Dickens had a very odd habit of combing his hair. He would comb it a hundred times in a day. He seemed never to tire of it. The first thing he did on coming into the office was to comb his hair. I have seen him dictate a sentence or two, and then begin combing. When he got through he dictated another sentence. He was very careful about his writings. He wanted every sentence to be as perfect as possible before letting it go to press. Dickens was an odd fellow regarding the company he sought. I have known him, while I was employed by him, to go down to the Seven Dials, about the worst place in London, and sleep and eat there. He roasted his herring where the rest did, and slept with the poorest. He loved low society. He never seemed so happy as when seated in a poor coffee house, with a crowd of the lower classes talking around him. He never missed a word that was said, and was the closest observer I ever met. Nothing escaped him. Those most minute mannerisms were noted and stored away. When I was working for him he was at the zenith of his fame, just before his death; and even then he loved those careless, rollicking rounds among the poor better than a high toned dinner.

‘Was he a great drinker as he has the reputation of being?’

‘I never saw him drink myself. I have seen him several times, exhilarated, however. He only drank the best of wine, but he drank that very freely. Sherry was his special favorite, and he never refused a glass of fine old sherry. He was an insatiable cigarette smoker, and when dictating to me always had a cigarette in his mouth. He was a very spruce man, too. He brushed his coat frequently and changed his collars several times a day. He was every bit as humorous in his speech as in his writings. When he was in a very particularly fine humor he could keep you laughing by the hour with his witty talk. He was not one of those men who are above those they employ; he chatted as freely with me as any member of his club on the Strand. Dickens was undoubtedly the best after dinner speaker in England. I heard him at Whitehall once. There was an enormous crowd, hardly standing room, and he kept them in a continual roar. He was a fine actor, and this, added to his wit, made him irresistibly funny. He was a great eater; not an epicure, but a gourmand. He ate and ate and ate, and cared little for the quality so there was enough before him.”

 

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Old Print Article: “The Growing Evil Of Plundering Cemeteries,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1888)

December 5, 2011 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"This kind of grave robbing began in this country in 1876, with an attempt to steal the body of President Lincoln from its resting place in Springfield, Ill."

Robbing graves to supply medical schools with cadavers is as old as the dissecting table itself, but the ransoming of famous corpses began in earnest in America when an attempt was made to disinter President Lincoln’s remains from his final resting place. A report from the March 13, 1888 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“Within the last ten years there has arisen a phase of grave robbing against which the law in its present form seems to provide but poorly. Previously the operations of grave robbers had been confined to procuring subjects for the dissecting table, and it is for this class of crimes that the present laws are framed. They do not contemplate the union of shameful extortion to sacrilege in the form of grave robbing for the purpose of obtaining ransom.

Of late years the plundering of cemeteries and vaults with this purpose has become of such frequency that it is now deemed prudent, if not necessary, to place a guard over the grave of every person of wealth or distinction immediately after burial. This kind of grave robbing began in this country in 1876, with an attempt to steal the body of President Lincoln from its resting place in Springfield, Ill. It was the purpose of the conspirators to hold the body for a ransom of $250,000, together with the pardon of a noted counterfeiter to whom they were friendly. The success of the scheme was happily thwarted by the confusion of one of the confederates.

Two years later a like attempt made on the body of A.T. Stewart, of New York, was more successful. The details of this robbery are still remembered. The body has been recovered by the family, but at what cost is not accurately known. Those concerned in the plot have never been apprehended. These well known cases serve to indicate the good reasons for the precautions taken in the protection of the bodies of ex-President Grant, of William H. Vanderbilt and more recently of Mrs. John Jacob Astor. 

By way of showing to what extent the law is powerless in such cases, it is of interest to cite the theft of the body of Earl Crawford, in Scotland, in 1882. On the arrest of one of the perpertrators of this outrage it was found that there was no statute more applicable to this case than that for the punishment of sacrilege. No penalties for robbery could be imposed, since a dead body could not be regarded at law as property.

The maximum penalty prescribed by the public statutes of our State for criminal grave robbing is imprisonment not exceeding three years, or by fine not exceeding $2,000. The whole chapter of which this section forms a part has for its subject the preservation of chastity, morality, decency and good order. It is true that it is no more an offense to steal the body of a rich man than it is to steal the body of a poor man, yet there is in the former case an additional element which finds an additional punishment in the eyes of the law. It would seem that but just that in cases where extra inducement in the hope of extortion exists, extra penalties should be imposed; for sacrilege may remain mercifully unknown to the relatives of the dead, but grave robbing, with the aim of extorting ransom, cruelly wounds the hearts of the living and is one of the most shameful forms of plunder.”

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Old Print Article: “A Monkey Did It,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1887)

December 1, 2011 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"Jakey, the monkey, was tied to the leg of a table."

Monkey-related arson was the cause of four out of five fires in nineteeneth-century America. Non-empirical proof of this statistic can be found in the August 22, 1887 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. An excerpt:

“Mrs. Sylvester M. Folsom, of Fort Hamilton, has furnished the neighborhood in which she has led an adventurous life for a dozen years with a constant round of sensational episodes. She was the wife of sporting Billy Clark when his prize fighters’ resort was in full blast, and after she was divorced from him, married Alpheus E. Clark, a soldier, who ran away from her after a short but tempestuous wedded life. Her third husband, Sylvester M. Folsom, the village barber, has been, like his predecessors, a cause of constant jealousy to the woman, and a few weeks ago, on the ground that he was too frequent a visitor to a good looking member of a local family, Mrs. Folsom shot at the head of the obnoxious household and, failing to hit him, clubbed him into unconsciousness.

"Mrs. Folsom placed the lighted lamp she had carried down with her on the stairway, and laid some parlor matches on the table." (Image by Rolf Schlagenhaft.)

She recently secured her freedom from the New Utrecht jail on bail and returned to her home at the Fort. The only occupant of her own quarters in the lower portion of the house who remained to greet her was a monkey, whom she had left in care of Sergeant Grossman, of Battery I. This morning Mrs. Folsom went into the basement to prepare the breakfast for the Grossman family. Jakey, the monkey, was tied to the leg of a table that stood not far from the stairs leading down to the basement. Mrs. Folsom placed the lighted lamp she had carried down with her on the stairway, and laid some parlor matches on the table. She then went out to get kindling wood. As she opened the door a few minutes later she discovered the place on fire. Jakey had climbed upon the table and was still engaged in cracking parlor matches, and when they became too hot to hold dropping them on to the rubbish covered floor.

Mrs. Folsom’s first thought was for the Grossman family, upstairs, on the floor just above the rapidly growing flames. Mrs. Grossman had already been aroused by the smoke and was astir. Her two little children were, however, asleep in bed, when the frightened housekeeper burst open the door and let in the volume of smoke. Mrs. Folsom seized upon the children and carried them safely downstairs. Mrs. Grossman followed, but was near being too late to get through the burning basement with safety. Her clothing took fire, but she was fortunate in being able to reach the open air and assistance before she or the children were injured. 

All efforts to save Jakey, the mischievous cause of the fire, were unavailing, and his cries for help soon died away in the flames that entirely consumed the house before the hand engine from Bay Ridge made its appearance.”

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Old Print Article: “When Jumbo II Sneezed,” Brooklyn Daily Eagle (1902)

November 29, 2011 in Old Print Articles, Urban Studies | Permalink

"Jumbo's sneeze is like the bursting of a boiler."

An elephant sneezing in Baltimore allowed Brooklyn Daily Eagle editors to fill some column space and also to traffic in stereotypes in the July 28 1902 issue. An excerpt:

“Jumbo II sneezed yesterday. To the average person this information is of no startling importance, but to those who happened to be on the Midway at the Maryland Industrial Exposition when Jumbo sneezed the event was one long to be remembered. Jumbo’s sneeze is like the bursting of a boiler, and it created a fairly good sized panic.

The elephant began to get ready for the sneeze a half an hour before it happened, and as the time for the event drew near he was rolling about in his cage in great agony. Suddenly he stopped, gave one bellow and then sneezed.

The look of perfect contentment on his face after the great event was in startling contrast to the terror seen on the faces of the fleeing people. Visitors to the exposition were running in all directions, not knowing what awful thing they were racing away from.

Among the Mohammedans of the Oriental and Cingalese villages Jumbo’s sneeze caused wild excitement. Oriental folk are most superstitious about elephants, and they believe to hear one sneeze brings all kinds of good luck. They rushed to Jumbo’s cage and, bowing low before his elephantine highness, began praying at a rapid rate.

When they finished they explained that an elephant’s sneezes are of the rarest occurrence, and the event was one of great significance to them. Elephants are susceptible to cold and catch cold easily, but it is very, very rarely that they sneeze.

Captain Miller, Jumbo’s keeper, says it is a good thing this is so, for a few more sneezes like Jumbo had yesterday might blow the top of his head off.”

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