Friday, November 28, 2014
It's Friday! Time to relax!
Just ask the cats.
Welcome to this week's Festival of the Links:
Where the hell is the Amber Room?
Where the hell is Tom the Cat?
What the hell is this Siberian palace?
Who the hell were the Green Children of Woolpit?
Watch out for Tek-Tek!
Watch out for trigger-happy aliens!
Watch out for the Unlucky Mummy!
America is really booming!
The adventures of "Manchester's Sherlock Holmes."
"Log Ness Monster" doesn't have quite the same ring, does it?
An insurance scammer comes to a bad end.
So, Alabama has a swamp full of murdered dolls.
Yes, I can imagine summoning a demon as my character witness.
More speculations about the Bog Bodies.
Paganini's wandering corpse.
A cure for the plague that seems pretty damn unfair to the pigeons.
An Englishman explores the Arctic in the early 20th century.
More on the Mystery of the Missing Thunderbird.
Now, here's a useful-sounding book: Ancient Egyptian spells.
Jesus in Japan?!
Early 20th century Canadian witchcraft.
Exploring a Greek "underwater Pompeii."
An escaped slave in ancient Egypt.
How a Georgian writer described Thanksgiving.
The weird--and very damaging--underground world of selling ancient texts.
Fifty Shades of Rome.
The life of a Roman Empress.
Oliver Cromwell's peripatetic head.
A mystery in the archives: Who stole the papers of Felix Frankfurter from the Library of Congress, and why?
Remembering the bravery of a Scottish sea captain.
Mystery Fires in Nigeria.
The importance of Divine PR.
A beautiful sailor's valentine.
A desert full of ships.
Haydn's musical tribute to a dog.
Do we dream of past lives?
The sad case of the Tempting Trousers.
Was Vincent Van Gogh murdered?
Was John Hedley the luckiest man of WWI? Or just the most imaginative?
The arguments over Jesus' marital status continue.
How New York became Gotham.
Beyond Mrs. Claus: Christmas' forgotten females.
The Eiffel Tower's secret apartment.
The tale of Davy Crockett's coonskin cap.
Nobody can hope to know the true meaning of the word "weird" until you've heard North Korean pop music. Trust me on this one.
A look at Iceland circa 1900.
Marie de Guise: More than just the mother of Mary Queen of Scots.
Elizabeth Linley: More than just Richard Sheridan's wife.
How a saint, a murdered spy, and the Holy Grail all converged in one obscure English village church.
The 18th century, when you could make a living as a door-to-door guinea pig salesman.
That's it! See you on Monday, when I'll be looking at the strange case of a baby who came back from the dead. In the meantime, here's some Tennessee Ernie. Because, damn it, I love this song.
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
I like Thanksgiving. Any holiday that revolves around huge amounts of food and drink is aces with me.
But fear not, even such a benign celebration has attracted its share of disaster, and I'm just the person to chronicle it all. Think of this post as a feast, Strange Company style: a hearty helping of murder, with generous side dishes of violence and misery, with a slice of The Weird for dessert.
The rest, of course, is gravy.
For instance, the "Milwaukee Journal" for November 29, 1935 told of a man who provided his dinner companions with unexpected entertainment with their meal:
While Ernest Mahr, 20, of 539 W. Juneau Av. was eating his Thanksgiving dinner Thursday police walked in and arrested him on a charge of automobile larceny, second offense. Friday he was arraigned in the district court and bound over to the municipal court for trial.
Auto theft is bad enough, but the holiday programs can be pure murder. From the "Miami News," November 28, 1929:
Carrier Mills, Ill., Nov. 28--Grief and unhappiness supplanted the spirit of the holiday in Carrier Mills today--the aftermath of an argument over when to hold a school Thanksgiving program.
Leslie Lightfoot, 33, school district director and teacher, was dead and Dwight Organ, 26, teacher, was held in the Saline county jail at Harrisburg, charged with slaying Lightfoot.
Lightfoot and two other directors of the school district decided the Thanksgiving program should be given Friday evening. Mrs. Lightfoot was asked to convey this decision to Organ.
Organ discredited the message from Lightfoot and called a meeting of the school district directors in a cafe Tuesday night. At the meeting, Lightfoot is said to have asked Organ why he questioned the message; an argument followed, in which Lightfoot, witnesses said, struck Organ, who in turn drew a revolver and fired twice into Lightfoot's body.
Yes, let that one sink in for a moment. These were two schoolteachers.
This next one, from the November 29, 1913 "Cambridge Chronicle," is an unusual example of family holiday cheer:
A regular "Carrie Nation," in the person of Mrs. Anna B. Glynn, of 40 School street, visited the drug store of John H. Fitzgerald, 695 Main street, Thanksgiving morning, at about 10 o'clock, and paid her respects by hurling a flatiron through one large window and a brick through the other. Then she submitted to arrest by Patrolman "Tony" Diehl. Her husband, Thomas J. Glynn, was later arrested on the charge of drunkenness. In court yesterday, Glynn was released, but his wife was held for a hearing December 5th, on the charge of breaking glass. The police took four children of the couple to the city home, where they remained until yesterday afternoon, when Mrs. Glynn called for them. According to the police, the explanation the woman gave for her act was her claim that Mr. Glynn had been sold liquor at the drug store.
This next pair may give even Mrs. Anna B. Glynn a run for her money. From the "Los Angeles Herald," November 30, 1909:
Albuquerque, N.M., Nov. 18--News of a Thanksgiving day duel at Fairview, N.M., in which both participants were killed, has just reached here.
James B. Taylor, well known cattle man and foreman of the United States Treasury mint in Sierra county, and C.A. Futch, cattleman, had been enemies ever since the latter's wedding a year ago to which he failed to invite the wife of Taylor. The men had quarreled frequently over this slight, and Thanksgiving day drew their revolvers upon meeting again and opened battle. Each was wounded twice and both died almost instantly. Fairview is eighty miles from a railroad.
So far, we've learned that some people just shouldn't put on holiday programs, act as sobriety coach, or throw weddings. Add cooking dinner to the list. "The Times News" for November 28, 1992 reported that a Walter Lee Parker, of Raleigh, North Carolina was charged with assault with a deadly weapon for stabbing his nephew during an argument about trimmings for the Thanksgiving dinner. (The nephew was not seriously injured.)
More family cheer, this time from the "San Francisco Call," November 28, 1913:
Too much turkey and Thanksgiving cheer made a bad day yesterday for the Falkenburgs. On their way to their home at 624 Girard street, after dinner with friends. Mr. and Mrs. L. Falkenburg and their son. Edward Falkenburg, started arguing, and 15 minutes later the son was in the Mission emergency hospital with scalp wounds.
After treatment his parents went with him when to the home of their other son, William Falkenburg, 810 Hampshire street. Another argument started, during which the mother stabbed William with a hatpin. After police were called the sons decided their parents should not be arrested.
Here is one of the less satisfying Thanksgiving feasts on record, but you can't deny this guy was easy to cook for. From the "Spokane Press," November 27, 1907:
CHICAGO, Nov. 27—Of all the queer menus that will be served Thanksgiving day, the queerest is probably that of Dr. Thos. J. Allen of Aurora, Ill. Dr. Allen is the scientist who has asserted and is attempting to demonstrate that he can sustain life for 60 days on a diet composed almost wholly of peanuts. Thanksgiving day will he the forty-second of his peanut roasting. The doctor asserts that he feels much better than he did before he began to diet: that he has lost a little flesh, but has gained in nervous ability and "tone." Friends of his declare, however, that he is shaky and weak, and that his hand is cold to the touch.
The Thanksgiving dinner he will eat is as follows:
SPANISH PEANUTS WITH A PINCH OF SALT.
VIRGINIA PEANUTS IN THE SHELL.
At the other meals of the day he will vary this diet with a glass of lemonade. He eats three-quarters of a pound of goobers daily.
The Thanksgiving dinner will be served at one of the best hotels, and the doctor will have several guests at his table who will partake of the same diet. He will lecture to the guests on the food value of the nut.
"l want it understood." Dr. Allen said, "that I do not believe the peanut is as good as some other nuts or vegetables. I am eating it alone merely to demonstrate that it will sustain life. The most natural food for any one, of course, is milk. "Meat should never he eaten. I have not touched it for two years. The peanut is like meat in that it contains a greater proportion of carbon than is of value to the human system. For that reason I think the pecan is the most nutritious of all nuts. Its proportion of albumen, carbon, etc. is better suited for assimilation.
"My ideal menu for a day on a vegetable and nut diet would be:
"7 a.m. —Lemonade with sugar.
"10 a.m. —Breakfast: Brown part of the wheat cocoanut, peanuts (20 per cent), pecans, egg. Serve uncooked.
"1 p.m. —Dinner: Vesper broth, composed of figs, dates, corn syrup, malted grains. Serve without starch and uncooked.
"3 p.m. —Lemonade with sugar.
"This diet could be varied occasionally with a few bananas, grapes, oranges, raisins and apples. My theory is that the average man eats about five times too much every day. 1 would advise him to leave out meats and cut down the amount of other foods.
"My experiments have demonstrated to me the value of peanuts as a brain food. I have kept an exact record of each day's work since I changed to this diet, and I find that I can do 20 per cent more than formerly. It takes about 30 days to change from one form of diet to another, and I am just beginning to get so that I can go by a lot of delicacies and not crave them."
Dr. Allen's companions at this Thanksgiving "dinner" discovered that he had first gone in disguise to another restaurant where he had a five-course meal including baked ham, mashed potatoes, vintage champagne and several different kinds of pie. They then took him out to the alley behind the restaurant and beat him up.
All right, I made up that last paragraph, but I think we can all agree that that's how this story should have ended.
Here's one man who had an even worse Thanksgiving than the good doctor. Here is a weirdly Draconian punishment described in the "San Francisco Call," November 28, 1913:
As punishment for picking raspberries on a millionaire's estate at Hillsborough a San Francisco florist was sentenced by Judge Henry P. Bowie to forego the pleasure of his annual turkey feast.
John Nalistini, 55 Valparaiso street, San Francisco, is the sorrowful person who paid the unusual penalty. He was arrested yesterday for picking berries on the Joseph D. Grant estate. "Have you had your Thanksgiving dinner yet?" demanded Judge Bowie. "Not yet," replied the prisoner. "Then I order you confined to Hillsborough jail till all vestige of turkey has disappeared."
|The Gobbler's Dream; or, The Vegetarian Pledge|
As I said, I enjoy Thanksgiving, but as a virtually life-long vegetarian, I do regret the fact that the most famous feature of the day is a mass turkey slaughter. In memory of 2014's doomed-to-be-main-course birds, I'd like to highlight a few stories where their brethren got a bit of their own back.
Andrew Green, the druggist, was yesterday thrown to the ground by his horse, afrighted by a turkey flapping its wings. NJ1885
— R.L. Ripples (@TweetsofOld) November 21, 2014
From the "Adelaide Register," June 4, 1910:
A Staffordshire artist, while sketching near Hanley, was attacked by a turkey, and had an exciting encounter with the bird, lasting a quarter of an hour. The turkey approached the artist from behind, and made a sudden attack, which he just managed to escape. With his sketch block he aimed a blow at the bird's head, but missed, and then sought refuge behind a tree. The turkey pursued him, and after dodging it around the tree for some time the artist made a dash for his stool to use as a weapon, but the bird was too quick for him. Then began a combat which lasted for some minutes. The artist used his palette as a weapon of defense, and this was destroyed in the first blow. Closing with the bird, he bet every attempt it made to spring at him by kicking it in the breast, while he protected his face with his arms. It was not until the artist was almost exhausted that his cries for help were heard by a party of golfers and a farm hand. A blow across the neck put the turkey out of action.
The "Altoona Mirror," September 8, 1926:
While gathering sweet corn in a back field of the A.B. Miller farm on Saturday Mrs. Miller was attacked by a turkey gobbler belonging to a neighbor and had to battle the vicious bird for a half hour before she conquered him. Evidently resenting what he thought was an encroachment on his feeding grounds the big gobbler launched a fierce fight for mastery. He flogged and kicked, hurling himself at Mrs. Miller's face. She interposed a tin bucket which was full of roasting ears between them to protect her face and such was the force of his impact that he dented the bucket like the kick from a cow. She could not get away from the big turk as he cut off her line of retreat every time she tried to get away. He seemed to be in a dozen places at one. She beat him with the bucket and corn stalks but every blow she landed only acted to further enrage him. After a half hour of this strenuous engagement, both combatants were pretty well exhausted. But Mrs. Miller came off with the honors of war as the gobbler quit fighting as suddenly as he began and marched off home.
There was that time when a man and a turkey battled it out in court. From the "Mid Surrey Times," August 28, 1880:
A curious case has just been referred to the Russian Court of Appeal. A certain General, who had earned half-a-dozen decorations in the Turkish campaign, was walking a few days ago along one of the principal streets of Tamboff, a town in Central Russia, when he was suddenly attacked by a ferocious turkey. The unexpectedness of the encounter seems to have entirely paralyzed the faculties of the worthy son of Mars, for although he wore his sword at his side, and might easily have made mincemeat of his assailant, he raised no resistance against the enemy, but shouted loud and lustily for the police. These gentry, on the watch for Nihilists, hurried from every quarter, in obedience to the General's cries, but were anticipated in their assistance by a deacon, who, passing by at the time, seized the enraged bird--then fluttering on the General's breast--by the neck, and held him captive till the gorodovie and dvorniki came up and took him into custody. An owner for the turkey-cock was soon found, and a protocol was drawn up by the police, charging him with culpable negligence in not looking after his poultry. The case came on, and the evidence adduced added nothing to what we have already stated, and a defense was raised on the simple grounds that the Article of the Code mentioned in the indictment did not refer to feathered kind, but merely applied to ferocious bipeds and quadrupeds. The bench of magistrates discussed long among themselves the validity of this argument, and at length, amidst breathless silence, announced that "State Secretary Nikiferoff, as owner of a dangerous turkey-cock allowed to roam at large, was amenable to the Article of the Code referred to in the indictment," and sentenced him to pay a fine of ten copecks (three pence) or undergo twenty-four hours' imprisonment. A roar of laughter followed the decision of the Bench, in the midst of which the solicitor of Nikiferoff arose and gave notice that he should carry the case to the St. Petersburg Court of Appeal.
Unfortunately, I have been unable to learn how that case was finally resolved.
From the "Newark Advocate," April 1, 1936:
Coshocton, April 1.--C.C. Dawson, real estate salesman, while calling on a prospective customer was attacked by a turkey which struck him in the chest, knocking him down and causing a sprained knee. He scrambled to his feet and, limping, looked around for some means of protection. The turkey charged again but Dawson, seeing a piece of canvas, picked it up and threw it over the turkey's head, at the same time yelling for help. D.A. Overholt who Dawson was calling on, came to his rescue with an inner tube and struck the attacker. The turkey then retreated.
The last line of this next story sounds ominously like a declaration of war. The "Oakland Tribune," April 4, 1912:
Kent, April 4.--A turkey with proclivities for man killing is the property of R.R. Rotter, a compositor on a local paper. When Rotter was feeding his turkeys a large gobbler attacked him, striking him in the face so hard that he was forced to beat a hasty retreat. His face was badly lacerated by the attack of the gobbler, and Rotter says that when he feeds the turkey hereafter he will arm himself.
It's hard to top the lede from this story in the "Princeton Union," December 21, 1911:
Frank Stadden narrowly escaped having his eyesight destroyed and his nose bitten off by an infuriated turkey on Monday morning. But here's the story in brief:
John McCool sold a number of turkeys to Mr. Austin and one of them flew into a tree. Finding it impossible to coax the gobbler from its perch Frank Stadden was appealed to. Frank loaded his blunderbuss and brought the fowl to earth, but it was only slightly wounded and, when he attempted to capture it, the bird showed fight. It struck at Frank, drove its talons into his hands, bored holes into his face with its beak and greatly disfigured his proboscis. Seeing that Frank was getting the worst of the battle Mr. Austin ran to his assistance with a club and dispatched the gobbler. However, in striking at the turkey Austin's aim was not at all times accurate, and Frank received one of the blows intended for the bird which caused a big blue-black lump to appear with remarkable rapidity upon the polished portion of his cranium. Mr. Stadden asserts that never in his lifetime has he encountered so ferocious a turkey as this particular gobbler, and says he is inclined to the opinion that either its father or its mother was a great American eagle.
Fortunately, a similar story from the "Iola Register" for August 22, 2001, had a happier ending for all concerned. For some months, the town of Holland, Michigan had been terrorized by a wild turkey who had settled in their neighborhood. He took to stalking the citizens of Holland, pinning them inside their cars or behind their front doors. People began altering their normal routes to avoid him. He was "the bully of the block." "I taught in Flint for 39 years without a problem," one victim wailed. "I move over here and I'm attacked by a turkey." The town finally called in, not Superman, but Mike's Nuisance Animal Control, who captured the predator and released him into a wooded area some miles away.
Now, here's the spirit: Have a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner--as the guest of honor! Let's end our chronicle on a cheerful note with the legend of the Sweater-Wearing Fowl, from the "Delaware County Times," November 24, 1955:
Some turkeys don't die on Thanksgiving Day...they just live out their lives in knitted sweaters.
At least this was the fate of a bird picked for eating in California one day many years ago, according to Paul Fox, Swarthmore author.
"This story," he related the other evening, "is said to be true. Two elderly women were preparing for a Thanksgiving Day dinner of traditional type.
"They were city folk, however, and when a friend in the country offered them a turkey, they accepted without taking into consideration that the turkey would be alive.
"The day before Thanksgiving, the bird arrived; the picture of good health--active and very obstreperous. The women were stumped. How to get the turkey into the shape they were accustomed to for roasting taxed their minds.
"With the burst of ingenuity, they planned the bird's death.
"One went to the drug store, and by dint of persuasive skill, bought some chloroform. Later in the garage, the two women soaked chloroform on a handkerchief and shoved against the gobbler's head.
"The chloroform and turkey performed as expected. The bird collapsed to the floor, and the two ladies promptly plucked every feather from its still body.
"At this point an act of God intervened. There was a slight earthquake, generally upsetting the routine in the household, and the ladies forgot the featherless bird for a space of time.
"Later, when things settled down, imagine their horror as they saw the naked apparition of the traditional Thanksgiving Day roast walking down the street!
"Embarrassed and shamed, the ladies caught the wandering gobbler, fed him well, and knitted him a sweater until he restored his plumage," Fox concluded.
So you see, not all gobblers end up in the oven--some wear sweaters.
That wraps up our tribute to Thanksgiving. A happy holiday to all my fellow Americans, and do your best to avoid getting stabbed with hatpins, shot, arrested, or attacked by turkeys.
Or, worst horror of all, dining with Dr. Allen.
Monday, November 24, 2014
Granville W. Garth was born in Memphis, Tennessee in 1863. In his adulthood, he moved to New York City. He prospered there, eventually becoming president of the Merchant’s National Bank. In 1893, he married 21-year-old Lillie McComb, a daughter of an extremely wealthy California family. He was rich, respected, and powerful.
Then in December 1903, the world learned that his seemingly ideal existence had some very dark flaws. He became, we are told, “distressed” with his life. So “distressed” was Garth that the board of directors of his bank persuaded him to take a holiday. A sea cruise, that era’s panacea for all ills, physical and mental, was prescribed.
Garth boarded the steamer “Denver,” bound for Galveston, Texas. He never made it to his destination. The night of Christmas Day, the banker disappeared from his ship. His body was never recovered. Was it suicide? Accident? Murder? No one ever knew.
Adding to the mystery was the peculiar behavior of another passenger on the “Denver,” Thomas Lawson. The officers and crew of the ship were given to believe that Lawson “was in charge” of Garth during the voyage. He was said to be “the confidential man” for Blair & Co., a prominent Wall Street firm. They also told reporters that Lawson had taken possession of Garth’s luggage.
A reporter for the “Galveston Daily News” tracked Lawson down, and found that he was not inclined to be cooperative. Lawson “emphatically denied that he had any connection with Mr. Garth beyond having casually met him on board the boat.” He refused to say any more, snapping that he did not like newspaper publicity. Lawson denied knowing anything about Garth’s luggage. He had no idea where it was, but it was in a place where the police could not get it, “and, furthermore, to tell the police with his compliments to go to ____.”
A curious argument played out in the newspapers after Garth’s disappearance. The officers of the “Denver” disclaimed all blame for his presumed death by drowning, stating that the missing man was in Lawson’s care, so watching over him was no particular job of theirs. The “confidential man” continued to deny any connection to Garth, or responsibility for him. The men of the “Denver,” he shrugged, should have watched over their passenger better. The captain of the “Denver” commented that Garth seemed to want to avoid Lawson, preferring to spend as much time alone as possible. Fellow passengers later described Garth as “very nervous,” even fearful. One of these passengers, a Mr. Saalburg, told reporters that on the last night Garth was seen on board, the officers of the ship put up chains between the steerage and cabin compartments. When Garth heard the rattling of these chains, he cried out, “My God, they are going to put me in irons! My poor father!” The captain admitted the missing man showed signs of “mental aberration,” which took the form of a paranoid fear of “espionage” against him, but the banker gave no sign of suicidal intent.
The causes of this “aberration” remained unexplained. Garth’s bank was in an excellent financial shape. He was known as a prudent and highly capable businessman. It was presumed that he must have had personal troubles of some sort, but this was hotly denied by his family.
The newspapers broadly hinted at one of the banker’s “personal troubles.” James Jennings McComb, the father of Garth’s wife Lillie, had left a clause in his will virtually disinheriting Lillie’s sister Fannie if she married an artist named Louis Herzog. After McComb’s death, Fannie defiantly married Herzog anyway. Mrs. Herzog filed an appeal to have this clause in her father’s will overturned. The day before Garth sailed, the Court of Appeals ruled in her favor, deciding that the trustees of James McComb’s estate should allow Mrs. Herzog her full share of his money, which amounted to over two million dollars. Garth—who was one of the executors of McComb’s estate--had fought this effort to have the will overturned. It was reported that because of this squabble, as well as other unspecified family troubles, Lillie and Fannie were refusing to have any communication with anyone in the Garth family.
Even more explosively, a cashier at Garth’s bank, a Mr. Knowles, declared, “Mr. Garth died as the result of a family matter. Garth was a high-strung man with a strong regard for family honor. For two hundred years the Garth family honor had not had a blot upon it. Garth was a man who would make any personal sacrifice to save the family name from any possible dishonor. He died a victim to Southern chivalry—trying to shield his family name.”
Knowles refused to elaborate on this statement.
Things got even weirder. Four days after Garth vanished, the “New York Times” told its readers: “One feature of the case friends of the dead banker refused to discuss yesterday. That was the sudden apparent rise in fortune of Hubert Hartigan, formerly coachman for the Garth family, and now the proprietor of record of a stock farm and stables known as Erin Farm, three miles from Morristown, N.J., which he bought last fall from Theodore Schmalholz of 880 West End Avenue, paying for it with a certified check for about $30,000. Hartigan was formerly employed in a minor capacity in a riding academy in this city. Mrs. Garth employed his sister, Kathleen Hartigan, as maid to her two small daughters. The Hartigans suddenly left Mr. Garth’s employ several months ago and went to Ireland, returning about ten weeks ago with several blooded horses raised in that country, which are now at Erin Farm.”
$30,000 was worth around $790,000 in 2014 dollars. How did Hartigan suddenly go from impecunious coachman to filthy-rich horse breeder? No one knew.
No one believed working for the Garth family paid that well.
It was said that the handsome, “smooth-spoken” twenty-one-year-old Hartigan could provide insight into those mysterious “personal troubles” of his late employer, but he literally ran from inquiring reporters.
|Hubert Hartigan, circa 1950.|
Hartigan’s attorney (yes, the first thing the ex-coachman did after Garth’s disappearance was to lawyer up,) released a statement saying it was a “source of regret” that his client “should have been unjustifiably accused.” He went on to say that Hartigan and Garth “were always most friendly,” and that the late banker “always had the fullest confidence in Mr. Hartigan.” It was “unfortunate that a young man of Mr. Hartigan’s standing and ability should have been in any way brought before the public in the light which the reports have indicated.”
The attorney added that on his advice, Hartigan would not be giving any interviews.
At this same time, some of the crew of the “Denver” made public their belief that Garth had not fallen overboard, but had “concealed himself” in the ship. In related news, the Garth family vigorously discounted published reports that the missing banker had been seen alive and well in Galveston after the “Denver” arrived there from New York. Garth’s relatives were curiously eager to believe him dead.
A month after Garth vanished, his relatives offered a $10,000 reward for the return of his body, as well as certain papers they believed he carried on his person. They never specified what these papers were, and the reward was never collected.
There was no further significant news in the Garth Saga until April 1904, when it was discovered that Erin Farm was not Hartigan’s property after all. A deed was placed on file with the County Clerk conveying the property from Hartigan to Garth’s wife, Lillie. The deed was placed ten days before Garth disappeared, but was not executed until that April.
Hartigan told a reporter that he had never owned the farm. He had merely purchased it for Lillie Garth. When it was pointed out to him that he had always posed as the owner, he said only, “That was Mrs. Garth’s wish.” However, it was generally believed that Mrs. Garth had given Hartigan the money for the farm, and he only deeded it back to her because of the adverse publicity his purchase inspired.
Unfortunately, after this final blast of enigmatic strangeness from the Garth crowd, the story faded from the newspapers with none of the mysteries resolved. In October 1904, it was reported that Granville's elderly father established a scholarship in his son's name at his alma mater, Columbia University. Garth’s will was probated, leaving everything to his wife and two daughters. Lillie Garth already enjoyed a fortune of some four million dollars that she had inherited from her father.
The last we heard of Granville W. Garth was in July 1905, when his widow, who was living in Europe, got married...to the former coachman, Hubert Hartigan.
And suddenly, although the circumstances of Garth’s disappearance remain murky, the nature of his mysterious “personal problems” becomes a good deal clearer.
[A footnote: Hartigan and the former Mrs. Garth settled permanently in his native Ireland, where Hartigan became an immensely successful racehorse trainer. His clients included the Prince of Wales—who later briefly reigned as Edward VIII—and the Aga Khan. He had 13 Irish Classic winners, a record seven 1,000 Guineas; one 2,000 Guineas; three Oaks; and two St Legers. Lillie Garth Hartigan died in 1937. Hartigan died in 1955, surrounded by some of the greatest thoroughbreds in the world right to the end. Who says crime—or something that may have been uncomfortably close to it—does not pay?]
Friday, November 21, 2014
Strange Company would like to remind everyone that the unlikeliest souls can become the best of friends.
On to the Link Fest:
Who the hell murdered this mummy?
Who the hell murdered the Jamison family?
What the hell is happening on Mars?
What the hell are the Sajama Lines?
What the hell is this Russian screw?
What the hell crashed in Las Vegas in 1962?
What the hell flashed over the Urals?
Watch out for the Jake Bird Hex!
Are you Italian? Watch out for those World Wars!
Are you Japanese? Watch out for those suicidal station spirits!
Are you living in the Georgian Era? Watch out for those cosmetics!
A look at the tragic death of champion racehorse Alydar. (Although I still believe the "conspiracy theories" dismissed in this article are depressingly plausible.)
Remembering the death of the Man in the Mask.
The perfect museum for all of you who say, "Undine, your blog just isn't freaking weird enough for me."
The plot to kidnap Mary Pickford.
A Victorian quack turns blackmailer.
18th century instant soup.
The case of the poisoning witch.
A look at the most prominent of Mary Stuart's "Four Maries."
A Cheltenham poltergeist.
Giving a whole new meaning to the words "raising a family."
The nun who was a split personality. Literally!
Napoleon Bonaparte: Freaking lousy cryptographer.
Flour of Brimstone: good for anything that ails you!
Puppy Water: good for anything that ails you!
Stepping into dead men's shoes: The depressing world of the coroner's auction.
Exploring those weird Siberian craters. Paging H.P. Lovecraft!
Male vanity, 1890s style.
How to build a terracotta army.
The two and four-legged denizens of Cat Alley.
The strange, sad life of Arbella Stuart.
The weirdness of West Dorset.
An attempt to understand Leonardo's brain.
Uncovering an Irish party stash.
An Iceland cemetery that also serves as Reykjavik's unofficial oldest museum.
A highly unfunny 19th century hoax.
Meanwhile, the Radio City Music Hall has made the Rockettes an all-cat lineup.
And there you have it for this week! See you on Monday, when I'll be covering a still-unsolved disappearance that unleashed a very public family scandal. In the meantime, here's some Joan Armatrading:
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
So, you assumed the epic conflict between Elizabeth Tudor and Mary Stuart ended after the two queens went to their graves?
The "Illustrated Police News" told all in their January 23, 1897 issue:
Two great historical rivals--Queen Elizabeth and Mary Queen of Scots--have lately reappeared in Paris, and Queen Elizabeth has been unfolding the story of her wrongs before a well-known police commissary.
It seems, says a correspondent to the Daily Graphic, that two Parisiennes--one a young and attractive widow, and another a single lady of riper years--went lately to a well-known medium living in one of the rich quarters of Paris. The wizard was unable to tell them much about their future--it would have been well for the elderly lady if she could have done so--but her revelations about their past were truly startling.
"You," she sail to the fair widow, "were once the hapless Queen of Scotland, and you "--she turned sternly to the alarmed spinster--"you are none other than the cruel Elizabeth of England."
Both ladies departed deeply impressed, and that same evening Mary Stuart borrowed a considerable sum from Elizabeth of England as damages due for imprisonment, ill-treatment, and beheading in another age and another body. This was not, however, the end. Mary Stuart next ran off with Elizabeth's nephew, in whom she professed to recognise the soul of Bothwell. Him she married, much to the distress of England's Queen, who objected strongly to receiving Mary Stuart into the bosom of her family, though the discovering of Bothwell's soul made matters historically correct.
The unfortunate Elizabeth was then exploited by both husband and wife, who claimed frequent sums of money on the ground of the ancient historic wrong. She could in no sense call her soul her own, and finally she appealed to the police. The result is that Mary, Bothwell and the medium have all disappeared, and the police much want to find them.
I have no love for any of the Tudors, including the Virgin Queen (there, I said it,) so this tale of Elizabeth's comeuppance--however belated--rather delighted me. As the saying goes, Karma is a bitch.
Monday, November 17, 2014
In 1907, the Church of England hired architect Frederick Bligh Bond to oversee the excavations taking place at Glastonbury Abbey. Bond would never have gotten the job if the Church had known he was not only intensely interested in spiritualism, but determined to make a novel experiment: He intended to try using the spirit world as uncredited assistants. He had already conceived a theory that Glastonbury was built according to the principles of sacred geometry, and he intended to prove it. He hoped, as well, to find evidence of the long tradition linking Joseph of Arimathea to the Abbey’s location.
Bond believed in what he called "the permanence and indestructibility of Mind, Memory, and Personality or Character, together with the independence of Mind and its direct action upon Matter." In other words, he pictured a "cosmic reservoir" of all human memories and emotions. "Man as an intellectual personality with a subliminal psychic stratum involved deeply in his being, is thus necessarily linked with all other intelligent personalities through the 'continuum' of the subconscious Mind and it is only through this medium that he can obtain genuine recognition of any personality other than his own."
He and a friend of his named John Bartlett, who had shown some mediumistic abilities, held séances every night. Their goal was to use “automatic writing” to contact the past residents of the Abbey to get tips on where to dig.
They soon received the message, “All knowledge is eternal and is available to mental sympathy…I was not in sympathy with monks--I cannot find a monk yet.” Soon enough, however, one found them: “Gulielmus Monachus”—William the Monk.
Other monastic spirits soon made themselves not only willing, but rather sadly eager to share their memories of the Abbey, a site they had loved and still did not want to leave. As one “helper,” Johannes, wrote: “Why cling I to that which is not? It is I, and it is not I, butt parte of me which dwelleth in the past and is bound to that whych my carnal self loved and called ‘home’ these many years. Yet I, Johannes, amm of many partes, and ye better parte doeth other things…only that part which remembereth clingeth like memory to what it seeth yet.” This shifting group of spirits, who communicated in a hodgepodge of old and modern English and Latin, called themselves “The Watchers,” or “the Company of Avalon.” Some of the locations for buildings the “Watchers” provided were extraordinarily accurate, but the fact that Glastonbury had had different buildings built on the same locations throughout its history sometimes created a certain amount of confusion.
The excavation of the Abbey was proving to be a brilliant success. Whether it was through Bond’s immense knowledge of church architecture or the aid of the spirit fraternity—or some combination of both--his work was giving the world a hitherto unknown insight into the architecture of the site during its long history. Bond’s séances also—to his satisfaction, at least—corroborated his theories of how Glastonbury was built. He obtained automatic writing calling the Abbey “a message in ye stones. In ye foundations and ye distances be a mystery…” (The spirit of one monk, “Patraic,” also confirmed to the architect that Joseph of Arimathea had built a church at the site, which he depicted as a circle of round huts.) Bond was happy, the Anglican hierarchy was happy, presumably William and Johannes and the rest were, in their spectral way, happy too. Then, Bond made a fatal mistake: He became too honest. In 1919, he published a book, “The Gate of Remembrance,” giving full credit for his archaeological discoveries to his troop of ghostly guides.
|"William the Monk's" "spirit-tracing" of part of the Abbey.|
Bond believed his experiment with what is now known as “psychic archaeology” had proved the existence of the spiritual world. His employers believed he had only proved he was a madman. In 1922, they unceremoniously gave him the boot, little caring that his methods—whatever they might have been—had worked greatly to their advantage.
|One of Bond's "reconstructions" of the Abbey.|
Bond, undeterred, continued his psychic researches. Until his death in 1945, he developed many pioneering theories about the relationship between spiritual forces and the geometry and location of ancient buildings—concepts we are still struggling to understand today.
Friday, November 14, 2014
It's Friday! Grab a chair.
Assuming the cats haven't taken them all.
Here's This Week in Weird:
What the hell happened above Mars?
What the hell are these Russian Ooparts?
What the hell are the Moodus Noises?
What the hell is the Devil's Bible?
What the hell are these buried Victorian clothes?
What the hell flew over New Zealand in 1978?
What the hell caused the Great Blackout of 1965?
Watch out for those Irish fairies!
Watch out for Bigfoot!
Watch out--really watch out--for the Villisca Axe House!
Watch out for the Metroplex!
Watch out for the Witch of Wookey Hole!
Watch out for the Bath Game!
The link between Forteans and conspiracy theorists.
An ancient Norwegian saga gets some corroboration.
A poltergeist visits 19th century India.
Why you shouldn't count on visiting Mars any time soon.
Geoffrey Chaucer, wild and crazy guy.
"While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres..."
If Comet Music isn't your thing, how about some Fairy Music?
In modern times, we have Justin Bieber and One Direction. In the early 19th century, they had Franz Liszt. That's...uh...progress?
A comet gets its close-up.
The story of a Victorian Mission.
Fighting the flu in 1775.
A brief video about the too-adventurous-for-their-own-good Glen and Bessie Hyde.
The Hinterkaifeck murders: One of the creepiest unsolved crimes on record.
Sergeant Reckless, equine war hero.
It says a lot when I come across a story that completely weirds me out: Behold the thankfully-lost art of self-mummification.
More on how human history keeps getting pushed back...back...
The "Jesus was married" claim gets another spin around the park.
The book that kicked off a modern-day witch hunt.
Eclipse, one of the most famed Thoroughbreds in history.
Georgian mourning rules for the recently bereaved: only languishing smiles allowed, fake tears at the funeral are better than none, and widowers should wait a decent interval of three weeks before frolicking with mistresses.
When you couldn't walk through Limehouse without risking a tiger attack.
A 16th century painter who was enough to give Hieronymus Bosch the willies.
Was Early Modern "women's work" a man's world?
Deciphering Francis Bacon.
Did they or didn't they? And is it any business of ours either way?
A two-part series on the friendship between Mark Twain and Ulysses S. Grant.
If you've been dying to read a scholarly analysis of ancient tampons, here you go.
If you've been dying to read a scholarly analysis of the legal ramifications of Rick Springfield's backside, here you go.
An executed murderer doesn't know when to quit.
Not surprisingly, the French Revolution spawned a real Golden Age for ghosts.
The story of America's English First Lady.
Some historical advice about setting off fireworks. Short answer: Don't.
Cropped out of history.
Who was Jack the Ripper? Forget that. Who was Mary Jane Kelly?
So, who's up for a little werewolf portraiture?
A look at one of the odder symbols of the Victorian Era, Punch Magazine.
Madame Roland, who died game.
One very cool--and original--musical instrument.
That's a wrap! See you all on Monday, when we'll be looking at an archaeologist and his very unusual team of assistants.
In the meantime, here's a 1970s weekend party song.
This does indeed explain a lot about the 1970s