Weekend Link Dump

Cats:  Don't leave home without them!

@MYSADCAT Last year we went away for a weekend. My cat sitter sent me this photo. We haven't left the house since. pic.twitter.com/o9Jps5vVbe
— Ama de Jong (@MissMinoes) August 13, 2014

On to the links:

Where the hell is Catherine Walsh?

What the hell is this Japanese tomb?

What the hell is flying over Long Island?

What the hell is this banana flying over Wales?

What the hell is the Upsweep?

What the hell are these jade discs?

Who the hell was Kennewick Man?

Watch out for the Glastonbury Glawackus!

Watch out for the Kentucky Goblins!

Watch out for those atmospheric beasts!

Watch out for those sea serpents!

The Pennines is really sinking!

The Pacific is really glowing!

Ancient France is really feuding!

The ancient Roman who was the first known UFO investigator.

Uncovering a Siberian war hero.

Yet another article where the idiot of a writer expresses surprise at the concept that animals think.

A tribute to some of history's unjustly forgotten horses.

A story that's both sad and inspiring:  The woman who's turned her home into a cat hospice.

If a dog is man's best friend, a crocodile's best friend is a cat.  Or something like that.

You want to talk climate change?  This is climate change.

Cactus Cats! Splinter Cats!  Sliver Cats!

That time a Jewish Confederate was saved by a talking parrot.

Napoleon:  Devil's Disciple, or His Satanic Majesty himself?  You make the call.

Examiner, Feb. 7, 1808

Some tales of Mystery Music.

The kind of mistake that could happen to anyone.

Sorry, gang, JFK and Marilyn did not engage in pillow-talk about extraterrestrials.  That we know of, at least.

Standards of feminine beauty through the ages.

In which space cadets argue about rat utopias.

Decoding Newton.

The last of the hermits.

Ah, the English countryside.  Sleepy villages, romantic moors, peaceful woods, bloodthirsty cannibals...wait, what?

Tea at Fortnum & Mason's.  Prepare to have your credit card shriek in agony.

Richard Norris, the two-faced man.

Stupid Nazi Tricks.

Science and magic are more compatible than you might think.

Lawyers, Guns, and Dummy.

The history of the New York Lambs, featuring their cat and goat mascots.

That wraps it up for this edition of the Link Dump.  I'll see you on Monday, when I'll be looking at the time demons visited 17th century Massachusetts.  In the meantime, have a great weekend, gang.  Here's Lowell George to get you out of trouble.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

In the spring of 1833, English newspapers carried numerous reports of strange occurrences in the parsonage of Syderstone. For weeks, the papers hosted a lively debate over whether or not the eerie phenomena plaguing a rector's family was the result of a ghost.

One of the earliest accounts of this spooky mystery comes from the "Bury and Norwich Post," May 8, 1833:

Nothing is more characteristic of the present age than the advancement of true philosophy and sound reason over that terrifying superstition and foolish belief in supernatural agencies which so universally prevailed during the dark ages, and especially amongst the illiterate, even up to the end of the last century. But it may be questionable perhaps whether these opinions are not rather suffered to slumber than entirely rooted out. Men seem to have a natural inclination to love the marvellous, and a mere nominal or imperfect acquaintance with religion seems in no small degree calculated to foster this disposition. The more intelligent may have discarded such absurdities; but the scepticism of the mass of the people on these subjects would in all probability be staggered by a well got-up ghost scene in real life: indeed the remains of superstition which still cling to us can hardly be ascertained unless put to the test; and then it is remarkable how soon people become convinced, without that rational and satisfactory proof which would be required in any other matter. The following circumstance has been creating great alarm in the neighbourhood of Fakenham for the last six weeks. In Syderstone Parsonage lives the Rev. Mr. Stewart, Curate, and Rector of Thwaighte. The house has a modern appearance, and not at all calculated for concealment.

About six weeks since an unaccountable knocking was heard in it in the middle of the night. The family became alarmed, not being able to discover the cause. Since then it has gradually been becoming more violent until it has now arrived at such a frightful pitch that one of the servants has left through absolute terror, and the family, we understand, intend removing as early as possible. The noises commence almost every morning about two o'clock, and continue until daylight. Sometimes it is a knocking, now in the ceiling overhead, now in the wall, and now directly under the feet; sometimes it is a low moaning which the Rev. Gentleman says reminds him very much of the moans of a soldier on being whipped; and sometimes it is like the sounding of brass, the rattling of ice, or the clashing of earthenware or glass — but nothing in the house is disturbed. It never speaks, but will apparently beat to a lively tune, and moan at a solemn one; especially at the morning and evening hymns. Every part of the house has been carefully examined to see that no one could he secreted, and the doors and windows are always fastened with the greatest caution. Both inside and outside of the house have been carefully examined during the time of the noises, which always arouse the family from their slumbers and oblige them to get up, but nothing can be discovered. It is heard by every one present, and several ladies and gentlemen in the neighbourhood, who, to satisfy themselves, have remained all night with Mr. Stewart's family, have heard the same noise and have been equally surprised and frightened. Mr. Stewart has also offered any of the tradespeople in the village an opportunity of remaining in the house and convincing themselves. Indeed the rev. gentleman has several times spoken to the supposed ghost, demanding the cause of its being troubled, and has even attempted to use his spiritual authority to exorcise it, but all to no purpose.

The shrieking last Wednesday night was terrific. It has been formerly reported in the village that the house was haunted by a rev. gentleman whose name was Mental, [Ed. note: The man's name was actually "Mantle"--an unfortunate typo, under the circumstances] who died there about 27 years since, and this is now generally believed to be the case. His vault, in the inside of the Church, has lately been repaired and a new stone put down. The house is adjoining the church yard, which has added, in no inconsiderable degree, to the horror which pervades the villagers when the family daily tell the tales of the previous night's freaks and screams of the nocturnal visitant. The tale is told with great eclat in the surrounding villages; and those who previously were believers in the earthly visitations of spirits are as much confirmed in their opinions as if one plainly and openly had arisen from the dead; and the incredulous are made almost to believe: it is altogether a rare feast for the superstitions. As to our own opinion, it is that, in all likelihood, some wily practitioner of fraud has availed himself of a knowledge of the premises, a disposition to be superstitious, and a fearful reluctance rigidly to push a proper investigation, to harass and annoy the family; at the same time we must say, from the representations of ear-witnesses, that the thing is so cleverly and cautiously conducted as to give it a very mysterious character.

On May 29, this same paper carried a sequel to their story:

Since our communication on the above subject, facts have repeatedly reached us of further freaks of this mysterious and nocturnal visitant, and from these repeated representations, we have thought it right to pay a visit to the village to enquire further into particulars, and although there are some circumstances that we do not at present feel at liberty to divulge, yet we believe the following particulars may be given without any breach of good faith.

On Wednesday last, Mr. Stewart requested several most respectable gentlemen to sit up all night, namely, the Rev. Mr. Spurgeon, of Docking, the Rev. Mr. Goggs, of Creake, the Rev. Mr. Lloyd, of Massingham, the Rev. Mr. Titlow, of Norwich, and Mr. Banks, surgeon, of Holt, and also Mrs. Spurgeon. Especial care was taken that no tricks should be played by the servants ; but as if to give the visitors a grand treat, the noises were even louder and of longer continuance than usual. The first commencement was in the bed-chamber of Miss Stewart, and seemed like the clawing of a voracious animal after its prey. Mrs. Spurgeon was at the moment leaning against the bed post, and the effect on all present was like a shock of electricity. The bed was on all sides clear from the wall; — but nothing was visible. Three powerful knocks were then given to the sideboard, whilst the hand of Mr. Goggs was upon it. The disturber was conjured to speak, but answered only by a low hollow moaning; but on being requested to give three knocks, it gave three most tremendous blows apparently in the wall. The noises, some of which were as loud as those of a hammer on the anvil, lasted from between 11 and 12 o'clock until near two hours after sunrise. The following is the account given by one of the gentlemen:

"We all heard distinct sounds of various kinds — from various parts of the room and the air — in the midst of us — nay we felt the vibrations of parts of the bed as struck; but we were quite unable to assign any possible natural cause as producing all or any part of this. We had a variety of thoughts and explanations passing in our minds before we were on the spot, but we left it all equally bewildered."

On another night the family collected in a room where the noise had never been heard ; the maidservants sat sewing round a table, under the especial notice of Mrs. Stewart, and the manservant with his legs crossed and his bands upon his knees, under the cognizance of his master. The noise was then for the first time heard there — "above, around, beneath, confusion all," — but nothing seen, nothing disturbed, nothing felt, except a vibratory agitation of the air, or a tremulous movement of the tables or what was upon them. It would "be in vain to attempt to particularise all the various noises, knockings and melancholy groanings of this mysterious something. Few nights pass away without its visitation, and each one brings its own variety. We have little doubt that we shall ultimately learn that this midnight disturber is but another Tommy Tadpole, but from the respectability and superior intelligence of the parties who have attempted to investigate into the secret, we are quite willing to allow to the believers of the earthly visitations of ghosts all the support which this circumstance will afford to their creed — that of unaccountable mystery. We understand that enquiries on the subject have been very numerous, and we believe we may even say troublesome, if not expensive. We may suggest that it cannot be expected that letters should be taken in unless post-paid.

The parsonage was examined thoroughly, in the hopes of finding some sort of rational explanation for the peculiar knockings--a trench was even dug around the house--but nothing was found to throw any light on the disturbances. In fact, the more the house was inspected, the louder and more frequent the noises became, as if to taunt these researchers.

On June 22, 1833, the "Norfolk Chronicle" published a number of affidavits from various long-time residents of the area, who all testified that violent and mysterious knockings and groanings had been heard in and around the parsonage for at least the past forty-five years--at times, when the house was completely unoccupied. This, of course, was greeted with a good deal of skepticism, with some correspondents strongly suggesting these affidavits--all from the "servant class"--were the products of weak-mindedness and illiterate superstition.

After this, the story faded from the newspapers on the usual exasperatingly inconclusive note. The last report I have found of the weird happenings at Syderstone is this brief item:

Yorkshire Gazette, July 27, 1833

The "ghost"--as ghosts usually do--disappeared from the public eye, but, apparently, not from the life of the Stewart family. In Edward Moor's 1841 book "Bealings Bells: An Account of the Mysterious Ringing of Bells at Great Bealings, Suffolk, in 1834" he published a letter written to him by Reverend Stewart, which made it clear that the Syderstone haunting was--in a reversal of the usual phrase--forgotten, but not gone:

Syderstone Parsonage,
near Fakenham, Norfolk,
Tuesday Evening, May 11, 1841.

Sir,—You have indeed sent your letter, received yesterday, to the House of Mystery. In the broad lands of England you cannot, perhaps, find such another. But I regret to add, that I can afford you no assistance in the “Bell” line. I have no doubt but your work will be very curious. I shall look out for its announcement in the Norwich Papers, and feel gratified to be a purchaser.

"Our noises," in this Parsonage, are of a graver character. Smart successions of "Tappings,"— "groanings,"—"cryings,"— "sobbings,"—"disgusting scratchings,"—"heavy trampings,"—and “thundering knocks,”—in all the rooms and passages,—have distressed us, here, for a period of nearly "Nine Years," during my occupancy of this Cure. They, still, continue—to the annoyance of my family, the alarm of my servants, and the occasional flight of some of them. And I am enabled, clearly, to trace their existence in this Parsonage, to a period of Sixty Years past. I have little doubt either that, were not all the residents anterior to that time (in fact of a former generation) now passed away, I could be able to carry my successful scrutiny “on, and on!”

In 1833, and 1834—we kept almost open house to enable respectable people who were personally known by, or introduced to, us to satisfy their curiosity. But, our kindness was abused,—our motives misinterpreted,—and even our characters maligned. We, therefore, closed our doors; and they remain hermetically sealed! 

In  1834—I had prepared my "Diary" for publication. My Work was purchased by Mr. Rodd, the eminent Bookseller, of Newport Street, London, but as the "End" had not arrived, I postponed my intention from day to day,—and year to year,— in hope of such consummation. But the "Noises" occasionally recur, and my “Diary" occasionally progresses, until it has, now, assumed rather a formidable appearance.

Nothing can be more laudable than your generous, and christian object, proposed by the sale of your work in question; and the favourable results of which will, I respectfully trust, equal your most sanguine hopes.

Suffer me, again, to express my regrets for being unable in any way to forward your object: whether from personal experience or the experience of friends. I assure you l shall hear, with pleasure, of your being more fortunate in your application to others.

I have the honor to be,

Sir,

Your obedient Servant,
John Stewart, Clk.

Unfortunately, I can find no indication that Stewart's diaries were ever published.

The Hotel Marguery Mystery

Once upon a time, there was a 63-year-old sales manager for a shirt manufacturing company named Albert E. Langford, who lived with his wife in a suite in New York City's elegant Hotel Marguery. On the night of June 4, 1945, he went to see who was outside one of the doors of their apartment. Whoever was there shot him dead, and seemingly disappeared into thin air.

The murder itself was puzzling, but relatively straightforward. What made this case so weird was the subsequent investigation into the crime, which brought forward a cast of characters more suited for a vaudeville sketch than a murder inquiry.

Chief among these human oddities was Albert's semi-grieving widow. Mrs. Marion Mayer Langford was, at the time of her husband's death, 70 years old, although she stubbornly maintained she was only 55. This "art and music patroness" was a flamboyant woman with heavy makeup, hair dyed a bright red, and lots of expensive jewelry. She had a substantial allowance from her wealthy father, which she augmented through a series of highly profitable investments. She was, in fact, the modern-day equivalent of a multi-millionaire, of considerably higher wealth and social position than her spouse. Langford, to whom she had been married less than three years, was her second husband. Her first marriage, to a lawyer named Grimes, ended when he died on the French Riviera in 1936.

Mrs. Langford could tell the police very little about Albert's murder. Her account of the evening was almost peculiarly simple: She had spent the earlier part of the evening entertaining friends. They left shortly after her husband arrived home from work. She then retired to her bedroom to change clothes. At about 8:30, her Pekingese, Wendy, began growling at a door which led to the hotel corridor, and Albert went to see what was up. After a few moments, he returned with the news that there were two men outside who wished to speak to her. He gathered that the purpose of their visit was something connected to Rafaelo Diaz, an opera singer who had been a close friend of Mrs. Langford's before his death in 1943. She declined to see them. Albert left to send the men away. Mrs. Langford heard the sound of angry voices, then of a scuffle. When she went out to the foyer to investigate, she found Albert on the ground, bleeding from a bullet wound in the head. He died before help could arrive.

That was all anyone could ever determine about the death of Albert Langford. No one in the hotel, including his wife, claimed to have heard any gunshots. No one had any idea who the two men could have been. They had apparently avoided going by the front desk of the hotel. The Hotel Marguery's elevator operator stated that on the fatal night, he had taken two men up to Langford's floor, but when they left the elevator, they walked off in the direction opposite to the victim's apartment. He never saw them again, so presumably they left by the hotel stairwell. All the elderly, near-sighted operator could say about the passengers was that they were deeply tanned and wore dark coats. The murder weapon was never found.

The motive for the killing was equally mysterious. The dead man had apparently been a nondescript, inoffensive type, the sort who fails to attract either ardent friends or passionate enemies. A suspicion soon arose that the real target of the killers was not Mr. Langford, but his wife. According to law enforcement, in the weeks prior to the murder Marion had gone to the police and the District Attorney, complaining that certain unnamed people were trying to extort money from her.

Investigators began to examine Mrs. Langford's many friends and acquaintances, who proved to be a very curious lot. The most well-known of her associates was 59-year-old Evelyn Nesbit. Four decades earlier, Nesbit had figured in one of America's most scandalous murders, when her former lover, Stanford White, was shot by her husband Harry Thaw.

As a beautiful teenager, Nesbit had been a celebrated model and chorus girl, courted by a string of wealthy and famous men, but the years had not been kind to her. By the time of the Langford murder, the divorced woman was a broke, washed-up alcoholic. Nesbit confirmed the reports that Mrs. Langford--whom she described as a close friend--had been plagued by extortionists.

Another notorious figure who popped up in the investigation was former silent-film star Carlyle Blackwell. In between his marriages to heiresses and Ziegfield girls, he was said to have been briefly engaged to Marion before her marriage to Albert Langford. Although his name added additional color to the newspaper reports about the mystery, he claimed he had not seen Marion for several years, and could say nothing relevant to the shooting.

The police believed their most promising lead was in Mrs. Langford's relationship with the late operatic tenor, Rafaelo Diaz. Diaz sang with the Metropolitan Opera for some years before he quit in favor of performing "in the drawing rooms of socialite women." (And, yes, that was probably a euphemistic description of his activities.) Diaz and Marion had once been partners in a slightly shady-sounding talent booking company. Could this business have attracted some crooked associates who were now looking to squeeze money out of the wealthy woman? It was not an implausible theory, but no evidence to back it up was ever uncovered.

Then there was another singing friend of Marion's, a 30-year-old operetta singer/would-be show business impresario named Reed Lawton. Police were very interested indeed to learn that during the course of their friendship, Mrs. Langford had given him more than $100,000. Lawton was married, but he conceded that he "didn't emphasize the fact to Mrs. Langford." It was reported that the pair had planned to open up a nightclub together, stories that Marion fiercely denied.

After her husband's death, Marion Langford found herself issuing a lot of denials. Stories emerged that she frequented nightclubs and illegal gambling joints and that she regularly held card parties in her apartment which were attended by some very dubious characters. It was said that she gave money and lavish gifts to a succession of "proteges" in the musical world--all of them personable men many years her junior. Acccording to a former chauffeur, she often took lengthy vacations in the company of various men.  There was also talk about her friendship with a "familiar nightclub character" named Joseph Rosenzweig, who was well-known to the police thanks to his penchant for committing grand larceny and writing rubber checks.

Reed Lawton interrupted his career (he was touring with a road company production of "Naughty Marietta") long enough to talk to police and, of course, the press. He told a peculiar story about how a Cherokee Indian, "Chief Robert Redwing" had arranged the marriage between the Langfords with the help of a "Baroness de Chaney," an ex-lover of Albert's. Albert, it seems, had promised them $25,000 if they found him a rich woman to marry, and their choice for this honor was the widowed Marion Grimes.

Mrs. Langford gave many vehement, decidedly frazzled-sounding statements--often in the third person-- describing all these "dirty, rotten statements" as bald-faced lies. According to Marion, she never gambled. Since her remarriage, she had never so much as set foot in a nightclub. She "never associated with Broadwayites and she never had disreputable people in her house." The "smartest people in America" were "her dearest friends." She "spent her money the way she wanted to--which, perhaps, was foolish but she did." Her "standing financially and socially is 100 per cent plus."  She had never traveled alone with any man other than her husband. The 100 grand she gave Reed Lawton was merely a loan, one that he quickly repaid. She also refuted any suggestion that the late Mr. Langford had been little more than a gigolo who had married her for her money. "He was a friend of my late husband, a very nice man and easy to get along with. I wanted companionship." (She did, however, admit that she had kept the marriage a secret from her father. Apparently, after her first husband died, old Mr. Meyer had warned her against remarrying, lest she fall prey to fortune hunters.) Albert, she huffed, was "the finest man who ever lived...My husband worshiped me and adored me until he breathed his last...he never accepted a dime from me." She added "I'll tell you what's wrong with me--I've been too damn good. I've been a sucker."

Mrs. Langford complained that she was "a cultured woman, a refined woman. I speak English, French, German and Italian. I have legions of friends...My husband's people love me and my servants are faithful." Her only fault was being enough of a "damn fool" to generously hand out money to unworthy friends. Reed Lawton, she snarled, was a "fantastic liar...very difficult to handle."

And as for that hussy Evelyn Nesbit, why, she barely knew the dreadful woman at all. Same with Joseph Rosenzweig. Despite what the police claimed, she insisted that no one had ever tried to extort money from her. Mrs. Langford speculated that her husband had fallen victim to holdup men. "I wish to God they had taken my jewelry and left my husband alive," she sighed. Marion also volunteered the information that a few days before the murder, Albert had gone to a fortune teller who told him he would live to be 98.

Hopefully, Mrs. Langford revisited this soothsayer and demanded a refund.

Marion ended this public self-pity party by moaning that "She has been honest and helped poor struggling people and what she got from the newspapers was really something."

The police finally found "Baroness de Chaney" living in Hollywood. She proved to be a former model named Beatrice Coleman. She claimed the story of the $25,000 "finder's fee" was nothing but an innocent joke. She admitted that before he married, Langford had given her a diamond bracelet and a 40-carat sapphire ring, and that he had offered to loan her money for some business enterprise, but she maintained that contrary to what the press was reporting, he never supported her financially. After Langford married, she saw no more of him because "Mrs. Langford was very jealous of me and forced us to break off our friendship." Coleman offered the enigmatic theory that Langford had been killed because "he was in somebody's way...You know there was much money involved, and money is a powerful force." She gave no further details.

Meanwhile, by July 2, 1946, Mrs. Langford had recovered from her grief enough to marry for the third time. Her newest husband was Walter von Elvers, a young dentist who had been squiring her around the New York nightclubs.

This parade of nuttiness did not bring anybody one step closer to solving the murder, but the police investigation, always lacking in direction, wearily slogged on for a while longer. They learned that Langford had put a great deal of his wife's money into some business schemes of dubious probity, and that shortly before his death, she had told him he wouldn't be getting another cent from her. These stories were given credence when, in 1947, "Chief Redwing" was arrested for his role in some bogus "oyster dehydration company." Perhaps Langford had somehow crossed some of his shady associates, and they took a lethal revenge? It was no secret that the Langford's apartment contained some $100,000 worth of jewelry and artwork.  Perhaps Albert was one of the victims of a Brooklyn gang of robbers who had committed other murders in the New York area?  Perhaps, as a few papers vaguely hinted, blackmail had been the motive?

All this made very entertaining copy for newspaper readers, of course, but by the time the murder finally faded from the headlines, the world had yet to learn who killed Albert Langford, and why.

Only Wendy knew, and she wasn't talking.

Weekend Link Dump

Knock knock!
Who's there?

Western Press, Sept. 28, 1929

Regular Link Dump readers probably already guessed the answer to this one.

So, let's knock around some links:

What the hell is with this toothy Jesus?

What the hell is with this ancient skull?

Who the hell wrote this ubiquitous poem?

Who the hell was Eldad?

What the hell is the Bermuda Triangle of the East?

Watch out for the Beast of Gevaudan!

Watch out for those Magic Evil Eye Boxes!

Watch out for these weird beaches!

Watch out for those fictitious distresses!

Mexico is really cracking up!

"Cocaine, runnin' all 'round my brain..."

Catholics, dead sheep and fire balls, all in one post!

Cornwall, Ontario:  A little-known headquarters for Weird.

Agnes Waterhouse, the first woman in England to be hanged for witchcraft.

Laurence Shirley, nobleman and executed murderer.

Toby the Sapient Pig, the "greatest curiosity of the present day."

Out: Grammar Nazis.
In: Grammar Devils!

Remembering the King of the Gypsies.

Cornwall, where witches have their own museum.

The Netherlands, where Santa is being called a racist.

Berlin's weird amusement park.

Mankind's legacy:  A bunch of freakin' holes.

Nellie Sloggett, who was sort of Cornish folklore's Mollie Fancher.

On astronomers and UFOs.

The vacuum cleaner that could have brought world peace.  Or something like that.

The Grim Reaper visits Albuquerque.

A ghost moose visits Maine.

Richard III liked his wine.

Just another mysterious death in Los Angeles.

A look at Early Modern monuments.

Edward VIII's magician doctor.

Time slips a go-go.

The celebrated Mrs. Lessingham:  The life and times of a Georgian actress.

The last shot fired at Waterloo.  It did not go the way you might think.

Just how old are we?

The rules for gentlemanly pistol dueling.

It's Friday.  What better time to read about the history of the Happy Hour?

Bladder-Stone Operation:  The Musical!

Taliesin:  Frank Lloyd Wright's cursed home.

A night that could truly be described as "Hell on Earth":  The Crocodile Massacre of Ramree Island.

And, finally, our song of the week: Jeff Buckley's sublime reading of my favorite poem.



See you all Monday, when I'll be looking at a New York murder with a remarkable cast of characters.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

This one comes to us courtesy of a journal, not a newspaper, but close enough.  It is a short, if anything but sweet story from the "Worcester Magazine," for the third week of September, 1787. As M.R. James would say, it is a warning to the curious.

Philadelphia, September 1. We learn from Lancaster that the following singular affair is founded on fact, and confirmed by Dr. Huston.

On the evening of the 11th ultimo, a young man having obtained information of some young women near Wright's ferry, having formed a resolution of going in the evening to a cornfield to get some roasting ears of Indian corn, resolved he would go with a white sheet about him to represent a ghost, and have some fun in scaring them; but fatal was the consequence to him; whether he saw any thing which might be permitted to chastise him for his boldness, or what incident fell out to craze his imagination we cannot tell. But so it turned out, that after running through the fields for some hours, at last he reached a house in a manner frighted beyond description; he was immediately seized with epileptic fits, and continued to have frequent returns of them, till they put a period to his existence about the middle of last week. Doctor Huston attended him, and says when he was not in these fits, he was always scared and imagined he saw something terrible, and cried to be taken away from it.

This is an awful warning against all attempts to terrify women and children, from which no good consequences will follow, but sometimes those that are very fatal.

The Brooklyn Enigma

Mary Jane “Mollie” Fancher appeared destined to be one of the most pleasantly average girls in Brooklyn, New York. Her early life had had some troubles, but no more than were successfully faced by many people in that or any other period. Born on August 16, 1848, her mother died when she was seven, and her father subsequently remarried and virtually disappeared from her life. She and her two surviving siblings were thereafter raised by an unmarried aunt, Susan Crosby. Fancher grew up bright and well-liked, and appeared quite normal until 1864, when she developed some vague, not-unusual complaints—“nervous indigestion,” lack of appetite, and general weakness. Physicians prescribed a regime of horseback riding as the best way of “bringing her out of herself.” It indeed set her on the road to doing just that, but in ways no one imagined. This seemingly innocuous doctor’s order was her first step into becoming what would later be called "The Brooklyn Enigma." Even if the more astounding stories about her are taken with some skepticism, she still remained striking proof that we human beings are far more complex and mysterious creatures than we even realize.

Fancher’s long, strange journey began on May 19, 1864, when she was thrown from her horse. She suffered a few broken bones and head injuries, but she gradually recovered. She even accepted a proposal of marriage. However, her convalescence was scarcely over before she was even more badly hurt in a horrific accident where her skirt became caught on a streetcar and it inadvertently wound up dragging her over the pavement for nearly a block. She suffered head and spinal injuries, and it seemed at first that this second incident was too much for the girl. On February 3, 1866, Fancher, who had been bedridden since her accident, slipped into the first of what would prove to be a lifetime of recurring trance states. From that time until the end of her life, she was bedridden, often blind and utterly paralyzed. She scarcely, if ever, ate or drank. Her baffled doctors could do nothing for her except try to make her tormented existence as bearable as possible.

In June of 1866, her doctor, Robert Spier, arrived to do a routine examination. Before leaving, he said smilingly, “I always remain here longer than I intend. I was to be home today at one o’clock to my dinner. We are having chicken pot pie, and you know it is never good when cold.”

The next day, Fancher fell into a lengthy trance state. Her right hand was frozen in an awkward position behind her head. Her entire body was largely paralyzed and in chronic, agonizing pain.

Here is where Fancher’s story goes from tragic to incredible. This paralyzed, bedridden, pain-wracked, seemingly utterly broken woman became a whirlwind of activity. She wrote thousands of letters, kept a diary, created numerous beautiful yarn works and wax flowers, (talents she did not have before her illness,) and from her little bedroom--a room she would never leave again--carried on a busy social life.

This went on for nine years, until she went into another mysterious coma. When she awoke, the first face she saw was that of Dr. Spier’s brother. She asked him if his sibling made it home in time to get his chicken pie. Then, she realized that everyone around her suddenly looked much older…

Her mind had reverted to the “old Mollie.” She had no memory of the past nine years. When shown her letters and yarn work, she thought, “They were the work of one who was dead.”

Fancher began exhibiting varied psychic abilities. For unknown reasons, she quickly went blind, only to discover that she could “see” anyway. She could not explain it other than to say that it was like she could somehow “see” through her forehead. (This likely had something to do with the pineal gland located between the eyes—what mystics call “the third eye.”) She also displayed clairvoyant powers, predicting events in the future. She began to practice “astral projection,” where her mind could travel at will and observe events hundreds of miles away. On at least one occasion, this “wild talent,” as Charles Fort would call it, plunged her into horror. One day, she suddenly screamed, “My God, he is dead!” She was helplessly watching her brother dying in a train accident.

Fancher's other peculiar abilities were carefully recorded. It was said that in complete darkness, she could correctly distinguish colors. She could find objects people had mislaid. She knew when thunderstorms were approaching, many hours before they arrived. She read letters and books merely by running her hands over them. When her front bell rang, she knew who was there before anyone even answered the door.

On one occasion, she suddenly told Miss Crosby, "Aunt, Uncle Ike is at the door, and he is very ill." She was right. Waiting outside the door was Ike Crosby, the brother of Mollie's late mother. Ike had left New York when Mollie was still a small child. This visit of his was the first time since then that anyone in the family had seen or heard of him.

All this turned Fancher into America's most famous invalid. She was visited by a steady stream of doctors, scientists, poets, authors, academics, and clergymen, all anxious to solve the riddle of someone who was so helpless, yet so strangely gifted.

A noted astronomer named Henry Parkhurst had all the doubts a rational man of science would feel about the stories of Fancher’s odd powers. He did a number of experiments designed to show whether the young woman was a cynical hoaxer, a hysterical invalid, or…well, something else altogether. At the end of his tests, he still could not understand her, but he was convinced her paranormal abilities were genuine. (Fancher herself was unable to explain her gifts other than statements such as “I have broken the backbone of science and all the ‘ologies!”)

One day in 1887, Fancher fell from her bed, causing yet another head injury. Several days later, a friend was sitting with her when she fell into one of her sudden, inexplicable trances. When she awoke a few minutes later, she gave the man a puzzled look. “Who are you?” she asked…in a voice that was not Mollie Fancher’s.

Yes, evidently feeling life wasn’t quite weird enough already, Fancher had developed split personalities. Five of them. Everyone around her was introduced to “Idol,” an aggressive type, “Rosebud,” a sweet six-year-old, “Pearl,” an ethereal, elegant lady who wrote poetry, “Ruby,” a wisecracking, rambunctious tomboy, and “Sunbeam,” who seems to have been an extension of Mollie’s original self.

By the 1890s, Fancher's physical condition improved somewhat. She regained some of her sight, she was able to move her arms and upper body, and she ate and drank almost normally. Curiously, her relative return to health saw a corresponding decrease in her psychic abilities. 

In a newspaper interview that appeared in the "New York World," on November 12, 1915, she gave her own rationale for her long and unusually unfortunate existence, suggesting that "there must be some hidden purpose in keeping me alive and that maybe it is just to show thousands of suffering men and women that the human soul is greater than the body and can triumph over any illness or pain the body may have to endure."  Despite her near-lifetime as a recluse, she still took a great deal of interest in the outside world.  She displayed a rather wistful interest in contemporary ladies' fashions--although she thought girls nowadays didn't wear enough--and expressed her disgust for automobiles and the Kaiser.  She was also a supporter of women's suffrage.  ("I pay taxes on this house and I ought to vote.")

Fancher continued in her strange, kaleidoscopic little world until on February 3, 1916, she reached the fiftieth anniversary of her first trance state, which she wryly called her “Golden Jubilee.” The “Brooklyn Enigma” died eight days later.

It is ironic that her tombstone reads, “Mollie Fancher knew the secret of life.” While she accepted her eerie, tortured existence, she probably remained an enigma even to herself.

Fancher's grave in Greenwood Cemetery,
courtesy of Allison Meier.

Weekend Link Dump

Strange Company wishes to remind everyone that we all need somebody to lean on.

- Allez, ne fais pas la tête et dis moi que tu m'aimes. pic.twitter.com/4CzB9sUxg2
— MaiS-Si (@Ganddella) August 3, 2014

The cats heartily agree.

On to this week's helping of Links 'R Us:

What the hell is swimming in earth's oceans?

What the hell is flying in earth's atmosphere?

Who the hell were the Zonians?  Find out here!

Watch out for those pervert poltergeists!

Watch out for those fairies!

Lima is really booming!

Christianity on the Nile.

This may not be Alexander the Great's tomb, but it'll do for the moment.

Lovely photos of Orkney's Standing Stones.

A Liverpool woman caught between the Devil and the tax collectors.  Forgive the redundancy.

A roundup of mirages seen around the world.

A scandalous Georgian elopement.

Censoring tombstones.

Meeting up with some very strange company.

That time when American boys went to a Nazi summer camp.

A look at 1744 Boston:  Many pretty women, and no prudes.

A handy guide to Jacobean brothels.

A handy guide to 18th century pick-up lines.  Don't try these at home!

The underground cities of WWI.

If this theory is true, being an Iron Age king had its drawbacks.

A lunatic con artist running amok in the world of horse racing.

Two sleeps: A lost historical practice.  (Incidentally, I read "At Day's Close" a few years ago, and I highly recommend it.  Fascinating book.)

Hell Kitty:  The Guide to Demonic Cats.

Hail Kitty:  The Guide to Shapeshifting Cats.

A Duchess and her shells.

The Vindolanda Tablets:  A peek into the private world of Roman Britain.

Barney Gibbons, probably the Civil War's unluckiest soldier.

Tsutomu Yamaguchi, probably either the unluckiest or the luckiest man of 1945, I'm not sure which.

Personally I think a Ryan Gosling bathroom is weird, creepy, and somewhat pathetic.  On the other hand, put together a Lane Davies bathroom, and I'm there.

Are UFOs passe?

While we're on that subject, here's a look back at a 40-year-old UFO.

Another example of how science is only beginning to catch up to Poe's "Eureka."

Charles XI looks at the future.

The terror of night terrors.

I can't imagine this is a good sign.

Hey, maybe the Holy Grail is a really good salad.  Anyone ever think of that?

To anyone nostalgic for the "good old days," I have two words for you:  "Fish custard."

Seeking a pardon for a witch.

Cincinnati's courthouse riots of 1883.

Leicester's balloon riots of 1864.

Arabella Williams, little-known Georgian spy.

A 15th century farm in 21st century London.

And, finally, our song of the week:  Linda Ronstadt and Ann Savoy's heartbreakingly lovely cover of "Walk Away Renee."



Well, I'm outta here. See you on Monday, when I'll be presenting the story of a woman who was once America's most famous invalid.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

This story of the remarkable sequel to a meal that truly was to die for comes from the "Pittsburg Dispatch," August 4, 1889:

The story of the queerest tribute to the dead on record comes from Lambertville, in Hunterdon County. Near that town lives Mrs. Elisha Pratt, widow of Deacon Pratt, who was famous as a farmer, a genial soul, and an ardent Methodist. He was particularly fond of tickling his appetite, and was deemed considerable of an epicure. His wife was an excellent cook, and her dinners were rare exhibitions of culinary skill for a rural neighbourhood. The deacon enjoyed nothing better than a houseful of clergymen around a table laden with tempting victuals. And Mrs. Pratt, who doted on the deacon, was in her element when preparing such a feast and helping entertain such goodly guests.

About a year ago a number of ministers were on their way to the camp-meeting at Ocean Grove. There were just a dozen of them. Deacon Pratt had them all stop over night at his farmhouse, and gave them a rousing dinner early in the evening. It was a dinner modeled on the New England plan, as Pratt came from Vermont, and so did his wife. There was everything conceivable to eat and plenty of reasonably hard cider to drink. The deacon was in the best of humour, and partook even more heartily than usual of the food. His wife, accustomed as she was to her husband's large appetite, was astonished at the amount he consumed. and made a mental inventory of the various articles and the amount of each that he swallowed.

The next afternoon Deacon Elisha Pratt died of cholera morbus. The physician said the dinner knocked him out. The funeral was the largest the neighbourhood ever knew. Eight of the twelve clergymen present at the dinner acted as pall-hearers, and the other four officiated at the church and by the grave.

The widow was inconsolable for a while, and talked about the tribute she proposed having prepared in memory of her husband. Everybody supposed she was going to erect a handsome monument, and the makers of tombstones sent in bids. But they were all mistaken. Mrs. Pratt had in view the most remarkable and yet suggestive of memorials. She had the work done quietly in Philadelphia, and it required some weeks to finish it. When it arrived at the farm and some of the widow's intimate friends were invited to call and see the tribute, they were at first astounded and then shocked, and finally they felt a disposition to laugh that was controlled with difficulty. On the table in the parlour stood a large glass case. On top of the case was a small arch, made of solid silver. Surmounting the arch was the figure in silver of an angel blowing a trumpet. Inside the arch and suspended from its centre was a tablet of white marble, on which were inscribed the following words in deep, black letters:

"THIS IS WHAT THE DEACON DIED OF."

But it was underneath the glass ease that the great surprise awaited spectators. There on plates arranged in the order in which they were served, were exact duplicates in wax, and some in glace shape, of the various articles of food the deacon had eaten at the dinner the evening before he died, and also exact duplicates in quantity and size of the amounts he had consumed. There was a large plate of soup, a big slice of meat, heaping side dishes full of vegetables, three cucumbers, huge slices of pie, a quarter of a water-melon, two plates of ice cream, a small cup of coffee, and three goblets of cider. They were perfect pieces of work in wax, as well as perfect representations of what had passed down the deacon's throat at the dinner. The whole thing had cost several hundred dollars. The neighbours naturally ridiculed the tribute at first, but they all respected the widow, and when they found that she was really in earnest in her grief and in her regard for the wax memorial they restrained their mirth and said little about it outside. Many of them thought that the sudden loss had unhinged Mrs. Pratt's mind somewhat. That is why it is only after the lapse of a year that the report of the astonishing tribute has leaked out.

I am sure you all can sympathize with my grief at being unable to find online a photograph or illustration of Deacon Pratt's memorial. If anyone knows of such a thing, I do beg you to let me know.

Mrs. Harvey and Her Mummy

Sarah Jane Harvey

In 1960, if you had asked any resident of the Welsh town of Rhyl who their most average, unexciting, unremarkable resident might be, most would have probably answered, "Mrs. Sarah Jane Harvey."

Before long, this opinion would require some dramatic revising.

The sixty-five year old Mrs. Harvey spent over 40 years in the same house on West Kimmel Street. After her husband Alfred died in 1938, she earned a threadbare living by taking in lodgers. This uneventful existence continued until April 1960, when she was admitted to the hospital "for observation." She was tired and unwell, but her doctor was having a hard time finding a reason for her illness.

While she was in the hospital, her son Leslie and his wife, who lived in a neighboring town, decided to give her a pleasant surprise for her homecoming: they would clean and redecorate her house.

The surprise turned out to be all theirs. One of the first things Leslie wanted to tackle was a large wooden cupboard at the top of the stairs. For as long as he could remember, his mother had kept it locked, explaining that it contained the belongings of Frances Knight, an elderly lady who had boarded with her many years before. Mrs. Harvey had forbidden anyone from ever opening it. Leslie decided that it was high time to get rid of what he assumed were a few old clothes and other worthless junk.

When he pried the cupboard open, what he found instead was a body of a long-dead woman, encased in layers of dust and cobwebs. The corpse had been naturally mummified by drafts of warm, dry air. A pathologist later testified that "the body was rock hard and remained as a statue. A large proportion of the body was brick hard and resisted a hammer and chisel."

Leslie Harvey, horrified and not a little mystified by his discovery, went to the police, who immediately went to Sarah's hospital room to question her about this unusual bit of home decor. When told about the body, all she could say was, "Oh, goodness gracious!" She denied any knowledge of the corpse. When it was suggested that the body was that of Frances Knight, she dismissed the possibility. Mrs. Knight, she declared, had left her home soon after the end of World War II to go live in Llandudno. Mrs. Harvey apparently hoped everyone would just shrug the matter off by assuming that some complete stranger had secretly crawled into her cupboard and died.

When she realized the police would not be this accommodating, she reluctantly gave a far different story. Early in 1940, she explained, Mrs. Knight rented a room in her house. The lodger was separated from her husband, who sent her two pounds a week maintenance. Mrs. Knight was an invalid, so she gave Mrs. Harvey written authority to collect this money. About a month after her arrival, Mrs. Harvey heard her scream. She ran into her lodger's room, where she found Knight lying on the floor, saying, "I am in an awful lot of pain and I would rather be dead." Very soon after that, the lady got her wish. Naturally alarmed by Mrs. Knight's sudden death, Mrs. Harvey could think of nothing better to do than to simply shove the corpse into the cupboard and put all this unpleasantness behind her. "I realize that I have been very foolish," she added, "but I kept trying to keep things covered up." She also kept Mrs. Knight's maintenance checks, putting the cash in her own bank account. When she made her weekly trip to the magistrate's office for the money. the clerks would periodically ask her, "How is the old lady?"

"She's keeping very well," Mrs. Harvey would reply with what was probably unintentional dark humor.

Unfortunately for Mrs. Harvey, the police did not find her second "explanation" any more convincing than her first. And when the pathologist found that Mrs. Knight had died with a stocking tied very tightly around her neck, Sarah Harvey found herself arrested for murder.

At her trial, the arguments for both sides were fairly simple. The prosecution stated that Mrs. Harvey had strangled her lodger in order to keep those maintenance checks for herself. However, the defense countered by pointing out that there was no proof that the deceased had died of strangulation. Wrapping a stocking around one's neck was a well-known folk medicine cure for a cold. Perhaps, they argued, the ailing Mrs. Knight had tried this unconventional bit of alternative medicine, and then died of perfectly natural causes.

No one seemed to find this scenario particularly convincing, but no one could prove that it was impossible, either. What derailed the prosecution was the simple fact that Frances Knight's corpse was so desiccated that doctors were unable to positively identify the cause of her death. Although Mrs. Harvey had to serve 15 months in prison for fraudulently collecting Mrs. Knight's maintenance checks, she was acquitted of murder.

To this day, the only person who has ever known for sure how Frances Knight died was Sarah Jane Harvey. If Mrs. Harvey was guilty of murder, she kept this information to herself until the day she died, which was very soon after her release from prison. The mysterious ailment that sent her to the hospital and indirectly triggered the discovery of her little secret turned out to be incurable cancer.

Weekend Link Dump

Strange Company urges everyone to spend this weekend with a good book.

"I am glad you have a Cat, but I do not believe it is so remarkable a cat as My Cat" - TS Eliot pic.twitter.com/MlRyr4D57c
— Foyles Bookshop (@Foyles) July 29, 2014

And, of course, a good cat.

Here's the latest crop of links, freshly picked:

What the hell are these pipes?

What the hell are the Longyou Caves?

What the hell was the Coyne UFO?

What the hell is China's Terracotta Army?  Now we know!

Holy Hello Kitty, Batman!  What the hell is walking around Norwalk?

What the hell is on the moon?

Watch out for the Little Red Man of the Tuileries!

Are you a cat?  If so, watch out for those Druids!

Watch out for the Goatman of Greer Island!

Watch out for those Nigerian Vampire Cats!

Watch out for that Australian Quarantine Station!

Oxford is really, well, smelly!

A theater cat gets a suitable funeral.

A look at European 19th century dogs.

Alien pancakes, fairies, and Mayan pixies.  Hold the salt.

If I'm ever in London, one of the first places I'll want to see is the world's oldest music hall.

Behold the Duck Whisperer.

Here be monsters.

The Bionic Man, ancient world version.

A birthday greeting to Charles Fort, on behalf of all lovers of Damned Data.

Georgian Petticoat Dueling.  One of those historical tales you really, really wish had been true.

Why experimenting with electricity is not for amateurs.  Or, sometimes, even scientists.

A helpful guide to being admitted to a Victorian lunatic asylum.  Having late-stage syphilis is not necessary, but it helps.

Amber:  Time machine to the ancient world.

Premature burial turned tourist attraction.  Plus some really sweet camping!

The Manchester Courier, no fans of WWI.

Everything you never wanted to know from personal experience about poltergeists.

The dawn of the Era of Toilet Paper.

The history of Collecting Dogs.

The woman who tried to assassinate George III.

Uncovering a Merovingian necropolis.

Looking for Z.

Believe it or not, someone has put together elaborate charts analyzing smutty talk throughout the ages.  Vulgarity was so much more creative in the old days.

Iron Age warriors, resting in pieces.

Finding ancient earth fossils...on the moon?

Some newly-discovered Nazca geoglyphs.

The problem of New York's Cat Island, and how you can help.

The ghost that started World War I.

Wild Weird West.

Fashionista horses!

The story of a stolen cloak, 1766.

The astonishingly impudent Elizabeth Harriet Grieve.

Vegetarianism in the Victorian era.

Attics: Storehouses of forgotten history.

The mythology of the Tarot.

When did Earth become habitable?

Dr. Hyde, Bad Physician.

And, finally, our musical interlude for the week: The overture to Beethoven's magnificent "Fidelio." Not only my choice for the greatest opera ever, it is one of the greatest musical works ever composed, period.



See you all on Monday, when we'll be talking suburban mummies.

Newspaper Clipping(s) of the Day, Till Death Do You Part Edition

Illustrated Police News, January 27, 1894

As I threatened promised a while back, here is a selection of articles illustrating the Joys of Celibacy. My main difficulty in compiling this assortment of Wedding Horrors was the sheer volume of articles on the topic.  Studying the old newspaper databases leaves me honestly amazed that there were any couples left fearless enough to take the plunge.

Illustrated Police News, December 3, 1870

To save myself from spending the rest of my days compiling story after story of gruesome wedding tragedies, I concentrated most of my efforts on the Blogger's Best Friend, the "Illustrated Police News." God bless the IPN, they really knew how to look on the sunny side of life.

For openers, here is a cautionary tale about the dangers of quaint old traditions from September 3, 1898:

A tragic affair is reported to have occurred at a gipsy wedding at Vladina, in Moldavia. The marriage was being celebrated in grand style, with all the traditional usages of the "Tziganes," writes our Bucharest correspondent. As is the custom while the feasting is going on, the bridegroom suddenly rushes to the tent where his future wife is ensconced and seizes her, she screaming, in unison with her female companions, for succour. The bride is then carried off with the relations following, firing shots and making a mock chase. All this took place until the bridegroom started to drive off with his newly-gained prize. Then, as the first shots were fired he was seen to throw up his hands and fall from his cart. Someone by mistake had fired a bullet, and this had pierced the un-fortunate bridegroom's brain.

Another wedding tradition that led to disaster was reported on December 18, 1886:

The custom of rice throwing at weddings resulted in an accident on Thursday at Firsby, near Spilsby. The horses attached to a fly were startled by the rice throwing, and the vehicle, coming into contact with a grave-stone in the churchyard [Ed. note: Those deadly gravestones again!] was upset. The driver and the brother of the bride were thrown from the box-seat and the latter had his leg broken. The bride and bridegroom escaped serious injury.

So, once you've said your vows and left the church in one piece, you think you're home free? The same issue that carried the above story had this grisly item:

On Monday night a shocking accident occurred at Chorley. Thomas Leydell, a bleacher, who was only married in the morning, was returning from Preston with his wife and some friends, and while attempting to pass the level crossing at Chorley during shunting operations, he was knocked down by a loaded coal waggon, and his body was cut in two. His newly-wedded wife and the party had just safely crossed, and witnessed the terrible scene.

Another example from the "Dublin Evening Mail," February 22,1869:

A melancholy accident occurred on Tuesday night last week, at Conwil, a village about seven miles distant from Carmarthenshire. Mr. Samuel Thomas, a farmer residing at Tralbach, near Conwil, was married that morning at the registrar's office at Carmarthen to the daughter of a neighbouring farmer named Howell Griffiths. The wedding party remained in town until the evening, when they drove to Conwil in a cart belonging to Griffiths. About seven pm--the evening being extremely dark, and rain falling at the time--they were near the Rock and Fountain, a public-house on the turnpike road at Conwil, when the horse from some cause stopped and became restive. On being urged forward the animal seems to have "backed" over the embankment, and in an instant the cart and the whole of the party, consisting of Samuel Thomas (bridegroom,) Mary Thomas (bride,) Howell Griffiths (father of the latter,) and Benjamin Evans, of Blaenant-coch, a farmer residing in the neighbourhood--were precipitated into the river Gwili, which runs parallel to the road. Griffiths, his daughter, and Evans succeeded in getting out of the river, but the bridegroom was not to be seen. After a short time the three survivors went to the Rock and Fountain, when an alarm was raised, and efforts made to recover the body, but without success. The two men were put to bed, but the bride refused to retire to rest. At eight o'clock on Wednesday morning the missing body and the carcasse of the horse were recovered. The deceased was fifty-five years of age, and a very inoffensive man. His bride was many years his junior. It may be supposed that the grief of the latter was very intense on finding herself a widow within some seven or eight hours of her marriage. It is said the road at Conwil is in a very dangerous state, there being no fence to prevent horses on a dark night from going over the embankment.

By this point, you'd think anyone would know that if you choose to go up in a hot air balloon for your marriage, you're just asking for it. The IPN, October 21, 1893:

A terrible ballooning accident is reported from Piedmont. An aeronaut named Charbonnet, who was married on Wednesday, subsequently ascended in a balloon with his bride, with the intention of making a wedding trip in this manner across the Alps. The pair were accompanied by another aeronaut to assist in the management of the balloon, and the start was made under favourable circumstances, but in the evening, when in the vicinity of Ceres, north of Turin, something went wrong with the balloon. It descended to the earth with great velocity, and finally struck the ground with terrific force. Charbonnet was killed on the spot, and his wife and the assistant were both seriously injured.

Perhaps you're not the bride or groom; just a member of the wedding party. "The Marriage Curse can't hurt me," you chirp blithely.

Let me turn your attention to the IPN's May 14, 1887 issue:

A report of the sad fatality depicted on our front page has already appeared in the columns of this paper. It will doubtless be remembered by our readers that a week or two ago a convivial party returned home from a wedding. It appeared from the evidence offered at the inquest that one of the party (a relative of the bridegroom) retired to rest. In the course of the night a loud noise was heard, and a female residing in the same house was aroused. She hastily hurried on her clothes, and discovered at the bottom of the stairs a young man, who had evidently missed his footing and tumbled down, breaking the lamp held in his hand. The injuries were of such a serious character that shortly after the fall he breathed his last. The jury returned a verdict of accidental death.

"I know how to save myself!" you say. "I'll forget about a formal wedding and just elope! That way, nothing can go wrong!"

Think again, sport. From the IPN's February 25, 1871 issue:

On Friday night last a most melancholy and fatal occurrence took place in the immediate vicinity of one of the Wantock Hills, Somersetshire. At present but a very brief account has reached us of the leading facts, which are as follows:--Miss Laura Eglington, a young lady possessed of great personal attractions, who resides with her uncle and guardian, Mr. Shearsmith, (the last-named being what is called a gentleman farmer) chose some months ago to fall in love with the son of a neighbouring farmer, and for a long time past Miss Laura and her young man have kept company, or, to speak more correctly, have had secret interviews. Mr. Shearsmith, or Squire Shearsmith, as he is more usually designated, from the very first set his face against the attentions of the young farmer, and a week or two ago forbade him ever entering his house again. High words ensued, and the squire was only restrained by his niece from laying violent hands upon the farmer's son. It would appear that this quarrel hastened on the catastrophe which occurred on Friday night. The lovers arranged an elopement. When all the inmates in her uncle's house were asleep save herself, Miss Laura crept noiselessly downstairs, passed through the side door, and reached the garden gate where her lover awaited her. In another minute the heedless and truant pair were riding side by side at a smart pace in the direction of an adjacent town which one of the two was never destined to reach. From some cause, at present unknown, Miss Eglington's horse took fright and ran away with the fair rider, who was, in a brief space of time thrown or rather knocked from her saddle by an overhanging bough of a tree. It was in vain that her lover urged on his steed to render her assistance. When she fell, Miss Eglington's foot remained in the stirrup, and in consequence of this she was dragged by the runaway steed for a considerable distance. When picked up she was found to be quite dead.

From the "Sydney Stock and Station Journal," May 24, 1907:

An attempted elopement in Clifton Forge, Va., ended in the death of the would-be bride and groom. After being arrested and brought back after starting to Washington, Miss Mabel Pendleton, aged 17, plunged from a suspension bridge over the Jackson river and Stewart C. Gay, her fiance, jumped to save her, but both were drowned.

Even if you escape death, your wedding is practically certain to end in a riot. The IPN, March 8, 1890:

An unusual scene was witnessed at a registry office in a southern county last week, on the occasion of the marriage of a resident with his domestic servant, a girl about twenty years of age. The happy bridegroom, who was on the shady side of sixty, buried his first wife very recently, and great indignation was expressed when it became known that he was to be married again. About four hundred people assembled outside the office and greeted the pair with groans and hisses, and threw at them bags of rice and flour and other missiles. On leaving the registry the newsly-married pair had to be protected by the police. The bride took shelter in a neighbouring house, and the bridegroom sought the protection of a public-house till the crowd was dispersed by the police.

Or maybe you'll merely nearly burn to death. From the IPN, November 23, 1895:

A fire occurred in the church of Notre-Dame at Auteuil during a wedding. the edifice was completely filled by a brilliant congregation which had assembled to witness the marriage of Mdlle. Vignier, daughter of a municipal councillor, and M. Henri Tissot. Just as the bride entered the nave on the arm of her father the linen cover of the altar caught fire through a lighted candle falling upon it, and in a moment the whole of the valuable draperies of the church were in flames. Fortunately through the presence of mind of the priest a panic was averted, and by the aid of the gentlemen of the wedding party the flames were almost extinguished when the firemen arrived. The excitement having calmed down, the ceremony was proceeded with.

Or the father of the bride will accompany you down the Aisle of Doom. From the IPN for March 28, 1896:

A terrible scene has been enacted on the termination of wedding festivities at Argenteuil, outside Paris. A Mdlle. Hallon had been married during the day, and all went merrily until the evening, when (remarks the "Telegraph" correspondent) the bride's father was noticed to be in a state of great excitement and agitation. After the guests had all departed M. Hallon produced a revolver and fired at his wife. She was severely wounded, and hardly had she fallen to the ground when her son-in-law also received a bullet, which laid him low. Hallon continued to shoot, and, evidently thinking he had killed his wife and the young man, he blew out his own brains.

The guests will be out to get you, too. The IPN, August 13, 1898:

A tragic affair occurred on Monday week at a wedding supper.

A party of friends were enjoying the hospitality of the newly-married couple, when, in the course of some "larking," one of the guests pointed a pistol at the window and pulled the trigger. The weapon proved to be loaded, and the shot struck the bridegroom. He now lies in a perilous position.

Not to mention vengeful former in-laws. IPN, March 10, 1888:

A wedding ceremony which was about to take place on Friday morning, last week, in Knooknamuckley Church, near Portsdown, was interrupted in a most startling manner. William Thompson, a young man residing at Gilford, entered the church a few minutes before the wedding party, and took a seat. The ceremony was just about to commence when he fired a pistol at the bridegroom, whose name also is Thompson. The latter fell forward, pierced through the right lung. The bride screamed and fainted, and for a time there was a scene of confusion, during which William Thompson escaped, but he was soon afterwards arrested. In the afternoon the prisoner was brought before Mr. Chisholm, a justice of the peace, at Portsdown. The first witness examined was Elizabeth M'Greedy, daughter of the sexton of the church. She deposed that after the rector entered the building the accused came in and asked her at what time the wedding was to take place. When told two o'clock, he sat down. Shortly afterwards the wedding party entered in couples. Thomas Thompson, the bridegroom, and Mary Anne Moffat were the first couple. The bride was Fanny Jane Moffet, who entered along with William Coulter. When they had gone as far as where witness sat there was a shot, and she saw smoke. She heard the bridegroom moan. After the firing witness was frightened, and ran out to the graveyard. The prisoner was sitting where the smoke was. She saw him afterwards in the graveyard, and believed him to be sober. Other witnesses gave corroborative evidence. The accused was remanded for a week. As three medical men have pronounced the case hopeless the police were desirous of taking the injured man's deposition, but this was found to be impossible. The prisoner, it is said, purchased the revolver at a shop at Portsdown on Thursday evening, and was on Friday morning seen loitering near the church. No cause is assigned for the outrage except alleged cruelty to the first wife of the injured man, who was the prisoner's sister.

And vengeful ex-girlfriends. IPN, March 3, 1888:

A shameful outrage was perpetrated on Tuesday evening at Saint Hilaire du Sois, situated in the neighbourhood of Narbonne, Paris. A young couple were walking home after the wedding festivities, in company with the bridegroom's father, when they were attacked suddenly by three men and a woman, who, darting out of a dark corner, began to belabour them soundly. All at once a cry of intense anguish was heard. The woman, Marie Miqual, had flung the contents of a bottle of vitriol in the bridegroom's face. The bride, who was also injured by the liquid, shrieked and cried with the pain, and soon the old father--one against four--fell to the ground covered with bruises. It was half-past ten, and most of the inhabitants were in bed; but the noise alarmed them, and as they came to the rescue the brutal assailants of the nuptial party took to their heels. Every attention was lavished on the unfortunate victims of the diabolical outrage, but the bridegroom is blind for life and his face is a mass of wounds. The bride is also disfigured horribly, and it is feared she, too, may lose her sight. The father, who was so cruelly beaten, will be confined to his room for a long time. Marie Miqual, the instigator of the attack, accused the bridegroom of having seduced her.

If you're lucky, onlookers will settle for slaughtering each other. From the "Evening Telegraph," September 25, 1906:

The gallantry of a young Italian name Piaza led to a quarrel at a wedding breakfast at Zurich, in which the father of the bride was murdered, and Piaza was almost beaten to death.

Towards the end of the feast Piaza quarrelled with the father of the bride, a Swiss named Crami, because the latter asserted that the bride was the prettiest and happiest woman at the table, whereas Piaza contended that his partner was the most beautiful member of the company. Crami grew angry, and struck Piaza, who thereupon drew a knife and stabbed his host.

Crami fell back in his chair dead. A wild uproar followed, and when the police arrived to arrest Piaza they found he had been beaten almost to death by the guests.

Of course, sometimes the bride or groom is not the murderee, but the murderer. IPN, March 4, 1899:

Rosa Komlossy, the maid-of-all-work to a widow living alone at Esseg, in Hungary, recently murdered her mistress with a hatchet and buried the corpse a few inches deep behind the house. After sleeping soundly in her mistress' bed, says the "Neues Wiener Tagblatt," which tells the story, she next day removed all the furniture of the house to Mohacs, where her fiance was living.

The corpse, however, was soon found, and the Esseg police tracked the murderess to Mohacs, where she was about to be married.

Just in the middle of the wedding ceremony, as the bridegroom, according to Hungarian custom, was about to place a wreath of myrtle on his bride's head, the police entered and arrested Rosa Komlossy for murder.

There's only one way to survive your wedding day. Get arrested and locked up in a nice safe police cell. The "Dundee Courier," July 14, 1882:

Henry and Mary Glanister, of Liverpool, have had a painful wedding day experience. They were married on Monday, one of the guests at the after festivities being Mrs. Glanister's mother, who was so overcome with emotion and liquor that she became uproarious and fell into the hands of the police. The bride and bridegroom attempted to rescue her, with the result that they were locked up on their wedding night. On Tuesday the bride was discharged, but the bridegroom was fined 10s, or a month. He was taken to the cells.

All in all, it's not surprising that this poor fellow decided suicide was the easiest way out. This little story was published in the IPN on December 2, 1882:

On Wednesday, last week, Dr. Diplock held an inquest at 54, Adison-road, Kensington, on the body of a German gentleman named Carl Engel, sixty-four, who was found dead on Saturday morning week, on which day he was to have been married to a Miss Lawrence. It appeared that on Friday evening the deceased retired to bed in his usual health. On the following morning his bedroom door was found to be locked. The door was broken open, and the deceased was found dead, suspended by a strap which was fastened through a hole cut in the cupboard door. The jury returned a verdict that the deceased committed suicide whilst in a state of unsound mind.

Well, there you have it.  If after reading all this you still insist on pursuing marital bliss, don't come crying to me when your wedding photos wind up looking like...well, "Police News" illustrations.

I'd say this bridegroom was a very wise man.

Illustrated Police News, September 18, 1897