The Return of the Libelous Tombstones

A while back, I did a post sharing some outstanding examples of that little-discussed, but thoroughly endearing phenomenon I’ve dubbed “libelous tombstones.”  Epitaphs are usually solemn and respectful things, but surprisingly often, they are used as vehicles to insult the dead (and the living,) make defamatory remarks, and generally raise hell.  

And I for one applaud them for it.

In the older days, at least, the practice was so common that before I knew it, I had accumulated enough news items on the subject for a sequel.  (Yes, I have a whole file of them, which I suppose is further evidence that my laptop would make fascinating material for anyone studying abnormal psychology.)

Let’s kick things off with this family dispute from the “Yorkshire Argus,” June 23, 1914:

Consett magistrates were asked by Mr. R. W. Rippon, a London barrister, to issue summonses for an alleged libel published upon a large stone cross that had been erected in Benfieldside Cemetery to the memory of the applicant's father. Rippon's complaint was that while his father's name was inscribed upon the front of the stone, the name of his first wife, who was Mr. Rippon's mother, was upon the side in small letters. The name of the second wife of Mr. Rippon’s father, however, had been inscribed prominently and immediately before the name of the appellant's father. 

Proceeding, Mr. Rippon contended that undue prominence had been given to the name of the second wife, white that of his mother had been subjected to a criminal libel.  He therefore asked for a summons against Elizabeth Rogerson, a legatee, the Benfieldside Burial Board, and J. Hamilton, clerk to the board.

In answer to the presiding magistrate, Mr. Rippon said the stone had been erected on the instructions of Elizabeth Rogerson, who had paid for it.

The magistrates eventually suggested that charges should be formalized in writing and be forwarded to the clerk before the next sitting of the court.

"Montreal Gazette," August 2, 1915, via Newspapers.com

The above reflects a somewhat complicated story.  Charles Becker, an ex-New York police officer, had been tried and convicted of the then-notorious murder of bookmaker Herman Rosenthal.  Becker was executed on July 30, 1915.  Becker was no angel--he was part of a police protection racket protecting the illegal gambling operations.  Rosenthal evidently blabbed to reporters, leading to Becker allegedly hiring Mafia hit men to eliminate the overly-chatty bookie.  However, Becker went to the electric chair protesting his innocence to the last, and there are crime historians who believe he was telling the truth.

Further murder accusations were noted in this item from the “Leavenworth Post,” September 17, 1912:

Appleton, Wis., Sept. 17.--Unless a monument over the grave of a little girl in the cemetery at Maine, a small town near here, is removed this week, or the inscription is completely obliterated, the municipal court will be asked to order the father of the child to remove it. The action is the outgrowth of the wording of the epitaph, which is as follows: "Laura lies in this grave and lot; she was shot by Guy and Jakie Scott." Laura Freeman, aged 8 years, and a daughter of Sidna Freeman, a prominent farmer, was accidentally shot and killed by Jack Scott, aged 11 years, last March. George Scott, the boy's father, objects to the epitaph. The inhabitants of the town have taken sides and it might be that there will be serious trouble before the matter is finally settled.

The elder Scott frequently has asked Freeman to change the wording of the stone, but always he has been met with scorn. The men frequently have come near to blows, because of the controversy. Time has temporarily been called, however, pending the decision of the court.

There are many who predict that Freeman will be ordered to change the stone, while others are quite certain that the court will take no action whatsoever.

The “Fargo Forum,” October 7, 1897:

An exchange says this is an inscription upon a Tennessee tombstone: 

L. B., son of J. C. and L.J. Cate, born April 10, 1870. Married Millie Freeman Dec. 21, 1887; was shot and killed by Bill Penick Dec. 11, 1896; caused by Penick swearing a lie on Cate's wife. Aged 26 years, 8 months and 1 day.

Now Bill Penick brings suit against the designer and the maker of the tombstone for libel.

A short and not-so-sweet one from the “Wilmington Journal,” May 10, 1866:

A Trenton paper says: “A walk through the Morrisville burying ground, just over the river, will bring to one's notice a queer epitaph. It is to Samuel McCracken, a former resident of that village, and bears the following addenda to the record of his birth and death: ‘If all the leading politicians and priests go to Heaven, I want to get off at some other station.' To put this on his grave stone was the order of the man by directions found in his will."

The Newport News “Daily Press,” July 29, 1905:

YORK, PA., July 28.-- A conspicuous spot in Greenmount cemetery, in this city, is occupied by a handsome Scotch marble granite monument bearing upon one of its sides a bold inscription, saying: 

A Victim of Chloroform Poisoning and Shock. 

The result of a doctor's negligence. 

Why the inscription is there and what story is back of it no one knows save the man who raised the monument and a few of his most intimate friends.

The monument marks the grave of the wife of a prosperous York merchant. When questioned, he says: "It is all the truth. Some tombstone inscriptions may lie, but that one does not. It is a long and sad story which I do not care to repeat."

Another commemoration to a murder mystery comes from the “Weekly Plain Dealer,” September 10, 1845:

The following epitaph was taken recently from a church yard in Pennsylvania. 

“In memory of Polly Williams, who was found murdered by her seducer, Aug 17, 1810--aged 18 years. 

Behold with pity you that pass by

Here doth the bones of Polly Williams lie 

Who was cut off in her tender bloom 

By a vile retch her pretended groom."

The “vile retch,” a young man named Philip Rogers, was tried for Polly’s murder, but was acquitted, leaving her killing technically unsolved.

A story strikingly similar to the Laura Freeman case was related in the “Boston Globe,” January 10, 1904:

AUGUSTA, Me, Jan 9-"Shot by the son of Elhanan Williams" is the very unusual announcement carved in large letters on a tombstone made not long ago by an Augusta marble dealer and sent to the town of South China. Some indignation has been expressed by the neighbors and friends of the Williams family over the inscription on the stone, in view of the fact that the shooting was purely accidental. 

In the summer of 1902 Herbert B. Plaisted, son of Benj. and Emma F. Plaisted, with his brother, Fred, was out in a boat fishing in China lake. On the shore, about 100 yards away, was Harold Williams, 17, who was visiting there from Waltham, Mass. 

In order that the boys in the boat might hear the of the bullet as it whizzed by them, Williams discharged a 22-caliber rifle in their direction, aiming about 20 feet to one side.

The bullet hit a wave and was deflected, striking Herbert squarely in the forehead just above the left eye. He died a few days later.

Another shout-out to incompetent medical professionals was recorded in the “Jefferson City Tribune,” November 10, 1887:

A tombstone bearing the following inscription was erected in a New Jersey graveyard recently: "In memory of Charles H. Salmon, who was born Sept. 10, 1858. He grew, waxed strong and developed into a noble son and loving brother. He came to his death on the 12th of October, 1884, by the hand of a careless drug clerk and two excited doctors at 12 o'clock at night, in Kansas."

The “Register News-Pictorial,” February 13, 1930:

LONDON, Tuesday. Mr. Justice McNaughton today refused to allow costs against Mr. Walter Ralston, whose wife had unsuccessfully sued him for libel because he had erected a tombstone to her memory after they had separated. He ordered that each side should pay its own costs.

The inscription on the stone has been removed, and Mrs. Ralston has undertaken to have the entry of her “death” deleted from the register.

I will wrap up this collection with the following item from the “El Paso Times,” February 25, 1959.  While it is not exactly “libelous”--”overly frank” might be a better description--it is unique enough to deserve notice.

Auckland, New Zealand (UPI)--A marble tombstone for an English pig that drank himself to death arrived here Tuesday aboard the Orient Liner Orsova. 

The tombstone is the gift of American admirers of a porker named Grover and is on its way to Rottingdean, England. 

Grover the pig broke into his master's wine cellar last December and drank his complete stock of wines before going out in a drunken stupor. 

Radio Announcer Doug China of San Antonio, campaigned to immortalize Grover's accomplishment, and bought the tombstone with donations sent in by listeners to his program.

Weekend Link Dump

 

Welcome to this week's Link Dump!

And we have mail!

A murder, a lynching, and a scandal.

How the grave marker of an ancient Roman sailor wound up in a New Orleans backyard.

America's most haunted homes.

How to make the perfect 14th century omelet.

The fine art of forgery.

The unsolved disappearance of Merlina the Raven.

The Great Siege of Gibraltar.

The Palace of Westminster fire of 1834.

The Fasting Woman of Tutbury.

The Headless Horseman of Ireland.

Edgar Wallace's really bad book promotion.

The search for the world's oldest story.

A large psychic experiment in 1927.

What it was like to be a ploughman in Early Modern England.

In which Native Americans talk space aliens.

WWII and "The Chronicles of Narnia."

A "dinosaur trackway" in the UK.

The origins of witch iconography.

We still have no idea why we sleep.

The origins of the word, "allude."

The ghost and the lost will.

The Crypt of Civilization.

Believe it or not, there's a reason why scientists want our toenails.

A crazy cat tale.

That's all for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll have another round of Libelous Tombstones!  In the meantime, here's this surprisingly NSFW Elizabethan ballad.  Note:  It's not about beer.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

All right, it's time to talk about Weird Things Falling From the Sky!  The "Sault Star," January 21, 2008:

SPRUCE GROVE, Alta. An octopus-shaped hole in a frozen golf course pond has left people in a central Alberta town scratching their heads. 

"It wasn't there (Friday)," said Tina Danyluk, whose house backs onto the pond at The Links at Spruce Grove, west of Edmonton. "The whole pond was covered in snow (on Friday) until this morning when we saw the strange marks in the pond." 

The hole, about 1.5 metres wide, was visible Saturday at the golf course, along with at least 20 splash marks, the longest about six metres. Danyluk and others suspect it may have been a meteor.

Astronomer Martin Beech said he wouldn't rule it out, but the marks perplexed him. To punch through ice nearly half a metre thick, the meteor would have to be huge and would look like a bright burning ball with an associated sonic boom, said Beech, who teaches astronomy at Campion College at the University of Regina. "Usually, it's quite a distinctive rumbling sound and people tend to notice that sound," Beech said. No one reported seeing or hearing anything unusual Friday night. Beech added he wasn't aware of any reports of fireballs in the area.

He also noted that such an object wouldn't normally melt thick ice. 

"If it wasn't a meteorite, what the heck was it?" Beech asked. 

Danyluk's neighbour, Aaron Soos, said the marks were puzzling and had people talking all day. "If the pond was not frozen, we wouldn't even see those marks."

The Matchmaking Ouija Board

Elizabeth Byrd was a successful journalist and historical novelist (a side note: her best-known book, “Immortal Queen,” is one of my favorite novels.)  She also had a deep interest in reincarnation and other supernatural matters (one of her non-fiction works was titled, “The Ghosts in My Life.”)  In 1964, the New York paper “The Villager” published her account of an experiment with a Ouija board.  Usually, such dabblings lead to either complete failure or regrettable encounters with dark spirits, but in this case, the board signaled a future happy ending.  That atypical nature of Byrd’s story made it, I thought, worth sharing.

I still recommend avoiding Ouija boards, however.

I walked along Gay Street last week, that tiny curving street that cuddles in the heart of Greenwich Village. Little has changed since I lived there twenty-one years ago. The rows of small houses built in the early nineteenth century are still curtained in organdy frills or primly shuttered. There is an aura of age as subtle as the scent of woodruff. Cars rarely pass on this secretive little street, but when they do, you envision coaches on cobblestones. And on frosty nights, you smell oak and applewood from the still-burning fireplaces of long ago. 

But it was spring when I passed by. An old horse pulled a flower cart. There were geraniums, mimosa--and great bunches of lilac. 

Because of the lilac, I thought of Dandy and the ghost and wondered if the present tenants of Number Thirteen Gay Street were mischiefed by a little French poodle or had found lilacs in the garden where no lilacs grew. Of course, I couldn’t barge in on strangers and ask such absurd questions; but I lingered outside my old home and remembered how it had all happened.... 

I had moved into the basement apartment when my husband went to war in 1943. My floor-through included a rear garden which I shared with Virginia Copeland, the girl above. By the unwritten code of New York neighbors, we didn’t intrude on one another. Months went by before we met. 

From the desk at my window, I could see Virginia in the garden with a miniature French poodle whom she called “Dandy.” I thought the name suited him, for he was a cocky, prancy, elegant little dog in a curly black coat that was fashionably trimmed. He had a black button nose, plump whiskers, and velvety brown eyes. Often he clowned with blown leaves or played with sun shadows, but I noticed he never barked except to welcome Virginia home. He never even barked when her doorbell or telephone rang--which wasn’t often. She was blonde, beautiful, sad-looking, solitary. 

One night, Dandy scratched on my garden door and summoned me up to her apartment. He didn’t bark but his anxiety was evident. She met me at the garden steps--our first meeting--and I saw that she had been crying. It is difficult for a reticent person to pour out the story of an unhappy marriage and a divorce, yet Virginia needed someone to talk to. So we became close friends, she and Dandy and I. 

Two years passed. One windy April night, just for fun, Virginia brought up her old Ouija board from the basement, and we began to ask it questions. Dandy watched us intently and his concentration was so comic that we both laughed. 

I asked Ouija, “Will Virginia marry again?” 

Under our fingers the planchette moved to YES. “What’s the man’s name?” she asked. The planchette moved to CAP. “Are those his initials?” I asked. No answer. 

We varied the question but nothing happened. Finally, relinquishing Cap, Virginia asked if she would stay in New York. 

The planchette moved firmly to NO. PHIL. 

We asked if she would live in Philadelphia. NO. Where, then? 

“Man--PHIL,” Ouija answered. 

So the man is named Phil?” I asked. 

No reply. 

Virginia laughed. “It’s clear as mud,” she said. “I’m going to marry Cap and live with Phil. A wicked life, but busy...” 

So we joked and had coffee and talked about other matters. The wind rose to a gale, unusual for April, and the little house shuddered and creaked. Dandy put his paw onto the garden door and Virginia let him out, leaving the door open. Suddenly we heard him bark and he ran in to us, still barking--the exultant, welcoming sort of bark with which he greeted her when she’d been away. He seemed to be urging something--someone--into the room. Just as he had urged me to follow him two years before. His guest had apparently followed him over to the fireplace and was standing there. Dandy reared up on his hind legs and placed his front paws on its--what? Trousers, I thought. Dandy’s pink tongue seemed to lick an outstretched hand. 

“He must see a bug or a fly,” Virginia said. But there were no insects on this windy April night. Later we agreed we both had the strongest illusion that a man was standing by the fireplace, relaxed, at ease, at home. 

Then Dandy escorted his guest out the door, returned to Virginia and fluffed at her feet. There were shreds of blossoms on his curly coat and at the garden door--undoubtedly lilac. But it was impossible, for lilac did not grow anywhere on Gay Street; and neither of us had lilac in our vases. The mystery charmed us but we soon forgot it. In May, we gave a cocktail party in the garden, and Dandy officiated as host, extending his usual silent welcome, offering a paw to friends. Suddenly he tore past us and made a flying leap onto a young man, who dropped a parcel and caught Dandy in his arms. For a moment two dark heads lay together, two faces pressed. The man’s face was wet with kisses. 

Virginia, startled by the bark, stared incredulously at Dandy in the man’s arms, and then at the fallen parcel. It had broken, and a huge bunch of lilacs spilled out. A friend introduced the young man as Major Capotosto. 

“Everyone calls me Cappy,” he said, and gave Virginia the lilacs. 

Virginia moved through the party in a radiant daze. Later she dined with Cappy and much later that night she knocked on my door. “Guess where he plans to live?” 

“Philadelphia,” I said. 

“Manila. Philippines. Remember what Ouija said? MAN - PHIL.” 

So Cappy was the Gay Street ghost. He and Virginia have been married seventeen happy years. She wrote me: “Dandy lies buried here in our garden where wild orchids trail over his grave. But lilacs would be more suitable. I wish I could grow them here in Manila . . . .” 

So last week, as I passed down Gay Street and saw lilacs on a flower cart, I remembered Dandy and the “ghost” and I paused outside number thirteen, tempted to ring my old doorbell. But what could I say to strangers, to whom the story would probably be ridiculous? Yet, impulsively, I rang the bell. Florence Mitchel, a dark, attractive young actress answered, accompanied by Misty, her French poodle. She was gracious when I explained my pilgrimage into the past and asked me in. Mindful of Virginia I asked who lived upstairs, and she took me to meet Alice Mulligan. 

“How is the garden doing?” I asked Mrs. Mulligan. “Can you grow lilacs now?” 

“You can’t grow anything,” she said. “Not inside, either.” 

She showed me a row of lifeless plants on her potting table in the kitchen. “Except this.” 

She pointed to a miniature orange tree. “It’s supposed to be perishable but it blooms on, year after year. It’s called Calamondin. And it’s native only to the Philippines.” 

Weekend Link Dump

 

It's time for this week's Link Dump!

Please make yourselves at home.

A Maine ghost ship.

The once-famed Lyon Quintuplets.

Ermengarde de Beaumont, Queen of Scots.

A brief history of the word "yclept."

The man they just couldn't imprison.

It sounds like Shackleton's "Endurance" was a bit of a lemon.

"The idea that many panhandlers are secretly wealthy is, I'm sure, just an urban myth."  Fun fact: There's a guy who's been panhandling in my area for God knows how many years, despite the fact that local amateur sleuths found out that he's actually a well-off guy with a pretty nice house.  

A sad dollar princess.

The failed bank robber who became a tourist attraction.  Another fun fact: An old boyfriend of mine was distantly related to Elmer McCurdy.  He was quite proud of it, too.

Three lonely tombs.

The man who survived Martinique's doomsday.

The role of women in early American plantations.

The chemistry of witchcraft.

A homicidal ex-husband.

Preparing for winter in Early Modern England.

The dangers of virtually resurrecting the dead.  Aside from the general creepiness of it all, I mean.

The color purple played a big role in the Georgian era.

A haunted bridge.

It fascinates me how scientists never seem to think that just because they can do something, it doesn't necessarily mean they should do it.

A woman once became famous for photocopying her backside, which just shows what sort of world we live in.

Depression in the ancient world.

You never know what you'll find in a vulture nest.

Some very out-of-place ancient footprints.

The Wright brothers and their "practical machine."

The mystery of "idiot savants."

The walking statues of Easter Island.

The Black Lady of Darmstadt.

The broderers of St. Paul's.

The man with the world's longest fingernails.

That's all for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll look at a Ouija board experiment that, unusually enough, had a happy ending.  In the meantime, I leave you with, uh, this.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

This odd little story appeared in the “New York Sun,” June 30, 1875:

One evening, a week or two since, a lady residing in one of the southern wards was returning to her home, from a social gathering at a private house, near the hour of midnight.  She was accompanied by a male relative who lived in the house. As they were about to ascend the steps, both glanced upward toward the windows of the second story, and at one of them both saw with perfect distinctness a human face pressed against the pane. The features were not known to either, but presuming it to be a friend of their neighbor (as there more than one family in the house), nothing strange was thought of it at the time.

Before retiring, but after both had bared their feet, the lady and her companion bethought themselves of some article to be procured from the lower part of the house, and as the exact location was known, they descended without a light. On returning, just as the young gentleman placed his foot upon the landing at the head of the stairs he felt beneath it a yielding substance, the shape of which was so clearly defined that he exclaimed, “Why, aunty, I stepped on someone’s thumb!”  At the same instant, the lady putting down her foot responded, “I have stepped on the hand." No sounds of retreating footsteps were heard, and such examination as the darkness permitted failed to discover any human being near them.

On procuring a light, a moment later, both soon satisfied themselves that no creature of flesh and blood was in the immediate vicinity. Wondering, and trembling at the contact with these mysteries, they retired to their beds. 

In the morning simple inquiry, which attracted no attention, elicited the fact that there had been no person in the house the previous night other than the usual members of the family, and a comparison of the features of each one with the face she had seen, a sharp impression of which was fixed in her mind, convinced the lady that it was not that of any one of them.

The most startling and mysterious of the phenomena remains to be told. As if to convince them that their imagination had not been worked upon by any means to create the impression we have detailed, there appeared upon the bottom of the gentleman's foot the next morning, plainly printed in a color quite like blood-red, the facsimile of the thumb he had felt beneath it, and upon the foot of the lady was as clearly discernible the likeness of the inside of a human hand.

The Questionable Death of Walter Huntington

"Flint Journal," May 11, 1929, via Newspapers.com

Around eleven o’clock on the night of May 7, 1929, a wealthy twenty-one year old Harvard student named Walter Treadway Huntington left his family’s mansion in Windsor, Connecticut to buy cigarettes.  He never returned.

Early the next morning, a laborer found his body in a swampy field about a mile and a half from his home.  He had been shot through the head, but the gun that killed him was never found.  The circumstances of his death remained a matter of dispute.  The Medical Examiner, after some wrangling, finally ruled that Huntington’s death was a homicide.  The Chief of Police, however, insisted the young man had killed himself, and his will prevailed.  The case was officially closed.

The site where Huntington's body was found.

There is a peculiar postscript to Huntington’s mysterious death.  Every year until 1952, an unknown man would call or write the “Bridgeport [CT] Herald” to say that the young man had been murdered.  According to this source, Huntington had been beaten, then shot in the center of town, after which his body was dumped where it had been found.  “Look for a girl in the village,” the informant said.  “Why was the case closed as suicide after two weeks?” he asked rhetorically, hinting that organized crime was somehow involved.

There were many other unexplained oddities about his death.  Huntington had left Harvard on a Saturday night, but he did not reach his family home until Sunday evening.  Where was he all that time?  When his body was found, it was still warm, indicating that he had been alive for a few hours after he left home.  Again, what was he doing during this gap in the timeline?  Yet another puzzle is the fact that no fewer than six handkerchiefs, including one that appeared to belong to a woman, were found in his clothing.  If it was suicide, where was the gun?  Why were there no powder burns around his fatal wound?  How to explain the fact that just before his death, he had been given a black eye?  Why did Huntington’s family completely clear out his room at Harvard before it could be searched by the police?

Rumor provided no shortage of possible motives for murder.  According to local talk, Huntington’s widowed mother had become romantically involved with her chauffeur, a liaison to which her son strongly objected.  Could that have been a reason to kill him?  Alternatively, did the victim’s own love life lead to his death?  There was reason to believe that during his time in Boston, he became mixed up with women of “questionable character.”  However, no evidence was ever made public linking any of them to his demise.  Although this is one of those cases where the authorities undoubtedly knew more than they ever revealed, for the rest of us, Walter Huntington’s death remains an enigma.

“This is the perfect crime,” wrote the anonymous informant.  He was quite right.