"...we should pass over all biographies of 'the good and the great,' while we search carefully the slight records of wretches who died in prison, in Bedlam, or upon the gallows."
~Edgar Allan Poe

Monday, July 3, 2017

The Strange Death of Rebecca Cornell

Vintage photograph of the Cornell house.


All we know for certain about the last moments of 73-year-old widow Rebecca Briggs Cornell is that they were very horrible and very, very weird.

February 8, 1673 seemed a normal enough day for the Cornell family of Portsmouth, Rhode Island. The only unusual event was that Rebecca failed to join the household (which consisted of her son Thomas, his wife Sarah and their six children, as well as two boarders) at dinner. She had been feeling ill during the day, and she allegedly said that the "salt-mackrill" served at the meal would disagree with her. Thomas sat with his mother for about ninety minutes, then left at about 7 p.m. to wind a "quill of yarne" before dinner. He later said he left her sitting by the large fireplace in her bedroom, peacefully smoking a clay pipe.

About 45 minutes later, Thomas' wife sent her stepson Edward to ask if Rebecca wanted something to eat. He was stunned to see flames in the room. He called for help. When the rest of the household entered the room, they found a charred body lying on the floor. What was left of Rebecca Cornell was so unrecognizable that at first, it was thought to be "a Drunken Indian burnt to Death." Strangely, the fireplace had "litell feyer," and the corpse was on the other end of the room.

The inquest into Cornell's shocking death was held the very next day. After the gruesome task of examining the corpse, the jury noted the obvious--that her clothes were "very much Burnt by fire," and the body "very much scorched and burnt." With little further ado, they concluded that the Cornell matriarch "was brought to her untimely death by an Unhappie Accident of fire as Shee satt in her Rome." The unfortunate woman was buried the following day, and that appeared to be that. Case closed.

However, if Rebecca's brother John Briggs was to be believed, the dead woman felt otherwise.

According to Briggs, on the night of February 12 his sister's ghost paid him a visit. The apparition's appearance was so startling that he was compelled to describe it to the deputy governor and council. Briggs stated that as he "lay in his Bedd...being between Sleepeing and Wakeing," something heaved up the bedclothes, forcing him fully awake. He "perceived A Light in the roome, like to the Dawning of the day, and plainely saw the shape and Apearance of A Woman standing by his Bed side." The understandably perturbed Briggs cried, "in the name of God what art thou?" The "Aperition" replied, "I am your sister Cornell...see how I was Burnt with fire." Indeed, in the spectral light, Briggs could see that the spirit was burned on the shoulders, face, and head. Although the ghost did not give any more details, Briggs believed his sister was implying that her death was due to foul play.

Briggs' story inspired one John Russill to come forward with revelations of his own. He claimed that shortly before Rebecca's death, an "Anchant frind" of his named George Soule confided to him that on a visit to the Cornell house, Rebecca told Soule that she planned to move in with her other son Samuel, "but shee feared shee should be made away before that time."

The citizens of Portsmouth became increasingly "Suspitious" that Rebecca Cornell's death was no "Unhappie Accident." It was no secret that the Cornell household was not a happy one. Very unusually for colonial America, Rebecca, not her 46-year-old son Thomas, was the head of her household. They lived in her home, and she was apparently not shy about exercising her authority and controlling the purse strings. In short, her middle-aged son was still dependent on his mother, and rumor had it that he greatly resented his subservience...resented it enough, perhaps, to finally free himself through murder.

Briggs and Russill were convincing enough for the deputy governor to convene a new inquest, and Rebecca's body was exhumed in order for a more thorough autopsy. Two surgeons from Newport were called in to see if any wounds could be found on the dead woman. A "Dilligent search" by the doctors found what they described as "A Suspitious wound" on her stomach. The surgeons believed it had been made "with sume instramen licke, or the iron spyndell of a spining whelle." Suddenly, the fact that Thomas Cornell had been winding yarn with an "iron spyndell" just before his mother's death took on a very sinister significance. Did he use it to stab his mother, and then set her on fire in order to cover up the deed? This second inquest panel now ruled that Rebecca had died not only from burns, but from a "Suspitious wound." Thomas Cornell was put under arrest, and a grand jury assembled. We have little idea of what Thomas' reputation was before his mother's death, but it is striking how despite the paucity of evidence against him, so many people were ready and eager to believe he committed the shocking and relatively rare crime of matricide.

Cornell insisted that neither he nor anyone else was "Instrumentall in any Measure" to procure his mother's death. He believed that "her Clothes tooke fire from A Cole" that dropped "From Her Pipe as shee sat Smoaking in Her Chaire."

Further damaging information emerged about the accused man. Henry Straite, who boarded with the Cornells, stated that it was highly unusual for Rebecca to not join them for meals, even when "Mackrill" was served. George Soule gave more details about his ominous conversation with Rebecca. Soule said she told him that "A difference was arisen between her and her son Thomas, about rent, and she hinted that Thomas would be willing to kill her to get his hands on her money. Soule believed she was genuinely in fear for her life. A neighbor named John Pearce testified that shortly after Rebecca's death, Thomas callously joked that "his Mother in her life time had A desire to have A good fire...that he thought God had answered her ends, for now shee had it."

Although legal precedent forbade wives from giving evidence, an exception was made in this case in order for the court to hear the vital testimony of Sarah Cornell. She largely confirmed her husband's account, but added the peculiar detail that when young Edward Cornell opened Rebecca's door, "the Great Dogg being in her roome, Leaped out over the Boy."

The what?

There was no other mention of the family owning a "Dogg"--particularly one big enough to leap over a teenager--leaving Sarah's remark as just one of the many puzzling details about this extremely odd case. In her book "Killed Strangely: The Death of Rebecca Cornell," Elaine Crane suggested that this was a reference to the many evil supernatural dogs of English folklore. Crane noted that these beasts "were often associated with flame and fire and could be either the ghost of a person come to rectify a wrong or the Devil in the shape of a dog...Indeed, the dog may have been Satan himself, whose presence at this catastrophic moment suggested that he had come to claim Rebecca's soul." Many wives have thought of their mother-in-law as a witch, but Crane proposed that Sarah meant it quite literally.

Sarah claimed to have no idea how Rebecca died, shrugging it off as simply "A wonderfull thing," pointing to the unnatural detail that "part of her Clothes being Cotton and wooll, the wooll was burnt and the cotton Remained whole."

Other significant testimony was given by Rebecca Cornell Woolsey, the dead woman's daughter. She stated that the last time she saw her mother, Mrs. Woolsey complained of being "Afflicted and Troubled," and that she sometimes thought of suicide. Rebecca Senior confessed that she herself "had beene divers yeares posest with an evill spirit, and that she was divers times Perswaded to make away with Her selfe." Mrs. Woolsey was clearly trying to exonerate her brother by insinuating that the elderly lady had ended her own life. Corroborating evidence was provided by Mary Cornell, the wife of Thomas' brother John. Her deposition stated that several years before, Rebecca had despairingly told her that feeling "weake" and "disregarded," she "thought to have stabd A Penknife in her Heart, that she had in her hand, and then she should be ridd of Her Trouble."

The Cornell family dirty laundry got a thorough airing in the court. A neighbor named Mary Almy revealed that she had "severall times observed an Undutyfullness in Thomas Cornell." Rebecca told her that "shee was much neglected, and that shee was forced in the winter season, in the cold wether to goe to her Bed unmade, and unwarmed." She also complained that when she was too unwell to join the family at meal times, "there was nothing brought in for Her to Eate." Even more ominously, Almy said that a Mrs. Shaw told her of a conversation she (Shaw) had overheard between Thomas Cornell and his wife, where the couple told each other, "If you will keepe my Councell I will keepe yours." Elizabeth Parsons, who had helped "lay out" Rebecca's body, testified that the corpse had fresh blood around the nose, adding that Thomas Cornell had been in the room at the time. (This was an obvious reference to the folklore that a murder victim can bleed when in the proximity of the killer.) Other neighbors recalled how Rebecca would complain to them of being ill-treated by Thomas' entire family, and that she was in great fear of both her son and daughter-in-law. She "was afrayed there would be mischiefe don." When asked why she did not separate herself from Thomas, Rebecca explained that she had legally made over her estate to him. Rebecca was quoted as adding, "if shee had thought her son Thomas first wife would have dyed before her, shee would not have made it over to him."

Elizabeth' Parsons' husband Hugh, one of the first neighbors to arrive on the scene after Rebecca's body was discovered, added still more incriminating details. He claimed that in Rebecca's room, he observed burnt cinders lying in "A traine" that "covered the floare in such A manner as if shee had beene drawne thether." In other words, he believed someone had dragged Rebecca's corpse to the place in the room where it had been found.

It was made clear that there were serious financial issues between Rebecca and her son. There had been an arrangement that Thomas was to pay her £6 a year for rent, as well as providing her with a maid. However, he refused to meet these obligations unless she released him from paying back £100 he had borrowed from her. This Rebecca would not do, on the grounds that this would be unfair to her other children.

After the grand jury heard all this, it ruled that Thomas "did violently kill his Mother, Rebecca Cornell, Widdow, or was ayding or Abetting thereto, in the Dwelling House of his sayd Mother." Thomas responded with a plea of "Not guilty," and a trial jury was engaged. At the end of his trial, on May 16, this panel also unanimously found that Thomas Cornell had murdered Rebecca Cornell. Evidently, all the talk of Thomas' unkindness to his mother, the alleged wound on the body, the fact that he was the last person to see her alive--not to mention the cameo appearance by Rebecca's ghost--was enough to convince jurors of his guilt. Thomas was hanged on May 23. His last request was that he be buried next to his mother. His wish was granted. Was this the act of an innocent man, or a murderer's show of remorse?

The Cornell burial plot.


Sarah Cornell was pregnant at the time of her husband's execution. She gave birth to a daughter a short time later. She named the child "Innocent."

Although the case against Thomas Cornell was closed, it certainly was not resolved. Despite the jury's verdict, we simply do not know for sure how Rebecca Cornell died. The testimony suggests that Thomas did indeed have the motive and opportunity to kill his mother, but, of course, that does not necessarily mean he did. There were no eyewitnesses, and a murder weapon was never found. Would Thomas have been reckless enough to commit a murder in such a fashion that he risked burning the entire house down?

It is also by no means clear that Rebecca's demise would have financially benefited her son. The £100 debt he owed her would, upon Rebecca's death, merely revert to her estate. And would the £6 rent really be enough to lead him to kill his own mother? The evidence about the bad relations between the two was based largely on hearsay, and it may be significant that none of these accounts accuse Thomas of physical abuse. For all we know, Rebecca may have deliberately exaggerated the ill-treatment she received from her son and daughter-in-law, in order to gain sympathy from her neighbors.

Hugh Parsons' damaging testimony about the trail of ashes on Rebecca's floor ignored the fact that by the time he arrived on the scene, Henry Straite had already "raked away the fire with his hands," altering the original pattern of the cinders. If Thomas had set his mother on fire 45 minutes before her body was found, Rebecca should have been much more consumed by the flames than the eyewitness testimony suggested. Additionally, the surgeons could have been mistaken about the "wound" they found on what must have been the badly decomposed corpse.

It is within the bounds of possibility that Rebecca did finally succumb to the "evill spirit" and kill herself. As a suicide's property was subject to forfeit, her family would have good reason to conceal any evidence that she ended her own life. Considering that one of the two doors in her bedroom led to the outside, it is conceivable that she was murdered by an intruder. Some modern researchers have even suggested that Rebecca was a victim of what is today known as "spontaneous human combustion." Or--to use Occam's Razor--perhaps the original inquest was correct, and the poor woman merely suffered an "Unhappie Accident."

The Cornell mystery was one that refused to die. In May 1674, a grand jury indicted an Indian named Wickhopash, a former servant of the Cornells, for "actinge abettinge or consentinge" to Rebecca's murder. Although few details about his trial survive, we know that in 1671, Wickhopash was found guilty of having stolen from Thomas Cornell. Perhaps it was theorized that he had committed the murder out of revenge. In any event, Wickhopash was acquitted. He immediately left the area, and disappears from history.

The final chapter of this grim saga came in October 1675, when Thomas' brother William brought a personal indictment against Sarah Cornell, accusing her of having participated in Rebecca's murder. As is the case with the trial of Wickhopash, there is no surviving record of the evidence that was brought against her. We only know that she too was found not guilty.

There is a 19th century postscript to this case--one that is far more famous today than the enigmatic death of Rebecca Cornell. A direct descendant of Thomas Cornell's posthumous daughter was a Fall River, Massachusetts lady named Lizzie Borden. In 1893 she, like Thomas Cornell, stood trial for the murder of a parent.

Of course, Lizzie was far luckier.

Friday, June 30, 2017

Weekend Link Dump



This week's Link Dump brings us Tea and Scandal!






Who the hell killed Lizzie Borden's parents?  (Yes, there are some people who are not sure about the answer to that.)

Watch out for those phantom snowballs!

A tale of a devil-fish and slow-acting poisons.

Because your weekend just wouldn't be complete without a Viking toilet.

18th century book clubs were a lot more entertaining than most 18th century books.

How the Boston Massacre made legal history.

Some possibly life-saving ancient manuscripts from Timbuktu.

The world's weirdest Facebook page?  (No, no, it's not mine.  Now cut that out.)

The world of Haitian voodoo.

What you could buy for a shilling and a pot of beer in Georgian times.

An ancient Ethiopian city has been discovered.

Kings and scrofula.

How ancient Egyptians helped cats conquer the world.

Early 19th century menageries.

The unlucky number three?

An unusual book binding.

A skull cult at Gobekli Tepe?  (Complete with those inevitable words, "surprisingly complex.")

Ghost dogs in African-American folklore.

The long walk of David Ingram.

If you've booked a vacation for 2030, I have some bad news.

It's not looking good for Bigfoot, either.

Proof that the universe really is warped.

Irish UFO reports.

A delightful-sounding cat museum in Montenegro.

Proof that it's impossible to satirize modern poetry.

A modern American sailing disaster.

Pirates of the North Sea.

The "Fejee Mermaid."

Let's talk bog butter.

Let's talk satanic armchairs.

Let's talk fortean brides.

Let's talk Serbian shoe-loving vampires.

Let's talk drumming cockatoos.

Let's talk Rousseau's sex life.  

Invasion of the Sunshine Body Snatchers.

Canada in 1817.

A 19th century marriage that, surprisingly, ended well.

A Welsh botanical excursion.

"Decolonizing" Iraqi archaeology.

Salvador Dali's corpse is about to testify in a paternity suit brought by a professional Tarot card reader.  Because the 21st century is just like that.

The adventures of being a ghostwriter.  I've done a couple of ghosting jobs in the past, and it's a fine path to the madhouse.

A gamekeeper's murder.

The beautiful Fulham Palace.

How to be a proper Georgian footman.

Urine and the philosopher's stone.

Let's just say the Enlightenment era spawned some weird fads.

In a related story, the Victorians had a thing for auburn hair.

Back in the day, "First time on television" was a big deal.

Puritan UFOs.

A dog who served in WWI.

Rayon and insanity.

The fad for liquid stockings.

The worldly Jane Austen.

A 19th century female detective.

A Texan "hidden valley."

A life-saving dream.

A painter who was a victim of the French Revolution.

More proof that crows are smarter than most humans.

The 19th century murder of a Lancashire policeman.

A conspiracy against Napoleon.

A seance and the horror of Luton bus station.

This Week in Russian Weird looks at the strange legend of Czar Alexander I.

Not to mention the Soviet circus clown and the psychic dogs.

And we're done for this week!  See you on Monday, when we'll look at a 17th century woman's mysterious death.  And, of course, on Tuesday, enjoy Strange Company's annual Fourth of July celebration/star-spangled Body Count.

In the meantime, here's some Linda Ronstadt.  This is from one of her later albums, so it didn't get much attention, but this is one of my favorite songs of hers.  (She did her best work late in her career, IMO.)




Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Book Clipping of the Day



This following story of...astral projection? appears in John Tregortha's "News of the Invisible World," (1813)

John Thomas, of St. Just, in Cornwall. is about sixty-two years of age, and has been a notorious drunkard the greatest part of his life. He told me that on Sunday, 21st December 1783, about 7 o'clock in the evening, he left San Crete (now spelt Sancreed) in order to go to St. Just. As it was dark he missed his way, and about midnight fell into a pit about five fathoms deep. On being missing his friends made diligent search for him, but to no purpose.

The next Sabbath day, as one of his neighbours was going to seek his sheep, he saw, at some distance, the appearance of a man sitting on the bank. On drawing near he saw the apparition go round to the other side of the bank. When he came to the place he could see no one; but heard a human voice in the bottom of the pit. Thinking that some smugglers had got down to hide their liquors, he went on; but coming back the same way again he heard the voice. He now listened more attentively, and as he could hear one voice he concluded it was John Thomas who was missing, and on calling to him, he found that he was not mistaken in this. He went and got help, and soon got him out of the pit. But as he had been there near eight days he was very low when he was got out; but is now in a fair way to do well. In the bottom of the pit he found a small current of water; which he drank freely of. This, in all likelihood, was the means of keeping him alive.

It is said that several other persons saw the apparition, but took no notice of it.

As I am not fond of crediting stories of this kind on common report, I resolved to get the account from his own mouth.

W. Moore, Redruth, Jan. 22, 1784

Monday, June 26, 2017

In Which Judge Lansing Walks Into Eternity



There is always a particular element of mystery when someone disappears for no known reason. When that someone happens to be one of the most venerable and well-known figures in the country--a former Mayor (of Albany,) military secretary to General Philip Schuyler, New York State Assemblyman (and Speaker,) delegate to the Constitutional Convention, and Chief Justice and Chancellor to the New York Supreme Court, his sudden vanishing becomes even stranger

But that is exactly what happened to John Ten Eyck Lansing on the evening of December 12, 1829. The seventy-six year old retired judge came to New York from his home in Albany that same morning and took a room at the City Hotel. From what we know of it, his day was as quiet and routine as can be imagined. He was scheduled to have tea at six o’clock with a friend. At dusk, he left the hotel, probably to mail letters before heading for his engagement. After that, he appeared to simply step into a void from which he never returned.

While there was naturally a great deal of excitement and concern about his inexplicable disappearance, the New York papers, oddly, did not even mention the event for over two weeks. It was not until the 29th that the newspapers carried brief mention of the mystery, along with offering a reward of $100 for any information about what had befallen Lansing. So far as is known, these advertisements got no reply. It is striking how, unlike other high-profile disappearances, such as Judge Crater and Dorothy Arnold, there was a complete lack of the usual "sightings," speculation, hoax stories, and wild rumor about his disappearance. Not even the crackpots could guess what had happened to John Lansing.

"New York Spectator"


The only thing approaching a clue we have ever received in this story comes from a memoir of journalist and politician Thurlow Weed, which was published by his grandson. It claimed that Weed knew a lot of political and social “hidden history.” One day, so the story goes, Weed was visited by “a gentleman of high position” with some documents proving Lansing had been murdered. Supposedly, these papers detailed the motives and circumstances of this killing, and even named the people directly involved with the crime. Weed was told to make this information public after all these men, “who had lived useful lives, and died with unblemished reputations” had safely passed away. By 1870, all these men, as well as Weed’s informant, were in their graves. However, Weed learned that this information would hurt innocent people who shared “the strong inducement which prompted the crime.” Many of these people “occupied high positions and enjoyed public confidence,” and their lives would be ruined if the truth about Lansing’s death was ever revealed. As a result, when Weed died in 1882, he took the secret with him.

There is no other evidence for this narrative, which, frankly, reads like some of the worst fiction of the era. It is, however, the only "solution" to Lansing’s disappearance that has ever been publicly offered.

[A footnote: This was not the first time Chancellor Lansing made his mark in the annals of true crime. In 1800, he was the judge in the famous trial of Levi Weeks for the murder of his sweetheart Gulielma Sands. Among Weeks’ defense attorneys were Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton, who would, of course, eventually create scandal of their own. It is small wonder that a legend arose stating that everyone involved in the Sands case was cursed.]

Friday, June 23, 2017

Weekend Link Dump



The first Link Dump of summer 2017 is sponsored by--of course--the Cats of Summer!










Watch out for those tree-felling ghosts!

Watch out for the Shadow People!

An attempted assassination of Robespierre.

An 18th century woman's search for a husband.

Gotta love those Victorian urban legends.

Medieval bastards.

The king's architect.

Why fairies don't like iron.

A haunted Australian road.

The case for 19th century whiskers.

The "kiss of death," in every sense.

The vicarage murderer.

The Love Hotel Murders.

Beatrix Potter's secret journal.

On the hazards of trying to marry a ghost.

Uncovering the identity of a very mysterious murder victim.

A Frenchman who wrote westerns.

Mercy Otis Warren and the American Revolution.

A look at Regency-era Manchester.

The revolutionary power of baking powder.

People have been eating cheese much earlier than we thought.

Mark Twain's favorite fruit.

The Victorian craze for violets.

Personally, I'd rather work around ghosts than children, but maybe that's just me.

This week's Advice From Thomas Morris:  How not to treat constipation.

On the other hand, here's what to do with champagne!

A house where Edgar Allan Poe once lived.

The terrifying Beast of the Gevaudan.

Kurt Russell and UFOs.

The woman who survived her own execution.

The Chinatown Trunk Murder.

God bless America.

Long-lost messages in bottles.

Rachel Jackson, the unfortunate almost-First-Lady.

The dreams of Herr Wesermann.

This week in Russian Weird:  Let's talk Stinking Siberian Mystery Beasts.

And that's all, folks!  See you on Monday, when we'll look at a notorious 19th century disappearance.  In the meantime, here's our video for the week.  The popular Latvian folk tune "Sasala Jurina" ("The Sea Froze") is one of my favorite songs, and Folkvakars does my favorite version of it.  However, I was pretty disgusted that it has--last I checked--only a lousy 196 hits.  So, maybe we can bump up the count a bit?




Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Newspaper Clipping of the Day




Our latest installment of the "Boston Post's" "Famous Cats of New England" pays tribute to a Scottish war veteran's adventurous nine lives:
Kiltie was so baptized because he was born in Scotland. But he's an American now: retired recently from active war service with the United States navy, and resides in Searsport, Me. The good U.S.S. Ozama came to Kiltie's native kitchen on the Isle of Arran, near Glasgow, in 1918, and by doing so changed Kiltie's career considerably. A big machinist's mate named Melvin Thompson fancied the kitten and took him aboard ship under his coat.

Adventure with a big "A" began for the six-day-old kitten from that day. He went through three submarine zones safely. He won the undying devotion of every gob on board. Supplies were low and Kiltie remembers well the night when he heard there were only three cans of condensed milk aboard, and that it was to be no plain gob bill of fare, but was to be reserved for the little Scottish kitten. This, in the face of court-martial if caught.

Upon his arrival at Norfolk, Va., Thompson got a big crate. Kiltie, given farewell pats by a hundred hands, was shipped to Searsport, Me., to the home of Captain Pendleton, a seagoing man who could realize what a seagoing cat had been through. For a week Kiltie was on the road without food or drink and arrived "all in," but the bracing Maine air and good milk worked wonders and now Kiltie holds his own with any cat in the neighborhood.

His one weakness is peanuts, and folks laugh because he eats the shell and lets the nut go untouched. Except for this extravagance Kiltie is real Scotch and makes a thoroughgoing cleanup of all daily rations. His master attributes his peanut wastefulness to shell shock, due to long periods in the submarine zone.

Kiltie is eager to show his brothers and sisters in Scotland that the Post has elected him to a place among the famous cats of New England. He wants them to know how well he's getting on in the States.
~January 5, 1921

Kiltie and the "Boston Post" did not forget each other. Four months after this story appeared, Searsport's most famous feline sent "Post" mascot Hindy a basket of catnip.


Monday, June 19, 2017

Joseph Mulhattan, King of Fake News

Here lies what's left of liar Joe,
A truly gifted liar,
Who could outlie the liar below
In realms of flame fire.
He lied in life, in death he lies,
And if, his lies forgiven,
He made a landing in the skies,
He plays the lyre in heaven.
~mock obituary for Joseph Mulhattan that appeared in "The Cambrian" in 1901



Anyone who has spent even a brief amount of time looking through 19th century American newspapers quickly learns that they are full of highly entertaining, but utterly fictitious tales. The annoying truth is, the "better" the story is, the more likely that it was the work of a hoaxer.

If you yourself have read any of these tales, it may interest you to know that it was very likely the product of one man: Joseph Mulhattan, perhaps the most underrated practical joker in American history.

Mulhattan was born sometime around 1853 near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In the late 1870s, he moved to Louisville, Kentucky, where he got a job as a traveling salesman for a hardware manufacturer. He spent much of his time on the road, which, as it happened, gave him the ideal opportunity to pursue his unusual hobby. Mulhattan had a gift for writing, a warped sense of humor, and a fondness for alcohol. Combine those three qualities, and you have the perfect formula for mischief. He would enliven his travels by composing phony news items, ones that were both so outrageous and so seemingly sincere that they readily fooled people into thinking they were genuine. Mulhattan would send them off to various newspapers (most often the "Pittsburgh Leader" and the "Philadelphia Public Ledger,") secure in the knowledge that most newspapers cared little if a story was accurate, as long as it boosted circulation. Have you ever encountered old news accounts of Texas planters using monkeys to pick cotton? The petrified corpse of George Washington? The amazing crystal cave containing ancient mummies in stone coffins? The little girl who was carried away in the wind because she was holding a bundle of toy balloons? The largest meteor known to man falling in Texas? The discovery of the Star of Bethlehem? You can thank Joe Mulhattan for all of them.

Although he used various pseudonyms in his work, (most often "Orange Blossom,") word of his singular talent eventually spread, causing this once-obscure salesman to be lionized as "the greatest liar in America." In 1891, the "New York Times" described Mulhattan as "known in every city in the United States and has probably caused more trouble in newspaper offices than any other man in the country. His wild stories, written in the most plausible style, have more than once caused the special correspondents of the progressive journals of the United States to hurry from coast to coast to investigate some wonderful occurrence which only existed in the imagination of the great liar."

He even merited a place in Thomas W. Herringshaw's 1888 biographical dictionary, "Prominent Men and Women of the Day," where our hero shared space with the likes of Mark Twain, Oscar Wilde, and Czar Alexander III:
In 1884, as a joke, Joseph Mulhattan was nominated for president of the United States, by the drummers' national convention, held in Louisville. Kentucky, on the ticket of the "business men's reform patty." 
Mr. Mulhattan professed not to regard his nomination as a joke, but spoke of it quite seriously. In an interview at the time he said: "There are two hundred and fifty thousand drummers in the United States, and though we do not expect a large vote this time, we shall make a good showing, and organize for the next campaign. This year we had to do everything inside of a week,and we did not have time to get properly organized. The drummers are good canvassers, and they will s t n m p the country from Maine to California; so, you will see, we shall have lots of stump speakers on the road. We may carry a state or two, and thus throw the election into the house, and in that case the present political parties will have to compromise with us. I have always been a democrat, but now I suppose I shall have to call myself the leader of the business men's reform party. In 1888 the drummers propose to down the bummers." 
...Mr. Mulhattan is a remarkably bright and clever business man, is genial and tender-hearted, sunny of disposition, truthful, excepting in joke, and a practical philanthropist. A year ago he organized the Kentucky humane society, and has worked hard since to promote the success of this benevolent enterprise. 
He is still a bachelor, having, as he says, refused all offers of marriage and never made one. In personal appearance tins ex-presidential candidate is very pleasing. He is a small, and shapely man, about five feet five inches in height, and weighing one hundred and thirty-five pounds. His hair and beard are dark, and heavy dark eye-brows reach across his nose. He speaks with astonishing rapidity, and is quick in all movements. His blue eyes give the impression of comprehensive observation. Slanderous attacks on Mulhattan would fail of their purpose; he is a good man, and is highly esteemed wherever he is known. 
The expression "the greatest liar in America," as applied to Mr. Mulhattan, must be understood with modification. It has been given him on account of the harmless weakness with which he beguiles the monotony of selling hardware all over the country east of the Rocky mountains. "Joe Mulhattan" is known everywhere in connection with the authorship of newspaper yarns as surprisingly clever and impossible as the creations of Baron Munchausen. They are as entirely harmless as brilliant in conception and treatment, such as only a pure-minded and educated gentleman of exceptional endowments can write As a rule they have been used without remuneration to the author, who has sometimes done graver work for the magazines and newspapers for pay, and with the conscientious regard for trustworthiness which characterizes ail Mr. Mulhattan's merely business operation. Apart from these his genius takes wing and indulges in flights which amaze by the sublime range of their unveracity. Hence the epithet applied to this American Munchausen, which he never resents, because his unassailable character as a business man and good citizens gives the proper limits to its application. 
"The champion liar of America,'' a variation in phraseology which some affect in speaking of this ex-presidential candidate, is credited with the enormous feat of "laying out" Tom Ochiltree, who, with characteristic chivalry, acknowledged his defeat. Threats were made of sending him to congress in Tom's place on this account, and he had to leave the district in order to avoid what was, at that time, an undesirable consummation. The story which produced such momentous results is briefly outlined as follows: A huge meteor fell from the heavens, crushing houses, people, cattle and trees by its stupendous weight. So enormous was its ponderosity that its fall imbedded it two hundred feet in the earth, and left seventy feet in height still exposed to the light of day. This meteor was red hot, blasting everything about it, and from huge fissures in its substance proceeded sulphurous gases of baneful strength. The Fort Worth Gazette published this incredible fabrication in collusion with its author. An associated press agent read the account, in his hunger for news swallowed it, and telegraphed it to the main office in New York, from whence it was distributed the length of the United States. The morning after its universal publication, the Gazette received one hundred and fourteen telegrams of inquiry respecting the alleged phenomenon, of which several were from Europe; and letters asking for further information poured into the office for months. Even more horrifying was the alleged discovery of five skeletons found in a carriage in a lonely place on the wild prairie of Texas. This little story had the distinction of being illustrated in several weekly publications, and is most devoutly believed by a great multitude which no man can number. 
When the readers meet with a circumstantial account of hidden rivers being found here or there, of vast bodies of water deep under ground, the haunts of eyeless sharks and whales and other monsters who swim in its waters of untold depth, upon which icebergs float, he is exhorted to think of Mulhattan; and the ethnologist and geologist are warned against believing all they see in newspapers about newly discovered works by prehistoric man. 
How many persuasively written and circumstantial fabrics of lies Mr. Mulhattan has written probably only their author knows. Recent oft-repeated accounts of John Wilkes Booth having been seen in many places, which have caused great excitement,had their origin "on the road;" and that biggest of all "sells," his "great national joke," as Mulhattan calls it, was characterized with his usual felicity of expression. Everybody remembers it, and the time of its origin, 1876. A proposal was published all over the country to remove the bodies of Washington and Lincoln to the centennial exhibition, and charge fifty cents a head to view them.
Modern-day aficionados of Mulhattan's work have made a parlor game of guessing which colorful old newspaper stories are really creations of The Master. The most intriguing theory is that Mulhattan invented the disappearance of "David Lang." Lang was purportedly a resident of Gallatin, Tennessee who vanished into thin air while crossing a field. The story became a staple of various popular Fortean books (most notably Frank Edwards' "Stranger Than Science.") It is only in recent years that the tale has conclusively been established as fiction, probably inspired by Ambrose Bierce's short story, "The Difficulty of Crossing a Field." No one knows for sure who first morphed Bierce's fiction into the supposedly factual "David Lang," but for many years a rumor has persisted in Tennessee that Mulhattan was behind the hoax. If so, it's probably his most influential achievement.

It is pleasant to note that on at least one occasion, this menace to the public prints was actually a force for good. In March 1888, Mulhattan read a small news item in the "Richmond Climax." It stated that a local plasterer named Patrick Cunningham was bitten by a snake. Fortunately, he was given an antidote to rub on his wound, with the result that Cunningham "limps a little yet, but will not die, although he was scared badly enough."

A nice little human-interest story. It appealed to Mulhattan. He thought that the tale just needed that little something extra. And he was more than willing to provide it.

A few days later, the "Lexington Transcript" printed the new and improved account of Cunningham and the snakes:
Lexington, KY., March 23.--The Transcript has received the following special dispatch from Richmond, Ky.: 
"Patrick Cunningham, of this place, is death to snakes and venomous reptiles of all kinds. The snake that bites him dies in great agony, frothing at the mouth and swelling to almost double its former proportions. Cunningham has discovered a poison more deadly than that of the reptile, but harmles as a lotion for the human body, and the moment the fangs of the snake come in contact with it a powerful electrical current is generated that drives the snake's own poison through every blood vessel in its body. Blood-poisoning is the result which, with the terrible electrical shock causes almost instant death. 
Cunningham killed during last summer over 17,000 snakes in Madison county, and realized quite a handsome sum by his wonderful skill in driving these offensive reptiles from the premises of our citizens."
The article described how Cunningham had discovered the "deadly lotion." He was born near Calcutta, India, while his parents were doing department work there for the English government. "It was in the jungles of India that Cunningham discovered from the natives the formula for making the deadly lotion, so fatal to poisonous reptiles...Cunningham says he will keep on killing and driving the snakes until there is not one in the state of Kentucky, if the people will pay him for it."

The report concluded, "I have stated in this article nothing but actual facts, without the slightest attempt at exaggeration. If any of your readers doubt in the least they can address Col. Shackleford, or Shackleford & Gentry; E.W. Wiggins, of Wiggins & Best; P.M. Pope, Mr. Willis, the postmaster, or any other reputable citizen of Richmond, or Mr. Cunningham himself, and they will find the statements herein made are nothing but wonderful facts, and they will find that in the matter of exterminating snakes from the soil of old Kentucky Mr. Patrick Cunningham is indeed the modern St. Patrick."

Mulhattan at work, "The Tennessean," March 23, 1888


The story was picked up by the wire services, and soon appeared in newspapers across the country. In Iowa, it was read by the administrator of the estate of a John Cunningham, a recently-deceased relation of Patrick. As it happened, this administrator was very anxious to find the now-famed snake-slayer, but until reading this article, had no idea how to get in touch. As John's nearest living relative, Patrick stood to inherit 3,000 acres of Iowa farmland. And this felicitous twist was all thanks to Joe Mulhattan.

Unless, of course, this sequel was yet another of the old fraud's taradiddles.

It is sad to say that Mulhattan could not invent any happy ending for his own personal story. His drinking gradually got out of control, to the point where, in 1901, he spent time in an Inebriate Asylum. Two months after his release, he was arrested for stealing money from a man in a saloon. The following year, he was found drunk and unconscious outside a Louisville hotel. In 1904, he was again arrested for stealing a coat. A reporter who saw him at this time wrote with what one can only hope was gross exaggeration, "This outcast, ragged, stuttering, downcast man is the same Joseph Mulhattan who ten years ago was the richest, most popular, and best commercial traveler in the United States... The purple and fine linen of his heyday are changed to noisome rags. He sits on a rickety bench, his smeared face in his dirty hands, his bleary eyes staring at the mud daubed shoes in which he has been tramping the streets and alleys of San Francisco. His nose is red and shriveled, his face and body bloated, his limbs dwindled and shaky, his hands like talons."

We know little about Mulhattan's final years, which is possibly just as well. The man who was once America's most famous prankster moved to Arizona, where he took up prospecting, with mixed success. On December 14, 1913, the "Bisbee Review" announced Mulhattan's appropriately outlandish death:
“The waters of the Gila river brought to a close Friday afternoon the career of Joe Mulhatton [sic], commonly regarded as the biggest liar in the world. Mulhatton, who has been mining a number of years in the vicinity of Kelvin, started to cross the Gila at that place late in the afternoon. The stream was swollen and Mulhatton was swept off his feet. Several persons on the ground saw him drown, powerless to give aid. His body was recovered a short distance below and buried a few hours later.”
Was this news report true? Or was Mulhattan hoaxing everyone right to the end?

I prefer to think the latter was the case.