Newspaper Clipping of the Day

via Newspapers.com

You may recall that a while ago, I posted a story about a man who was being pestered with letters...from his very dead wife. Curiously enough, this wasn't the only marital correspondence from beyond the grave that I've found. Here is a story from the "The True Northerner," October 1, 1885:

This may be said, if all the advices that have been floating of late in regard to people who were supposed to be dead, and are alive again. A telegram from Toledo relates the story of a farmer in Montclara , Ohio, who died and was buried thirteen years ago, but is still writing to his family. The Sunday Capital prints a story quite as remarkable, as follows:

“A very remarkable case has come to my attention through a friend in the pension office which furnishes incidents for a novel as powerful as any Dumas or Eugene Sue ever used. In 1864 a lieutenant from an Ohio village was killed in one of the battles in Virginia and his body was sent home, buried with military honors and a handsome monument erected over it by the citizens of the place. Thousands of people paid their tributes of honor to the young hero and looked upon his face as the body lay in the town hall. He left a widow to whom he had been married only a year, and for more than twenty years she has been trying to get a pension; but, although she keeps fresh flowers upon her husband’s grave, she cannot prove that he is dead. The records in the adjutant general’s office are perfect, and affidavits can be furnished from thousands of people who saw and recognized his lifeless body, but every few months she receives a letter from him written in a hand as familiar as her own. Two letters never come from the same place; now they are postmarked in Colorado, then in Texas, then in New York. Once she got a note from him dated at Washington. He appears to know what is going on at home, and always alludes to local occurrences with a familiarity that is amazing. He sends messages to old friends and gives her advice about business matters which it seems impossible for a stranger to know. She cannot answer these ghostly missives, because he never gives any clew to his whereabouts, and no detective has ever been able to find him. Her friends believe that the writer is some crank or malicious person who takes this way to annoy her, and the distress the poor woman suffers cannot be measured by any other human experience. Long ago she ceased to open envelopes which came with the familiar address, but sends them sealed to her attorney, who uses every possible means to secure a clew to the identity of the writer. The only circumstances to suggest that it may possibly be her husband are the penmanship and the familiarity the writer shows with the lady’s private life, but how he could keep himself posted is another mystery, which cannot be solved. Several times the writer has intimated that he might soon pay her a visit, but the next letter always contains an apology for not having done so. The woman has suffered agony of mind beyond description, and her life has been ruined by this horrible mystery, but of late she has become more resigned, and would neither be surprised or disappointed if her husband should someday walk into her door."

As is too often the case with the particularly weird newspaper reports, I've been unable to find how, or if, this mystery was ever resolved.

The Porteous Riot; Or, Why Some People Should Just Stick to Golf

James Drummond, "The Porteous Mob," 1855

Historically speaking, many large-scale riots seem almost unpreventable, or, at least, unforeseeable. A series of unlucky or tragic events suddenly coalesces into mass violence, and it is difficult to say who could have prevented it, or how. No one person was at fault.

An exception is Edinburgh's most notorious public disturbance, which has gone down in history as "The Porteous Riot." In this incident, it was argued at the time that the violent and fatal commotion could all be laid at the feet of one man's arrogant and thoughtless behavior.

And in the end, he paid a very high price for his errors in judgment.

The origin of our story lies in that age-old practice of smuggling, which was a particularly common activity in18th century Scotland. Fierce resentment of the high taxes imposed by the government in London caused Scots to treat those who provided them with contraband goods as heroes, even patriots. It wasn't just a question of getting a bargain; smuggling was seen as a sign of national independence from that despised Sassenach regime. England, recognizing that smuggling was as much a political issue as it was a financial concern, was doubly determined to crack down on the smugglers. When captured, the lawbreakers would not just be imprisoned, they would be hanged as traitors.

One of the era's most well-known and successful smugglers was Andrew Wilson, who operated out of the village of Pathhead, about twelve miles from Scotland's capital. His skill and popularity among his countrymen made him London's number one target for destruction. In February 1736, Wilson and two cronies, George Robertson and William Hall, burgled the residence of James Stark, a local customs duty collector. This was done out of revenge for Stark having seized some of Wilson's smuggled goods a short time back. As far as Wilson was concerned, he was merely evening the score.

As the authorities were well aware of Wilson's personal grudge against Stark, he became the prime suspect for the theft. Within three days, the smuggler and his confederates were arrested. On March 2, after a short and pro forma trial, all three were condemned to hang on April 14th. (Hall's sentence was later commuted to transportation to America.)

Wilson did not accept his sentence meekly. He, as well as a lot of other Scots, felt he was not a common criminal, but a political martyr. He was determined to make his escape. Allies managed to sneak a saw and a heavy knife to him, tools that he and Robertson used to saw through the bars of their cell window. Robertson was able to squeeze through the gap they had made, but unfortunately for Wilson, he was a "squat, round man." When he tried to make his way through the opening, he became stuck, unable to go either all the way out or back inside his cell. Before Robertson could free him, the guard was alerted, bringing the flight to freedom to a highly embarrassing end.

Wilson was doubly depressed over his failure. Not only had he lost his last chance to save his own neck, but he felt he had forfeited Robertson's as well. Although he accepted his grisly fate, he was determined that his friend should still find a way to escape. A characteristically audacious plan formed in his mind.

Three days before their scheduled execution, Wilson and Robertson were escorted to the Tolbooth church to hear their final Sunday service. When the proceedings were about to commence, Wilson made his move. He threw himself on their three guards, using all his considerable strength to hold them down. "Geordie, do for thy life!" he shouted.

Robertson followed this sage advice. He ran, and did not stop running until he was able to hide himself in Edinburgh's dark, twisting alleys. The citizens were more than happy to offer him shelter from the authorities. Wilson, of course, was soon overpowered, but he no longer cared. He had accomplished his goal.

Wilson's act of self-sacrifice made him even more of a hero in Edinburgh. Anger over what was seen as his totally unjust death sentence grew. As the date of Wilson's hanging approached, authorities became increasingly concerned about the public mood. They feared there would be an attempt to rescue the condemned man on the way to the gallows. John Porteous, one of the three captains of the City Guard, was given orders to have the 25 men under his command monitor the execution site and swiftly put down any signs of dangerous mutiny among the spectators. For good measure, the magistrates brought in a detachment of 150 men from the Royal Welsh Fuseliers.

Edinburgh City Guard

The 41-year-old Porteous could not be called a pleasant character. He had obtained his promotion to captain not from merit, but from influence--the job was his payoff for being willing to marry the Lord Provost's cast-off mistress, Isobel Gordon. Porteous was one of those people who are put in a position of authority, and come to enjoy their power rather too well. To put it more plainly, he was a harsh, officious bully who did not scruple to use physical violence on those unlucky enough to come into his custody. His insensitive and tyrannical nature had made him the most well-hated figure in Edinburgh. He was the worst possible choice to be put in charge of controlling an already hostile and indignant crowd.

As if all that wasn't bad enough, Porteous had a particular animosity towards the condemned man. He saw Wilson's engineering of Robertson's escape as an insult, a grave offense against his authority. It was said that while Wilson was in his custody, Porteous had inflicted savage physical revenge on the prisoner that virtually amounted to torture--a rumor that made Edinburghians all the more outraged.

Site of Wilson's execution

When April 14th arrived, the large crowd around the scaffold was grim, but silent and orderly. Somewhat to the authorities' surprise, the death sentence was carried out without incident.

The trouble began after Wilson was hanged. When the hangman moved to cut down the body of the man Edinburgh had liked and admired, this final indignity caused the crowd's buried wrath to bubble over. Infuriated citizens began throwing stones and clods of dirt at the City Guard. The hangman received such a volley of missiles that he fled. (He had to be put under police protection.) Spectators began rushing the gallows, determined to cut Wilson down and try to revive him, or at least give his body an honorable burial. The situation was dangerously near to going completely out of control.

What happened next is disputed, which is unsurprising, given the chaotic scene. Most reports state that Porteous, instead of working to pacify the crowd, behaved in a way guaranteed to bring on disaster. Furious at this show of open insubordination, he grabbed a musket and fired it at the mob. A young man named Charles Husband fell down dead.

Porteous ordered his troops to fire warning shots over the crowd, which only succeeded in hitting several spectators in the tenement buildings opposite them. When this only added to the uproar, he insisted that his men shoot directly at the horde, threatening the reluctant soldiers with disciplinary charges if they disobeyed. Three people were instantly killed, and at least twelve wounded. The confusion this caused among the crowd enabled Porteous to order a retreat. The Guard began to flee, with the now thoroughly inflamed mob in hot pursuit. Porteous gave another order to fire at the multitude, which resulted in three more deaths and great many other casualties. This just spurred the crowd on. Their goal now was not merely to mourn Wilson's death. They wanted revenge, and their target was Captain Porteous. If the onlookers had managed to get their hands on him at that moment, he would have been quickly torn to pieces.

Porteous made his report to a meeting of the city magistrates, only to find he was no more popular there than he had been among the mob. The magistrates were furious at the debacle, and had no desire to offer him much support. By the time the riot had quelled down, at least nine people were dead and some twenty more seriously injured. The official inquiry into the tragedy led to Porteous facing charges of manslaughter, maiming, and murder.

Porteous' trial took place on July 5-9, 1736. He pleaded self-defense, and brought in witnesses who testified that he had not personally fired into the crowd. (Crown witnesses, naturally, asserted the reverse.) Although by the letter of the law, the defendant had a strong case, public sentiment was so against him that his conviction was virtually a foregone conclusion. It was decreed that on September 8, Porteous would follow Wilson to the gallows.

Although this verdict was welcomed in Scotland, London felt otherwise. His Majesty's government felt that Porteous' actions had been entirely called-for in the circumstances. Prime Minister Sir Robert Walpole granted Porteous a six-week reprieve. It was believed that a full pardon would soon follow.

The news that the Porteous would escape the noose after all outraged Edinburgh. The thought of the hated London government butting in to save a man they held responsible for the death of Scottish citizens just added further fuel to the public fire. A group of men--some of them holding prominent positions in Edinburgh society--secretly made their plans, determined that Porteous would not escape the punishment they felt he well deserved. These vigilantes spread the word that on September 8, they would assault the Tolbooth and deliver their own form of justice to the prisoner. Naturally, the authorities planned to have extra guards at the prison on that night.

The rumored date was, however, merely a ruse. On the night of September 7, some four thousand men quietly marched on Edinburgh, taking the castle garrison completely off-guard. The crowd broke into the City Guardhouse and emptied it of its store of weaponry. Then, they headed straight for the Tolbooth--and John Porteous. The city magistrates were helpless in the face of this very large, very well-armed, and very very determined army. The authorities sent frantic messages to all the garrisons quartered in the city, but these soldiers were disinclined to come to their aid.

By 11:30 p.m., the mob had succeeded in breaking down the prison door. After relieving the jailer of his keys, they marched on Porteous' cell. The prisoner was savagely dragged outdoors, the his captors beating and kicking him all the way. Porteous was hauled to the site where Wilson had been executed, and a makeshift gallows was swiftly erected.

The former captain had a much more agonizing end than the one delivered to Andrew Wilson. After a rope was put around his neck, Porteous was repeatedly hauled up, then quickly lowered again. All the while, members of the mob beat him and even tried setting him on fire. This slow torture lasted for nearly an hour before it finally killed him. His body was pulled up one final time--like a macabre victory flag--and left dangling there while the mob silently dispersed into the darkness.

London was indignant at the news of Porteous' grisly end, and ordered an inquiry into the affair. A reward of £200 pounds--as well as a promise of immunity--was offered for anyone who would give information about the lynching. It was all in vain. Although everyone in the city must have known who was involved in Porteous' murder, they kept that knowledge to themselves. No one was ever punished, or even publicly identified, for their part in the grim doings of September 7.

The English government settled for fining Edinburgh £2000, with the money to be paid to Porteous' widow. Probably very wisely, that lady then left Scotland for good. The Lord Provost, whom London blamed for failing to prevent the incident, was fired from his post. All the clergymen in Scotland were ordered to issue threats of arrest to anyone involved in Porteous' murder. These instructions were largely ignored. Scots tend to have long memories. Public opinion remained so bitter against John Porteous that it was not until 1973 that his grave in Greyfriars Kirkyard was given a proper headstone.

As for George Robertson, he managed to escape to Rotterdam, where he became the proprietor of a successful tavern. He also supplemented his income by acting as an informant for Scottish customs officers, giving them information on the local smugglers. According to a 1789 pamphlet, Robertson "at last got into some way with the English smugglers, and ruined many of them. The Dutch got information of him, and he took the hint and escaped over to London...he skulked about in London for some time, and got letters from those he did for in Scotland; and he applied to that hero, William Duke of Cumberland, who procured him a pardon from the King; and at last he died in misery in London."

There are no happy endings in this story.

[There is one quaint footnote to our ugly little tale. In his leisure moments, Porteous was a renowned and skillful golfer. In 1724, he and one Alexander Elphinston played the first golf match to be reported in the newspapers. Among the spectators were the Duke of Hamilton, the Earl of Morton, "and a great many persons of distinction." The wager was twenty guineas, with Mr. Elphinston coming out the winner. Scottish true crime historian William Roughead's last word on Porteous was, "one would fain hope that such a good golfer was not so great a rogue."]

Weekend Link Dump

From now until December 21, our Link Dumps will be sponsored by the Cats of Christmas!

Watch out for those haunted cars!

Watch out for those Welsh dragons!

Watch out for the Yowie!

The friendship of Franklin Pierce and Nathaniel Hawthorne.

A beheading in Pennsylvania.

It's a nice enough shack, but a bit busy for my taste.

The Cycling Countess, who was really a menace on the road.

"There is death in the pot!"

An execution that was a mess in more ways than one.

The history of the Halifax gibbet.

The dogs of Old London.

A notorious 19th century bigamist.

The world's oldest known drawing of an animal.

The most mysterious--and creepy--ancient statue.

New interactive map shows all the ways medieval London could kill you.

The chocolate houses of 18th century London.

The often alarming world of Early Modern medicine.

Nothing to see here, just a mysterious radioactive heat melting Antarctica.

UFOs over Baffin Island.

Well.  That's nice.

How Nazis tried to breed a superhorse.

An 18th century East India Company cadet writes home.

This week in Russian Weird:  THEIR CATS.

Death Valley and the lost underground city.

Some overlooked heroines of WWI.

The Aiken Party Massacre.

India now has an elephant hospital.

Everyone's favorite female serial-killer-for-profit, Belle Gunness.

How Benedict Arnold got the boot.

The oldest known whiskey distillery.

A horrific tale of revenge.

Victorian dining etiquette.

The enigmatic Edward Gorey.

The Parrot Fever Panic.

Johnny Cash and the hemorrhoid cream.

The subject of this portrait would probably have preferred to remain unknown.

Vintage tea terminology.

Rats and cats take to the stage.

Rough justice in 19th century Ohio.

Shopping for mourning.

That does it for this week! See you on Monday, when we'll look at a dark moment in Edinburgh history. In the meantime, let's jump with Harry James!

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

via Newspapers,com

A ghostly church organist and a spooky cat? Sign me up. The "Calgary Herald," April 15, 1921:

London. April 2. (By Mail) Dressed in early Victorian costume, the ghostly figure of a former organist is said to haunt the ancient church of Allhallows-Barking-by-the-Tower. It is alleged to have appeared at choir practice.

Mr. Arthur Poyser (organist and master of the choristers) told how, in 1910, he first saw the apparition.

Mr. Poyser. with two solo boys, was in the practice room for special choir work. The only entrance to the church, Mr. Poyser said, was locked, and apart from the light above the piano, the building was in darkness. Anyone, to approach the room, even if the door had not been locked, must pass through two sets of folding doors, which creak badly.

"Yet in the middle of the practice," he went on, "an old lady appeared in the centre of the room gazing fixedly upon me, but without uttering a word or making a sound.

"We all saw her plainly, and so real did she appear that one of the boys offend her a chair. She simply nodded her head and sat down, remaining thus for three-quarters of an hour while we practiced our Christmas carols.

"I wondered how anybody could have got into the room, but thinking that perhaps she was a relative of one of the choir boys, I said nothing at the time. What struck me most was her eccentric behavior in not speaking to us, and her still more eccentric dress. She wore a brown shawl with a deep fringe, an old-fashioned black silk dress, and a big coal-scuttle bonnet.

"At the conclusion of the practice, much to my astonishment, she wearily rose from her seat and disappeared into the darkness of the church.

"I said to one of the boys: 'Go and tell that lady that, if she does not go out now she will be locked in,' but the boy came back and said that there was nobody there. I immediately switched on all the lights in the church, and the three of us searched every nook and cranny, but found no trace of the strange visitor and the entrance door was still locked.

"On the following Sunday, the preacher, a skeptic on psychical matters, now passed away, came to the church. I did not mention the mysterious occurrence to him, but, later in the day, he observed: 'A remarkable thing happened during this morning's service.. A huge tortoiseshell cat came out from under the piano (which was in use at the time owing to the organ being out of repair), ran round the brass altar rails and disappeared mysteriously right through the closed glass doors of the clergy vestry under the east window.'

"I then told him about my experience, and laughingly, we said that there could be no connection between tho old lady and the cat--but there was.

"Some time afterwards an old gentleman came to see me, saying that he used to be a choir. boy at the church 60 years ago. I asked him who the organist was in his day. He replied Miss Lysetta Rist, and described with extraordinary accuracy the old lady who had appeared to us in the practice room. He added that she was remarkably fond of music and animals, and used to be followed wherever she went by cats for whose food she gave money regularly.

"I verified the latter facts at Guildhall, and found that to this day sand and ashes are scattered on Tower Hill for the benefit of horses us a result of a bequest of Miss Rist, who died about 40 years ago and was buried in this church.

"Whenever any music is going on we quite frequently hear footsteps on the old wooden stairway, and other manifestations of the presence of the spirit of Miss Rist.

"Only the night before last, while seated alone at the piano in the porch music-room, playing Wagner's Master-singers, with only a single light above me, I heard distinctly a voice humming the melody apparently from behind an adjacent screen.

"Although we are all quite accustomed to such happenings, I, on this occasion, was overcome with nervousness and made a dash for the street."

"I thought it rather strange," ventured the writer, "that when I entered the church yesterday, while it was left untenanted for noonday prayer, I heard unmistakable rappings in the organ loft. I had previously been through the building in search of some one connected with the church, but no one was there at the time. A boy with a letter entered a few minutes later, on a similar errand, and. hearing the same sounds, remarked, 'I think there is someone up in the gallery."'

"Oh! you heard tho rapping, I am glad." replied Mr. Poyser. "That is a common manifestation at all times of the day and night. There have been other apparitions here, apart from that of Miss Rist, but I have only told you of what I have seen and heard myself."

The Laurel Hill Poisonings

"Hazelton Sentinel," February 4, 1884, via Newspapers.com

On January 31, 1884, Mrs. Catherine Collier (or Collyer) of Laurel Hill, Long Island, went to the butcher’s and bought onions and beef. She used her purchases to make soup and a hash for dinner. That evening, she, her husband Thomas, and their two-year-old daughter Annie all ate the meal. Thomas, however, complained the food was too peppery, and declined to eat very much of it. Catherine and Annie, however, ate without noticing anything unusual.

Very soon, it became evident that there was something extremely unusual indeed about the meal. Thomas was struck with agonizing stomach pains and constant vomiting. Catherine fell ill as well, but only many hours later. Little Annie was completely unaffected, even though she had eaten the same food as her parents.

The next day, Catherine died. Thomas began to recover, and it was assumed he would survive. A few days later, however, he had a sudden relapse, and also passed away. Autopsies showed the two had died from arsenic poisoning. The remaining portion of their dinner was analyzed, and found to be full of arsenic. No poison was found in their house, and it was a puzzle how it got into the food, considering their daughter had eaten the same meal with no ill effects.

The mystery only deepened when the authorities exhumed the body of Catherine’s father, Dennis Cowhey, who had died suddenly only two weeks previously. It was found that he, too, had ingested large amounts of arsenic.

Cowhey’s two surviving children, John and Annie Cowhey, were arrested for murder. The theory was that they committed this triple homicide in order to get sole possession of their father’s money (which amounted to about $2,000 in cash and real estate.) Annie “kept house” for her widowed father, and had prepared the beefsteak he ate immediately before becoming ill. She also admitted having bought rat poison on more than one occasion. However, she and her brother denied their guilt in the strongest terms.

Public opinion strongly supported John and Annie’s innocence, (they both had excellent reputations,) and the case against them immediately fell apart from lack of evidence. No proof was ever found that the “Rough on Rats” Annie bought had been the source of the arsenic. Relations between all members of the Cowhey/Collier families were said to have been extremely harmonious. John and Annie were soon released.

There was another minor mystery associated with the case. After Dennis Cowhey died, his relations made an unsuccessful search for his bank book. (He had not left a will, but his children agreed to split his estate equally between them.) After the Colliers died, Thomas’ mother, while going through her son’s possessions, found the bank book. No one knew how it got into his possession. According to John Cowhey, the Colliers had always denied knowing where it was.

Who poisoned Dennis Cowhey and the Colliers? The inquest was no help at all in answering that question. The verdict of the coroner’s jury was that the Colliers had died of arsenic poisoning, but they declined to say how it was administered. Popular rumor had it that Mrs. Collier had poisoned her father in order to prevent him from remarrying, and then “went insane” and killed herself and her husband.

This strikes me as a very unsatisfactory solution, but that seems to have been the last word about the crime.

This is one of those cases full of nagging questions left unanswered by the contemporary newspaper accounts. If Dennis Cowhey’s daughter did not poison him, who did? There was no evidence anyone other than Annie had access to the meal which killed him. But how could she have also poisoned the Colliers? Neither she nor her brother had the opportunity to doctor their food. There is an equal lack of evidence that any outside party had the motive or opportunity to poison any of the trio.

If Catherine Collier was guilty, how did she manage to murder her father? And why? Why go on to kill her husband and herself? Why was Thomas Collier the only one of his household to complain about the “peppery” quality of the food? If the hash and soup were what poisoned them, how did their daughter escape the wholesale slaughter?

Who knows?

Weekend Link Dump

This week's Link Dump is sponsored by Strange Company HQ's staff photographer.

Watch out for those fire giants!

The Stillwell murder.

The Massachusetts Borgia escapes the noose.

Another instance of the internet proving there is such a thing as too much publicity.

Regulating boy soldiers.

Legends of the Tower of London.

A deadly ancient meteor.

Shorter version: Brrrr!

That time the Dutch executed an entire village.

That time Ben Jonson faced a murder charge.

How Harriet Moore became John Murphy.

Here's your big chance to live in Britain's most haunted village.

Some delightfully wretched Thanksgiving plays.

Serious question: Aren't all nightclubs portals to Hell?

The birth of the fingerprint detectives.

How Voltaire went from prisoner to playwright.

One of the first suffragettes.

The oldest original manuscripts of Old English poetry.  All four of 'em.

The Toyota dealership employee who should have won a Nobel Prize.

A day in the life of the Society for the Protection of Women and Children.

Thanksgiving recipes you probably won't want to copy.  Unless, of course, you really dislike your guests.

Giving some love to the pun.

The fiery mystery that inspired Charles Dickens.

Shorter version: sailing the North Sea in the 18th century was...not fun.

A "mythical" city has just been found.

The Duchess and her wolf.

If you need a theme for your next dinner party, here are some dishes made by famous poisoners.

A first-hand look back at Jefferson Airplane and the Summer of Love.

Jack the Ripper's most mysterious victim.

The toy monkey and the Nazis.

A 19th century woman goes to sea.

Why you would not want to take your time machine to 536 AD.

One of 2018's weirdest hoaxes.

Public Thanksgiving and the Jacobite Rebellion.

A shooting on a streetcar.

A stone-throwing poltergeist in Zimbabwe.

A ghost who liked to count oranges.

That wraps it up for this week.  See you on Monday, when we'll look at an obscure and deeply puzzling poisoning mystery.  In the meantime, here are Glen and Roy. RIP, guys.

Newspaper Clipping(s) of the Day, Thanksgiving Edition

Welcome to Strange Company's annual celebration of our American holiday of Thanksgiving! If you are familiar with this blog, you already know what that means.

Weaponized turkeys.

The "Williamsburg Sun-Gazette," December 26, 1911:

Bloomfield, N.J., Dec. 25--On his way home with a twenty-pound turkey Saturday night Harry Stanislaus sacrificed the bird to save himself from being bitten by a savage dog which attacked him near his home in Chapel street.

The dog leaped at the man's throat, but Mr. Stanislaus got out of the way, and then when it jumped again he used the turkey as a weapon and showered blow after blow on the animal, finally causing it to sneak away.

There was not enough left of the fowl, however, to make soup.

If there's one thing I've learned from writing this blog, it's that turkeys are a must for self-defense. The "Republican and Herald," December 2, 1912:

Richfield, N. J., Dec. 2. With a turkey as a weapon, John Moran, a farmland, kept a highwayman at bay and saved his wallet, containing $32.60, which he had received only a short time previous from his employer for his month's work. Moran was walking over a lonely stretch of road toward Paterson, and when he approached the railroad tracks the highwayman jumped out from behind a tree and demanded his money. Moran swung his turkey and landed on the fellow's head with such force as to knock him down. He then dropped the bird and pummeled the would-be thief with his fists and afterward he continued his journey without further molestation.

From the "New York Tribune," November 27, 1903:

Bloomfield, N.J., Nov. 26--Moses De Witt, a colored man, whose home is in the Bowery district of this town, is now a firm believer in the luck attached to the number thirteen. On the thirteenth of the month De Witt bought a ticket for a raffle for a turkey. He paid thirteen cents for it and won the bird, which tipped the scales exactly at thirteen pounds. The number thirteen figured in the affair in other ways, too. On the way home, in passing the bridge over Second River at Henry st., he was stopped by two men, one of whom asked him the time. He informed him and was about to pass on when the fellows both attacked him and endeavored to take the watch away from him. De Witt was taken by surprise, but not so much as his assailants were when the old man suddenly gripped the turkey firmly by the legs and then laid about him right and left, using the bird as a weapon. The highwaymen took to their heels and the turkey graced the table at the De Witt home. "If anything, the use I made of the turkey," said De Witt, "only served to make it more tender."

Now there's a cooking tip I'll bet never occurred to Martha Stewart.

[Note: All items via Newspapers.com]

The "New York Tribune," December 1, 1899:

James Cannon, fifty-eight years old, of No. 3 First St., Hoboken, and his wife, Ellen, eight years his junior, spent yesterday afternoon and last evening at Hoboken Police Headquarters because Mrs. Cannon did not cook a Thanksgiving turkey to suit the taste of her husband. The police say that when Cannon tried to carve the bird he first found fault because it was not properly basted, and then because the turkey was tough. Finally the husband, according to his wife, seized the cooked fowl by a leg and struck her over the head with it. Policemen Borrune and Kiely were called in and found the Thanksgiving dinner a wreck. The couple were arrested on a charge of being drunk and disorderly.

If Mrs. Cannon had only known to first use the bird to beat up highwaymen, all this trouble could have been averted. And curious, is it not, how New Jersey appears to be the Turkey Weapon Capital of the World?

Of course, using a turkey as a club does not always work very well for you or the bird. The "Philadelphia Times," November 28, 1884:

There was a clear space of the length of a man's arm and two turkey legs in front of Stephen Nash's crowded bar for ten minutes yesterday afternoon. At the end of that time the man with the arm and the turkey legs was put out. In the ten minutes he rapped the turkey legs repeatedly on the counter and made the glasses jingle. He also had something to complain of.

He spoke rapidly and his voice got thick toward the end of his speech. " I went to buy a turkey this morning, gentlemen," the man said, "and I won the turkey that belonged to these legs in a raffle. Then I thought I'd spend my turkey money for rum and unless I can pick up the fragments of that turkey on the road back to Frankford my family will have to dine on cranberry sauce." Here the turkey man mournfully dangled the trailing tendons of the mangled fowl in the olive dish.

"A man belted me," he continued, "in a Clearfield street saloon on the way home and when I whacked him with that proud bird of freedom the head and neck came off like a link of sausage and flew into the Tom and Jerry bowl.

"The bartender got unreasonable and wanted me lo pay for the Tom and Jerry. I refused and he became impudent. I swung that barnyard's pride at him and he dodged behind the cigar case. Gentlemen, the glass of that case sluffed off more than two pounds of white meat.

"Then we clinched and both wings of the bird disappeared in the scuffle. I saw the bartender through the door brushing pin-feathers off his cardigan jacket when I left. The wish bone was busted, too, and the turkey's lungs was hanging out of the place where his neck had been. I thought then that I'd better take the rest of the family's Thanksgiving home to 'em.

"A Fifth street car conductor said I couldn't bring the turkey aboard. We had a fencing match-- him with the car hook and me with the turkey. When we got through I asked him to let me take his coat home to roast for dinner, for all the turkey was on it but the Pope's nose and the legs. He wouldn't have it and I gave the Pope's nose to a blind beggar and here I am with the drumsticks."

And, of course, few things say, "Spirit of Thanksgiving" like getting into a shootout at a turkey raffle.

"St. Paul Globe," November 27, 1902

And, finally, considering what this holiday means to turkeys, it's always nice to see them get a bit of their own back. The "Los Angeles Herald," July 14, 1907:

Newmarket, N.J., July 13.— Justice Clarke T. Rogers, who makes a specialty of breeding big hogs and prize fowls, had a hair raising experience with a turkey yesterday. Rogers picked up a young turkey yesterday and, while he was fondling it, the mother turkey attacked him. The enraged bird flew at the judge's face, beating his head with its wings and pecking wildly away into his flesh. So unexpected and ferocious was the attack that Rogers felt to the ground unconscious. The cackles of the turkey brought Col. Downey, a. nephew, to the scene and he drove away the infuriated bird.

Yes, New Jersey again.  And no, I'm not going to ask why the judge was fondling a turkey.

Happy Thanksgiving!  And as for you Jerseyites, for the love of God, go vegetarian this year.