Entries from October 2006 ↓

There is not a railway man on the New York Central who runs on freight trains that does not believe that the through freight known as A. S. No. 1, is a “hoodooed” train. The train runs from Albany to Suspension Bridge, and in the past few years has met with many accidents. Saturday morning the “hoodooed” train left Syracuse on time. Charles Detsel, a brakeman, who has been running on the road for the past five years, was assigned to make the run as forward brakeman. Detsel did not wish to take the run, saying to his companions that the train was “hoodooed,” and that he believed that he would meet with some bad luck. Everything went right until the train reached Coles’ bridge, between Lock Berlin and Lyons. A brakeman on a westbound local that followed saw Detsel lying in the ditch at one side of the track, and the train was stopped and the injured man taken to Lyons. The entire scalp was torn off his head and he is in a dying condition. It was this train upon which Conductor Gowan was killed at Adams Basin Wednesday of last week. His death was caused in a similar manner. Conductor Orr met his death last summer on this train, and it is a fact that the “hoodooed” train met with five accidents on five consecutive days about a year ago.

Alexander Pope, by Leslie Stephen, part of the English Men of Letters series. Published 1880.

Thanks to Lisa Reigel for post-processing this book.

Bookp(h)ile

The report comes from Tacoma that the cuticle of Tom Blanck, a desperado who was killed a few days ago, will be tanned and made into pocketbooks. While in jail in Seattle Blanck made a wooden imitation of a pistol, with which he held up the janitor and escaped. He was followed by the jailor and a posse and killed, as he would not surrender. Exactly how the pocketbooks will be disposed of is not stated, but judging from the results of several enterprises of this kind in the past, the owners of Blanck’s skin will have no difficulty in disposing of their manufactured stock. One of the inhuman practices brought to light by the investigation set on foot by General Benjamin F. Butler into the affairs of the Tewkesbury (Mass.) poorhouse was the skinning of dead patients and the making of souvenirs of various kings of the skins, for which the keepers or others in the scheme found a ready market. The same state of affairs is said to have existed at the Ohio State Prison, in Columbus, fifteen years ago. Prisoners were knocked in the head or shot on the slightest provocation by the keepers and guards, who were all banded together for the traffic in human skin souvenirs. These outrages finally became so flagrant that an investigation was held, which resulted in the turning out of all the keepers and guards in the prison. None of the men were ever prosecuted, as it was impossible to get tangible evidence. There must have been money in this human skin traffic or the men engaged in it would not have taken such chances. There are many persons whose morbid tastes make them delight in the possession of just such grewsome souvenirs and it is not infrequent that some man of a reckless, roving disposition and a checkered past is seen proudly displaying a tobacco pouch, purse or other “pocket novelty” made from the skin of a human being.

The Arena, Volume 4, Issue 2 (July 1891), edited by B. O. Flower

Thanks to Richard J. Shiffer for post processing this issue!

A reporter for the Sun some time ago made the acquaintance of a gentleman in Livingston County, who is himself a living illustration of the carelessness with which an excited mob of men are accustomed to fool with a man’s life if they once get him into their clutches. The gentleman alluded to is now in the city, en route with his family to Texas, which State he will make his future home, and from him permission was obtained to make use of the following facts:

The most of our readers are familiar with the details of the murder of Marks, the Evansville commercial traveler, at a point between the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers, known as “The Narrows,” several years ago. The name of the murderer was Sullivant, and he was a merchant at the point named and was in the habit of buying goods of the firm for which Marks was traveling. Marks, on his rounds, called on him as usual. Sullivant invited him to spend the night with himself in the store. That was the last ever seen of the unfortunate “drummer” alive. His mutilated remains were subsequently exhumed from a grave near by, where they had been placed by Sullivant, who undoubtedly slew him for the purpose of robbery.

But with the strange fatality which so often pursues the perpetrator of a great crime, the criminal makes some blunder, which almost invariably makes his detection easy. In this case Sullivant sent a forged receipt for moneys paid and a receipted order for more goods. The firm, knowing that the documents were not in the handwriting of their agent, retained them. And when it was ascertained that he had disappeared, in the hands of detectives they at once furnished the clew which, in the end, secured the capture and conviction of the real criminal.

This is simply as a preface to the story of Mr. George W. McGee.

While the officers were searching for a clue to the whereabouts of Marks, some one, whose name McGee, to this day, does not know, artfully threw suspicioins on Mr. McGee. This suspicion was fanned and kept alive by Sullivant. The result was that McGee was one night taken from his bed by a mob of armed men, a rope attached to his neck, the other end of which was attached to the pommel of a saddle, and away he went. Arriving at a lonely spot in the woods–and one who has ever traveled the country “between the rivers,” as it is called, knows that there are many places in that locality peculiarly adapted to deeds of violence–the rope was detached from the saddle, and while these midnight marauders gathered around by the light of a lantern illuminated by the faint glare of one sickly candle, the line was thrown over the low-hanging branches of a tree, made taut, and McGee at the same time informed that he had better speedily make his peace with God, as he had but a few moments to live. He was urged by the leader to tell the whereabouts of Marks’ remains and, if any, his accomplices in the “taking off.” As McGee was entirely innocent of any knowledge of the dark deed, of course he could only answer that he knew nothing about it. His assertion, “So help me God, gentlemen, I never saw or heard of the man before in my life,” was answered by the remark from Sullivant himself, “George that is too thin!” Mr. McGee says that he distinctly saw the lantern wave twice in the air. He was lifted bodily from the ground into the air; he knew that he was being drawn up over the limb by the rope. There was no pain as long as he was ascending. When he settled back, however, with a slight jerk, his suffering was excruciating. He could feel his eyes turn suddenly into balls of fire and protrude from their sockets. He tried to scream, but no sound issued from his throat. His arms were unpinioned and he endeavored to raise his hands, so as to grasp the rope above his head, that he might relieve that terrible shortening of his breath, which seemed, at each muscular attempt at respiration, as if the air would escape from his lungs and force itself out through the pores of the skin on his breast and back. The muscles of the arm refused to obey his will. His joints experienced a sensation similar to that one would imagine the piercing of red-hot needles would produce. The knees twitched and jerked convulsively. All this in apparently a minute of time. Then a delicious sensation of “cool numbness,” to use his own words, commencing at his extremities, stole gradually over him. He lost all desire to save himself–he preferred to die where he was. Almost every act of his life–no matter how trivial–flashed through his mind with the rapidity of lightning. A distant roar, as of a faraway cataract, grew gradually more and more distinct, until the fearful noise was almost deafening, then changed with the rapidity of thought itself into the most delicious music he had ever heard. Everything became as light as midday (although he could distinguish nothing of his surrounding), and finally unconsciousness. “It was not absolute unconsciousness, either,” said Mr. McGee. “I cannot describe it intelligibly. I do not know of any words that would convey to you a correct idea of the sensation–I was myself, and I was not myself. I seemed to be sailing away through space, as you have seen a large bird float through the atmosphere, without the apparent motion of a wing or feather. Another thing that is indelibly impressed upon my mind, was the terrible, oppressive, horrible silence–worse than silence–stillness, that existed above, below and about me. Still I floated on and on, perfectly contented, asking for nothing, thinking of nothing, hoping for nothing; ever, and with increasing rapidity, moving on and upward.”

But gradually, continued Mr. McGee, this perfectly contented, devil-may-care feeling commenced to disappear. He became conscious of bodily pain again. It seemed as if iron bands had been tightened with screws about his head and chest. He consciously grasped for breath. He heard voices–the words undistinguishable at first; then one or two, here and there, he understood. At last, fully restored to consciousness, he heard his captors quarreling fiercely as to whether he should be strung up again or carried to the Smithland Jail. He was lying on the ground his throat bleeding from the cruel rope, which still encircled his neck. Water was brought from a creek near by and dashed over him. And at last he was mounted upon a horse, and still in a half dazed condition moved away.

He arrived at Smithland about daylight, was locked up in the Jail, where he remained three days and was then released, Sullivant taking his place. The latter is now serving out a life sentence at Frankfort.

“And,” asked the reporter, “you think, then, you came near starting up the golden stairs, Mr. McGee?”

“Starting,” answered that gentleman, “I was already halfway up. They needn’t tell me, sir, there is no hereafter–no next world! I believe I have been nearer to it than any man alive. I do not know what kind of a world it is, but of life after death I am satisfied. You know that all the while I was floating upward my body was dangling by a rope to the limb of a tree, practically, sir, practically, as dead–as dead as a door-nail.”–Paducah (Ky.) Sun

That Chinese are capable of enduring much for religion is to be seen by the long and toilsome pilgrimages untertaken by many, as also in the works of mortification of the flesh in which their zeal finds vent instead of in proselytism. On one occasion a few weeks ago I was witness to the mortifications of the flesh. The place was New Wang, a temple close to Ningpo, which has recently gained a high reputation for the piety of the inmates. At the time I entered, two priests were undergoing the operations of having the finger burned off. The way it was done is as follows: A string was tied tightly around the finger under the second knuckle; the hand was then surrounded by a ball of clay, and the fist doubled up, leaving one finger sticking out. Round this finger was tied sandal wood, which was lighted, and boiling and blazing resin and oil poured upon it. The person operated on sat in a chair, untied, with the burning hand on the altar. Noting prevented him from moving his hand at any moment. At any time he could have asked, and the torture would have been discontinued. I staid for an hour and a half witnessing this strange sight, all of which time gongs were beating and prayers beying [sic] said. Behind one of the sufferers stood an aged priest, his hands on the shoulders of the sufferer, a young, healthy looking man. From the hands of the old Bonze five fingers were missing, they having been burned off. I must confess that, though I am used to see operations, etc., without a shudder, I sickened at the sight of this needless pain and deformation of God’s image.–The Shanghai (China) Recorder.

New York, April 29.–”Jack the Ripper” sat in Sing Sing’s death chair Monday and was killed. His lawyer declared that the man executed was the fiend who set the world horror-stricken with his revel of blood in Whitechapel, and who was put out of existence for the murder of a woman.

This remarkable criminal, who was electrocuted for killing Mrs. Johanna Hoffmann, defied the police of all the continents. He murdered when and where he chose. An now no detective is to reap the glory of bringing the worst assassin of the century to his doom. To a lawyer belongs the credit of revealing the probable identity of the man who, as Carl Fiegenbaum, was executed Monday.

As the murderer’s body was being carried from the death chair to the autopsy-room, William Sanford Lawton, his counsel, who fought for more than a year and a half to save the life of his miserable client, made a statement, declaring his full belief that Fiegenbaum was “Jack the Ripper,” author of many of the Whitechapel murders. And then he told the facts which led to that conclusion. Fiegenbaum, or Zahm, had been all over Europe, and much of this country. He seems on first acquaintance to be simple-mined, almost imbecile, yet the many was crafty beyond measure. He had means of his own, as was probed by a will he made before his death, yet he always professed extreme poverty. Mrs. Hoffmann, who lived in two miserable rooms with her son Michael, was very poor. Fiegenbaum hired one of the rooms for the merest pittance, promising to pay when he had secured work. He lived there for two days.

During the following night Michael Hoffmann awoke to find the boarder in the act of cutting his mother’s throat. Fiegenbaum ran at him, knife in hand, and the boy sprang out on a window ledge. Fiegenbaum stabbed the woman again, jumped from a rear window into an area, threw away the knife, and escaped.

Mr. Lawton’s idea is that he had planned a murder of the “ripper” order, and that the boy’s cries prevented him from carrying out his intentions. The man was caught red-handed that night. He was questioned at length through an interpreter, for he professed entire ignorance of English.

Mr. Lawton frequently conversed with Fiegenbaum in English while the man was confined in the Tombs, but on every occasion when anyone else was present–even today, when he declared his innocence to Warden Sage–he demanded the assistance of an interpreter.

Once in a burst of confidence he told his lawyer that he was a victim of the mania to mutilate women, that it was beyond his control at times, and that it was that which had got him into trouble. He said that in the sight of heaven he was innocent, and added: “God will not let me die.”

The lawyer was greatly impressed by what the man told him. A little later he thought of the Whitechapel crimes and looked up the dates and was talking with him confidentially, he said: “Carl, were you in London from this date to that one,” naming those selected.

“Yes,” the prisoner answered, and relapsed into silence. But as time wen on the lawyer, in tracing his movements prior to the crime, discovered that Fiegenbaum had never lived in any house which was not in charge of a woman. Mr. Lawton once put the question of the Whitechapel murders to Fiegenbaum, whose reply was that the Lord was responsible for his acts and that to Him only could he confess.

By his will, which he signed “Figenbaum” [sic] and not “Zahm,” the murderer made Warden Sage his executor, bequeathed $80 to Father Bruder to pay for his burial, and left the rest of his property to his sister, “Magdalene Strohband, widow, in Ganbickelheim, Alzel, Hesse-Darmstadt, Germany.” He directed that a house and lot, which he said he owned in Cincinnati, be sold and the proceeds sent to this sister.

That belief the Chinese have in the remedial qualities of substances forming a part of the human body seems to be irradicable, says the New York Times. Thinking that Europeans still held the same ideas led as much as anything else to the Tien-Tsin massacres of twenty-five years ago. Prehistoric man drank from a human skull, believing that the uncanny goblet had a certain potency. Not so long ago the skull of a suicide was used in Caithness as a drinking-cup for the cure of epilepsy. Cases have been cited where superstitious people, within the last thirty years, have dug up bodies so as to possess themselves of skulls for the same purpose. As late as 1678 in the official pharmacopoeia of London College of Physicians mention is made of the skull of a man who had died a “violent death.” For centuries in the past, for the manufacture of certain quack nostrums, notably an ointment, ground skulls were used. The medical books of Nuremberg of 200 years ago always cite mumia–or the embalmed flesh of mummies–as a sovereign cure for certain diseases. The Egyptian mummy was a specific for one malady, the Teneriffe mummy for another. Excluding all the other strange substances employed in early medicine, there is a trace of cannibalism in the used of these mummied substances. It has been shown that cannibalism does not arise in all cases from hunger, but that to heat human flesh is a religious rite and favored by the gods. In some remote manner it has something to do with sacrifice. Describing superstitions, the fact is cited that to-day Irish peasants use skulls to hold water in under the belief that the water thus becomes curative.