Buchanan’s Journal of Man, Volume 1, Number 3, by Joseph Rodes Buchanan. Published April 1887.

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An extract from a Manuscript Novel.

“’Twas nothing more, indeed my dear uncle! No, indeed, ’twas nothing more! Dear, dear, how could I suppose it to be any thing more? And yet I even tremble now,” exclaimed Miss Godfrey to her astonished uncle, as he entered the house. “For heaven’s sake, my beloved Frances what has thus dreadfully alarmed you?” returned the old gentleman. “Tell me I beseech you! I’m on the rack till I know what could possibly have the power of alarming you to this dreadful degree. Come my sweet girl, compose yourself and relate to me this “soul harrowing” tale; for I’m half inclined (seeing you smile) to suppose it some imaginary evil.” It is indeed, sir, an imaginary evil, and a very foolish fear: I am very, very angry with myself, and am seriously apprehensive, that in disclosing to you my weakness, I shall draw down your very just animadversion; but if you will give me a patient hearing, and not think me too circumstantial in my narrative, I will give you then the seeming cause for the disorder in which you found me.” Do not fear censure from me my dear Frances, we all have our weak moments; and I am convinced, a girl with my Fanny’s understanding, could not be so alarmed at a very trifling circumstance; therefore proceed, my love; I will promise not to fall asleep over the recital.”

“Sitting in my dressing room at work, I was surprised by a very hasty tap at the door, which I opened, when Monsieur l’ Abbé appeared before me, with his hair erect, his eyes starting from their sockets, and his whole frame so convulsed with terror, that I momentarily expected the wax taper which he bore in his hand would make a somerset on my muslin dress. I begged him to inform me if he was ill? whether any thing had alarmed him? if I should ring for his servant? He shook his head in token of disapprobation of my last interrogatory, and in broken and almost inarticulate accents, begged I would indulge him with a moment’s hearing. He then, with much difficulty, addressed me as follows:–

“You know Miss Godfrey, I am the last man in the world to be frightened at bugbears, or in other words, superstition and I were ever sworn enemies: I think, then, after reprobating this weakness in others for fifty years, I have this evening become its victim; for to that alone must I ascribe my fears. Listen then to the cause of this weakness in me. I was deeply immersed in Horace, when I heard a knocking against the partition that separates the rooms. I paid little or no attention to it at first, when a second time the knocks were repeated with more violence. I then arose, and proceeded to the room where the noise issued; and directing my eyes towards the bed, to my infinite surprise I perceived the bell-rope making rapid and extensive strides from one side of the partition to the other. After viewing it for a moment, I thought I would take the liberty of stopping the marble breasted gentleman’s progress; I grasped the bell-rope, it yielded to my embrace, and became quiescent; I sat a moment to observe it; it remained quiet, and I returned to my studies. The instant I was seated, the same noise was repeated with increased violence; I entered the room a second time, and a second time saw the bell-rope in rapid motion. I then examined every corner of the room, without discovering the least trace by which I might elucidate this singular appearance. I again grasped the rope, and again it was motionless: I sat two or three minutes in the room, I believe, during which every thing was perfectly quiet. I returned to my room, when scarcely had I seated myself, ere the same noise met my ear, with a sort of hard breathing. This was more than even my philosophy could bear at that moment, and must plead my excuse for appearing before you in the disordered state which you have just witnessed.” “You must pardon me, my good sir, for smiling,” I remarked, but I really have scarcely had patience to hear you out, so anxious am I to be introduced to this ghost in the shape of a bell-rope! lead me to the haunted room, and you will gratify me beyond measure!”

“Magnanimous courage! exclaimed Monsieur, with such a guide, I’d face e’en Beelzebub himself;” when each embracing our taper, we proceeded to the mysterious room. My eager eye sought the bell-rope; but no sooner did I perceive its motion (for it was moving as Monsieur had described) than all my boasted philosophy forsook me. Ashamed to confess as much, I begged my companion to once more stop its progress, and suppressing my emotions, I assisted Monsieur in searching the room. Nothing, however, which possessed animation could we discover, (ourselves excepted) and indeed we could scarcely be said to possess it. Monsieur prevailed on me to retire to his sitting room, when perhaps, he observed, we should hear the noise repeated. I acquiesced, when to my inexpressible horror our ears were assailed by a tremendous knocking, accompanied by a terrific scream. This was more than human nature could bear. I rang the bell with unusual violence, which brought up two of the female servants. Without communicating my fears, I requested that the groom might be called: he came, and thus, in a body we once more ventured to enter this terror striking room, every corner of which was searched without success; when the groom accidentally moving the bed, out sprung our–black cat! She had so completely concealed herself in the head curtain of the bed, that all our endeavours to discover anything were fruitless; and each time we left the room, she amused herself with patting the pull of the bell, which occasioned its motion to the infinite terror of a French philosopher, and an heroic maiden.

“The ‘terrific scream,’ was a faint groan, proceeding from a servant who was ill in the house.”

From: The Mirror of Taste and Dramatic Censor, Volume 1, Issue 4 (April 1810).

The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, Volume 23, Issue 4.

Volume Bookp(h)ile

A wild woman has been seen in the woods near Liberty, Texas. A man on horseback got sight of the strange creature, pursued and overtook her; when she halted, found her to be a medium-sized, middle-aged, well-formed woman with long, dark hair, and clear blue eyes. She was in a state of nudity, save a girdle of moss around her loins. Her body and limbs were covered with a coat of hair about four inches in length. She was much frightened, and seemed unable to talk. The “solitary horseman” attempted to drive her towards the settlement, when she became enraged, seized a club, and turned upon him with the fury of a demon, and it was only the speed imparted to his steed by a liberal use of the spurs that he kept out of her way. Other parties had previously reported seeing this home-made gorilla, and an organized effort to capture her is to be made.

[tags]Peninsular Courier and Family Visitant, April, 1868[/tags]

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.

[tags]Ann Arbor Register, April, 1896[/tags]

Pittsburg Dispatch: “You would be surprised at the number of mental travelers that are in a community,” said a railroad man yesterday. “I mean people who travel only in their minds; who, to indulge this mania, make a collection of railroad literature, such as is issued in time-tables, excursion books, pamphlets, etc. You have often heard people talk knowingly of a place which you have best evidence that hey have never visited. They can discourse fluently upon the hotels and principal sights of the city, even tell you of the trains and the connections they make, or describe the small stations through which they pass going there. If you have ever known a man or woman like this, then you have met a mental traveler. He might also be dubbed a railroad literature fiend, as this it the title by which he is known among the employes of a railroad office, who look no further into the motives of men than the surface. We have hundreds of such men and women who come tot he office after every piece of literature the railroad prints, from the local time-tables to the book descriptive of a southern or western jaunt. Their thirst for this kind of literature can never be satiated; it seems to have the same influence as alcoholic stimulants–the more they get the more they want. We have men who are employed in leading positions in banks and business houses who come to us daily with the question, ‘Anything new out?’ When the people live in the city they usually call upon us daily, but when they reside in the country their visits are at longer intervals. We have one old man who comes from Westmoreland county who never fails to appear upon the same date of each month. He seems to revel in going through the large batch of time-tables and books that have accumulated since his last visit. He never varies in his mode of procedure. After supplying himself with a sample of each one he comes over to the window, and, with his face wreathed in smiles, in the intoxication of his delight, he says, ‘How’re you, anyhow?’ After being assured that our health still permitted us to continue at our business, he always asks, “Well, kin you tell me how much’s the fare to Boston?’ When this information is given he invariably remarks, ‘Well, that’s gol darn cheap, that is.’ Then he lapses into a thoughtful mood, from which he breaks by making the assertion, ‘Confound me, I’ll go down therw next year.’ Then picking up his grip, he starts off and we do not see him again for a month. He has been going to Boston ‘next year’ to my own knowledge for six years. These mental travelers get more satisfaction out of their dreamy wanderings than the usual tourist of the day who travels not to learn, but to kill time. One man told me that he had never been to Washington in his life, yet was as familiar with the getting there and the city itself as if he had lived there his lifetime. He can talk about the streets and numbers, and can direct people from one place to another with more accuracy that the average Pittsburg policeman can give you information about his town, and gets it all from railroad literature. You watch the time-table racks of a railroad station and notice what a high class of people these mental travelers are.”

[tags]Ann Arbor Register, April, 1895[/tags]

The Bucyrus, O., Journal says: Our readers are aware that a large portion of the cranberry marshes were burned over last fall, and that portions remained burning for many weeks if not months. The owners have been digging and ditching, draining and fencing, at all seasonable opportunities, during the winter. Last week, while some workmen were digging upon a knoll that had been burned over, for the foundation of a barn, they found the earth still warm as they penetrated deeper, and a hollow sound induced the belief of a cavity, and cause them to prosecute their researches. Suddenly one of the spades struck through, and out squirmed a large rattle snake. This made them cautious, and further search revealed a hole four feet by three, and three deep, in which were 17 huge rattlesnakes, and divers smaller fry, besides one or two large frogs. Inspection revealed the further fact that there must have been other large frogs, and smaller snakes that had served as food, for the survivors through the long winter. The snakes had evidently been used to this retreat for winter quarters. The fire had driven them and other reptiles, in there, early in the season, and while the warmth had prevented them from their usual torpor, the small fry had kept them all alive and kicking.

[tags]Peninsular Courier and Family Visitant, April, 1868[/tags]

Second Engineer Wilson De Hart, of the fated steamer Longfellow, lives with his wife and children at 126 West Eighth street, and was among the saved, says Louisville Courier-Journal. His wife dreamed Wednesday night that the boat was lost with all on board and it preyed so on her mind all day Thursday that she tried to persuade her husband not to make the trip. After bidding him good-by on the boat she told the chief engineer, Dan Halley, of her dream, and with tears in her eyes, begged that he endeavor to influence her husband to remain at home, as she knew the boat would be lost. On learning of the accident she ran almost all the way to Promley in her endeavor to keep pace with the floating wreck, and was almost wild with grief before the news of her husband’s rescue reached her, and she then refused to be convinced until he was brought to her.

[tags]Ann Arbor Register, April, 1895[/tags]