The Outcast Dead, Paul Slade, 2023, 245 pp. illustrated, trade PB. Also available for Kindle.
[Full disclosure: The author sent me a review copy.]
I’ve been reading about the Cross Bones Burial Ground for several years in the UK press so I was delighted to hear from Paul Slade, a London journalist, who has written a grim and gripping page-turner about the history and ultimate fate of the burial ground of London’s outcast dead. The astonishing history of this not-so-holy ground hooked me immediately.
What’s not to love about the history of military brothels, accounts of London’s most notorious body-snatching gang, and a modern self-described “shaman” channeling “The Goose,” possibly the spirit of a long-dead “Winchester Goose,” as the Southwark prostitutes were called?
I started life as a medievalist, but must have been absent on the day the professor mentioned the jaw-dropping fact that the Bishop of Winchester authorized nuns to work in the legal brothels of Southwark that his administration taxed and regulated. Of course, no prostitutes could be buried in consecrated ground—hence the need for the Cross Bones Burial Ground.
The site was later used as a plague pit and as the Parish Potter’s Field. Even today bones are found, washed out of the soil, or unearthed in gardening. But the site has captured the public imagination and pilgrims come from around the world to attend vigils for the forgotten dead and to remember their own dead with flowers and offerings.
The book leaps from the past—with some gruesome side-trips into the history of syphilis and the appalling scenes in London’s corpse-crammed churchyards–to the present-day, alternating well-researched details of London/Southwark history with the stories of local citizens who want the anonymous, outcast dead to be remembered. Think death isn’t political? Think again. While I’ve certainly read about legal machinations in accounts of Victorian burial grounds; I was (perhaps naively) shocked to see the behind-the-scenes negotiations and confrontations between developers and preservationists.
The book was originally published only for Kindle; in this new paperback edition, Slade brings us up to the present with a series of mini-interviews with some of the characters profiled in the original book, which present an almost Rashomon-like narrative of the differing points of view of those involved in trying to ring-fence the land from developers and those who feel a mystical connection to the site.
This is a fantastic book for anyone with an interest in death history or for afficionados of historic graveyards.
It’s available at Amazon, in paperback and for Kindle at this link.
There is a horrific tale called “The Croglin Grange Vampire” told by Augustus Hare in The Story of My Life (1896/1900). The hideous Thing in this story from Van Wert, Ohio is strongly reminiscent of Hare’s unearthly creature found in a churchyard vault.
HORRIFYING EXPERIENCE OF A MINISTER WITH A VAN WERT GHOST
We clip the following from Sunday’s [Cincinnati] Enquirer and as it relates the experience of the narrator in Van Wert, it will doubtless be interesting reading. The gentleman alluded to is quite well known to us but we are not at liberty to use his name:
Washington C.H., July 9. A Methodist minister, lately a resident of Hamilton County, Ohio, who has been visiting friends in our city, relates the following thrilling episode in his life, which occurred while he was stopping at Van Wert, Ohio.
‘It was on a beautiful moonlight evening in June, and the atmosphere was just about as sultry as it has been at any time during the present summer. I was enjoying myself in the company of some relatives who lived about three miles from Van Wert, on the old Willshire road. At a late hour I arose to go, but my friends insisted that I should remain for the night, as my way would be very lonesome. It was suggested that some ghost might appear to me at the cemetery or some individual might rob me. This was a beautiful burying ground, and was situated about midway on my route. I was quite amused at their artful method of persuasion and laughed vociferously. It was very ridiculous to me, indeed, that there should be a rattling of dry bones, or the apparition of a spirit in a modern cemetery. The people of to-day had made too much advancement, as I thought, for such idle fancies as that.
Thus I proceeded on my way with no thought of danger—indifferent to the warnings that had just been given me. As I drew near to the cemetery, however, and began to see the tall, white shafts of marble looming up among the evergreens my imagination was tensioned to its utmost capacity, and, I confess, I was a fit subject for terror. It seemed as if all the spook stories to which I had listened in my childhood chased each other in quick, succession through my brain, and the very chirrup of the crickets or the incessant song of the whippoorwill intensified the loneliness of this little nook of earth. The long line of dark trees that threw such strange shadows across the field and mellow light that fell from the moon upon every grotesque stump or stately monument, only served to intensify my loneliness.
I arrived at last at the corner of the cemetery, and, oh horrors! right in the very center of this field of dead men’s bones, and from the shadow of a broad new tombstone, I saw a tall black creature rise and stand erect. The apparition seemed in the distance like a huge cadaver clothed in a robe of sack-cloth. The dreary eyes were sunken deep in their sockets, and the few irregular snags that served for teeth were pressed like fangs against the thin and wrinkled lips. The monster gazed a moment in all directions, then with a steady measured movement it made directly for me. I stopped and gazed upon the creature, and started back bewildered, but, at once regaining my senses, I concluded to proceed, and, if possible, to put on the appearance of unconcern. As I proceeded the spectre proceeded also, and, as certainly as I live in the present moment, it seemed as if we would both meet at the same point in the road. After going a short distance I slackened my pace, in order to let the mysterious something have all the room in front of me it might desire, and in a few moments I congratulated myself on being about twenty feet in the rear.
Contrary to my anticipations, there was no conversation opened between us but in a strange, ghost-like manner, the long withered form moved ahead of me until it reached a little, old, abandoned burying ground at the right of the road. This spot was far more desolate than the new cemetery, for it had become entirely neglected, and at that late hour of the night appeared as an interminable thicket, so completely were the weeds, bushes, briers and trees tangled and matted together. Into this uncanny place my ghostly terrifier passed and disappeared. I have never understood the nature of this apparition up to the present time, and I am perfectly willing to give my name to anyone who would be inclined to doubt the occurrence.’
The Van Wert [OH] Republican 14 July 1887: p. 5
The road called Willshire Road is now Shannon Street or State Route 118. The “new cemetery” is Woodland Cemetery of Van Wert. The older cemetery was on West Main Street. Its inhabitants were moved to Woodland. You can find the Croglin Grange story at http://augustus-hare.tripod.com/croglin.html.
The Van Wert story was widely syndicated. Its anonymous narrator and literary tone make it more than a bit suspect. But it’s a cracking tale for Halloween. You’ll find it and other cemetery ghosts in The Victorian Book of the Dead, available at the preceding link or at online retailers. The Victorian Book of the Dead is also available for Kindle and you can ask your local bookstore or library to order a copy.
It is “National Book-Lovers’ Day,” so, naturally, we have stories of death by the book, starting with a PSA about the perils of bad books and bad newspapers.
Killed by a Novel
It is just as important to read good books as it is to eat good food. Introduce poison into the stomach and the man dies. Let a man take something similar to poison into his mind, and it wrecks or kills him.
The other day in Kansas City, Charles Durgin committed suicide because a gloomy chapter in one of Bulwer’s novels had thrown him into a morbid condition of despondency.
If the inside facts about suicide could be definitely ascertained, it is quite probable that many cases would resemble Durgin’s. When a man looks on the dark side of life or reads everything that is horrible and gloomy in literature, he becomes in the course of time practically insane. If Durgin had made it a point to read bright and cheerful books he would have been so well satisfied with his surroundings and prospects that he would have been in no hurry to shuffle off this mortal coil.
One of the greatest mistakes that a man can make is to read a bad book or a bad newspaper. The effect is to bring him to the conclusion that life not worth living, and when a person has once reached this point there is always a probability of suicide. But the happy laughing philosopher–the optimist who always looks on the bright side–never commit the crime of self-murder. Bad literature is filling our asylums, jails and graveyards. It would be better for the masses to fall back into the illiteracy of their ancestors than to spend their time reading the vicious trash which is now found at every news stand.
The Atlanta [GA] Constitution 7 November 1891: p. 4
Tolstoy’s Kreutzer Sonata was censored by the Russian government (which immediately created a marked for bootlegged copies, privately circulated) and its serialized version was not allowed to be sent through the U.S. postal service for its purported obscenity. Not at all what a young lady of good family should be reading…
A young lady of good family of St. Petersburg was driven to insanity by Tolstoi’s “Kreutzer Sonata.” Having read the book she threw her windows open, and crying, “Dissipation, dishonour everywhere!” she attempted to jump out. Her maid-in-waiting prevented her.
Tuapeka [NZ] Times 27 April 1892: p. 6
Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote Lady Byron Vindicated: A history of the Byron controversy from its beginning in 1816 to the present time. Stowe’s rehabilitation of Lady Byron’s reputation agitated this friend of Lord Byron.
KILLED BY A BOOK
Mrs. Harriet Beecher’s Stowe’s “Vindication” has produced a result which is the privilege of few books to effect, for it has killed a man. The unfortunate victim was Paul Harro-Harring, the Danish political exile and adventurer, who may be remembered as a visitor in this country some twenty-five years ago, and the author of a few works of fiction, which have been published in New York. He was a friend of Byron’s and fought by his side in Greece, and on reading Mrs. Stowe’s volume recently, his mind, which had long been affected, became so violently excited that he committed suicide, on the 15th of May, by stabbing himself and eating phosphorus off the ends of matches…He maintained himself for some time in Brazil as an artist, and he wrote several volumes of poetry. Of late years he labored under the delusion that he was the special object of the hatred of the Russian Government, whose spies he fancied to be perpetually about him, and he gave great trouble to the English police by his constant application for protection from imaginary foes. He was 71 years of age.
White Cloud [KS] Kansas Chief 30 June 1870: p. 2
It is curious to find suicides blamed on bad books and novel-reading, when it seems more likely that there was some other pathology in play.
READ NOVEL, WENT CRAZY AND DIED
Boston, April 13. After reading Sir Conan Doyle’s House of the Baskervilles,” [sic] which tells of the ghostly dog that tears the throat of man and leaves him dead on the moor, Marcus J. Long,, 65, chopped to pieces all the keys and strings of the piano, smashed a $1,000 violin, then committed suicide by inhaling illuminating gas.
The Spokane [WA] Press 13 April 1909: p. 6
But sometimes there really was poison in books, although this smacks of The Name of the Rose or an urban legend:
A Poisoned Prayer Book. Some curious particulars, said to be authentic and not yet published, have just been made public concerning Madame Frigard, the heroine of the Fontainebleau tragedy. It appears that she declared to the Procureur Imperial that the actual poisoning was not premeditated, that she had only administered a little prussic acid to her friend to make her sleep, in order that she (Madame Frigard) might be at liberty to elope with the famous scapegoat and often-referred-to William, the donor of the poison flask in question. The person is also, if we may believe her, the father of the child of which she is pregnant. It will be remembered that a book of prayers was produced at the trial, and had a certain importance as being a proof of the devotional nature and habits of the prisoner. The book was of course impounded, and it being perceived that many of the pages were marked with particular signs, it was further examined. Between each of the pages so marked there were small pieces of white paper. These were submitted to a chemical analysis, and it has been proved that each piece was impregnated with a dose of arsenic sufficient to destroy the life of at least one person. Madame Frigard was, it is evident, a woman of many resources..
Berrow’s Worcester [Worcestershire, England] Journal 2 November 1867: p. 6
Reading in bed was not a safe activity in the oil lamp era. Irony points for the “Inferno” being the fatal bedtime reading, but this may be an urban legend.
Dante Is Her Death.
Chicago, March. 13 Dante’s “Inferno” was the cause of a fire and panic early today at the Arlington hotel. Mrs. Vivian Holmes was so absorbed in the poem that she neglected a lamp with which she was reading. The wick burned into the oil, causing an explosion. The woman was fatally burned. Her husband was also burned severely.
The Saint Paul [MN] Globe 14 March 1905: p. 7
Then we have the theme of books either valuable or libelous as cause of death.
AN OLD LADY’S SHOCK.
PILGRIM’S PROGRESS STORY.
LONDON, Sept. A curious death has been recorded. Mrs. Elizabeth Lingard, of Llandudno, Wales, aged 90, after reading of the sale of a rare copy of Pilgrim’s Progress” for £6500, died of shock, when she discovered a similar copy on her bookshelf.
New Zealand Herald, 8 September, 1926: p. 13
Killed by a Book—A Sad Sequel of “Cape Cod Folks.”
Barnstable, June 22. Mrs. Consider Fisher, the original of “Adelaide” [Abagail, actually] in the novel of “Cape Cod Folks,” died at her home in Cedarsville last night of consumption caused by mental excitement over the libel suit against the publishers for using real characters.
The Morning Journal-Courier [New Haven, CT] 23 June 1882: p. 3
Of course, books hurled or fallen were equally lethal.
Killed by a Dictionary.
Chicago, Oct. 31. While Herman Webber of 1 Whiting street was loading his wagon with furniture in front of 248 Illinois street a dictionary and several novels fell out of a third-story window and struck him on the head, killing him instantly.
Muscatine [IA] Semi-Weekly News Tribune 6 November 1895: p. 9
Killed by a Hurled Book.
Boston. William E. Litchfield, Jr., thirteen years old, died at his home in Dorchester on Sunday from the effects of being struck on the head by a book thrown at him by a schoolmate on Friday. In a spirit of fun, another lad hurled a book across the room. It struck the Litchfield boy behind the ear, but did not seem to have caused any serious injury at first.
Buffalo [NY] Courier Express 20 May 1902: p. 3
Books in a heavy bookcase were an accident waiting to happen.
MYRTLE KNAPP
Killed By a Falling Book-Case.
Distressing Accident on Price Hill Last Evening–The Little One Crushed To Death.
A distressing accident happened in a family on Price Hill last evening just ass the members of the little household were at the supper table.
The unfortunate victim of the affair was a little girl but 2 years of age. She was sweet little Myrtle Knapp, the pet of the family of Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Knapp, a salesman in a Sycamore-street establishment and residing at Seton and Vincent streets, Price Hill. She was crushed to death almost before her fond mother’s eyes in the library. The little child was very popular and unusually bright, and was quite a pet in the neighborhood. She was caught beneath a heavy book-case and her sweet life crushed out without a moment’s warning. Unable to help herself, her dying cries reached the ears of the mother too late to be of any service.
The little one after supper last evening went into the library and was playing about a heavy oaken book-case when the case fell forward, catching the helpless child beneath it. Little Myrtle’s screams attracted the attention of the mother, who rushed into the library, and was horrified to discover the child under the heavy case. With some difficulty the child was rescued, but not until its breath had been exhausted. All efforts were made to save the little sufferer, who was injured internally. She lingered about half an hour and died. The parents of the little one are almost distracted over the terrible affair, and the mother was beside herself. Little Myrtle was a favorite with the family and neighbors, and the news of the accident was a sad blow to the community.
The Cincinnati [OH] Enquirer 16 July 1893: p. 4
RIP little Myrtle…
And to close the book on the subject, murder by book agent. The book agent—a door-to-door seller of books by subscription—was a pest well known for persistence and patter.
An Ohio spiritualistic medium claims to have been told by a murdered man that he was killed by a book agent. This is hardly probable. The autopsy did not indicate that he had been talked to death.
The Buffalo [NY] News 24 September 1886: p. 2
Chris Woodyard is the author of the forthcoming book, A is for Arsenic: An ABC of Victorian Death,The Victorian Book of the Dead, The Ghost Wore Black, The Headless Horror, The Face in the Window, and the 7-volume Haunted Ohio series. She is also the chronicler of the adventures of that amiable murderess Mrs Daffodil in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales. The books are available in paperback and for Kindle. Indexes and fact sheets for all of these books may be found by searching hauntedohiobooks.com. Join her on FB at Haunted Ohio by Chris Woodyard or The Victorian Book of the Dead. And visit her newest blog, The Victorian Book of the Dead.
Not long since a native of the Emerald Isle, one of the victims of the late arsenal explosion, died in this city, and immediately preparations were made to give him a nice, genteel funeral. It was at first arranged that he should be buried here, but some of his kindred being buried at Parkersburg, West Virginia, it was finally determined that what remained of poor Johnny M__ should be sent to that place. Accordingly, after a “wake,” (one of the good old sort.) the remains were accompanied by his sorrowing friends and relatives to the depot, to take the cars for the place of burial. The funeral procession arrived at the depot some time before the departure of the train in which the remains were to go, and the mourners spent the intervening time in assuaging their sorrows at the neighboring bars, so abundant in that vicinity, the corpse meanwhile remaining on the platform ready to be placed on the 9 P.M. train which would connect at the Relay House with the western train.
The party meanwhile drank so many libations to the memory of the departed that they returned to the station in a very mellow condition, and the railroad officers being apprehensive that they would be incapable of taking care of the corpse, telegraphed to the agent at the Relay to see that the corpse was taken off at that point. Shortly before the time of starting the corpse was placed on the train, and an attempt was made to muster the mourners when it was ascertained that one or two had become so obfusticated as to have taken the New York train. The rest of the party, however, managed to get aboard, and ere long Johnny M—’s body was again “marching on.” At the Relay the corpse was transferred to the western train, but two or three of the mourners were too far gone to get out in time, and so proceeded to Baltimore, while the balance of the party with the corpse was hurried on with extra speed westward.
At the points along the road where the engine stopped “to water,” the mourners as invariable stepped “to wet,” and not being up to time, quite as invariably a brace or more were left behind at each watering and wetting place and by the time Grafton was reached, where the corpse was to change cars for Parkersburg, but few of the mourners remained with it, and these were so bewildered that they failed to get in the proper train, and Johnny’s corpse went on to Wheeling without them. From thence, by some means, it was sent to Columbus, Ohio, the corpse thus having got into the wrong State, and the mourners being scattered through Maryland and West Virginia, and along the line of the Baltimore, Wilmington and Philadelphia and Camden and Amboy Railroads. By this time the telegraph was put into excited operation, and various messages were whisked over the wires in various directions in regard to the missing corpse and scattered mourners, making confusion doubly confounded for awhile.
From Grafton an anxious mourner inquired, “Where in the d—l is the corpse?” This dispatch was crossed on the road by a loud inquiry from Columbus as to the ownership of a stray corpse arrived there unconsigned. A Baltimore scattered mourner telegraphed to “postpone the funeral till I get there;” and the squad of-mourners by the New York train were sending wildly confused messages to Parkersburg, Relay House, Grafton, and Washington, all helping to intensify the prevailing muddle. The corpse, meantime, had resumed its travels, and, like poor Joe, not being wanted in any locality, had been kept moving on, until it arrived at Little Miami depot, where it created no little excitement, being without any mark for identification, and foul play being at once suspected. A coroner’s inquest was held without throwing any light upon the mystery, which was, however, cleared up by a telegraphic despatch for the missing corpse. The railway officials then got the corpse in motion eastward, and the mourners headed westward, and finally, after the most eventful history of any corpse or set of mourners on record, Johnny’s body was duly committed by them to mother earth, where we trust it may rest in peace.
The Iowa Transcript [Toledo IA] 14 February 1866: p. 3
On 17 June, 1864, there was a dreadful explosion at the Washington Arsenal, which killed 21 young women workers. ‘Johnny M__’ was killed in an explosion on 19 December, 1865, at the Arsenal at Greenleaf’s Point. The list of known dead, issued with several men missing, included one John Mechan. I have not been able to find a record of his grave.
Two clergymen at Oxford, in the early part of the present century, had agreed in writing that whichever died first should visit his friend (if such were permitted), in order to confirm his belief in the Unseen World. They were both devout believers in the intervention of angelic beings in the concerns of the present life; and had largely studied the literature of the Supernatural.
One of them, Dr W., was a fellow of his college; the other, Mr P., a bachelor, had taken a living about eighteen miles from Oxford, where he resided.
In the month of November 1815 or 1816 (for the exact date seems uncertain, owing to the deaths of those who themselves knew the circumstances), Dr W. twice dreamt of his friend P., who appeared to him in his dream, as pale and suffering great pain; and on the second appearance exclaimed, “W., they are burying me!” So vivid an impression did this dream make that he had almost resolved to ride over to the house of his friend on the morrow. However, some pressing work in college demanded his time and attention; so putting aside his half-formed resolution, he did not go, and the day passed.
In due course he retired to bed, had no dreams, and rose as usual the next morning.
He had breakfasted and was sitting near the fire reading a book, when he heard an ordinary knock at the door, such as his servant the scout usually gave, and at once, without looking round, mechanically responded “Come in.”
Suddenly he seemed to hear a distinct and hollow whisper, in his friend P.’s voice,
“W., they are burying me!”
Starting up somewhat alarmed, he found no one in the room, and no one in his adjoining chambers. The servant, on inquiry, had not been in; and no one had entered the apartment.
Coupling this occurrence with his previous dreams, he resolved to go and see his friend at once, and immediately ordered his horse. After a hard ride he came up to the clergyman’s house, where to his intense amazement he found the blinds of the windows down, and saw a plumed hearse and pair of horses waiting at the front door.
On inquiry he found that his friend had died very suddenly; that the coffin was being actually screwed down, that the mourners were in the house, and that the funeral was to take place at three in the afternoon.
Having earnestly appealed for one more sight of the features of his friend, the relatives consented to have the lid of the coffin unscrewed, when Dr W., stooping down to kiss the forehead, fancied that there were signs of life. Putting his ear to the breast and face, he cried out, “P., do you hear me? This is a trance! Surely he breathes! This is not death! He is not dead!”
A slight motion of the muscles at the corner of the mouth was the immediate response.
The body as a consequence was lifted out of the coffin and placed again in bed. Warm applications were made use of; the hands and feet were rubbed; and, though he still lay in a trance, the signs of life were unmistakable.
Three days afterwards Mr P. regained consciousness. In the earlier part of his illness (when the trance was upon him), as he asserted, he could hear the remarks of the attendants, but was wholly unable to stir. Subsequently he lost all consciousness; and by no mental effort could he remember anything.
He recovered his strength so far, as that he was able to get about again, but in enfeebled health; and resigning the active duties of his office, he lived until the spring of 1825 at Bath, where he then died. He was always extremely reticent as to the incident recorded. To a friend these were his words: “The voice of entreaty heard at Oxford may have been my spiritual voice. Of that I can say nothing, for I know nothing, . . . or it may have been the voice of my guardian angel—if so, Laus Deo!”
Glimpses in the Twilight, Frederick George Lee, 1885
There is a good fund of college ghost stories arising from the dreaming spires of Oxford and a certain Provost of King’s College, Cambridge. See, for example, this one about a companionable ghost at Cambridge. If one were a cynic, one might suggest that some of the stories arise from scholarly gentlemen who have spent their evenings in the Common Room with a diminishing decanter of port. “Hinc lucem et pocula sacra.”
Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes
You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.
Delving among the sepulchres while searching for macabre tales for The Victorian Book of the Dead I ran across this disturbing ritual.
During my residence at the Lakes I heard of a practice which some writers on Ireland state is frequent in that country; viz., securing immunity from disease by eating holy clay, or, in other words, earth blessed by the priests before being cast into graves. The result of my inquiries, which were numerous, among the peasantry, does not warrant me in agreeing with a writer in the Quarterly Review (vol. 68.), who declares that this “practice is common;” but the following extract from a communication by Dr. Picknell, physician to the Dispensary at Cork, and published in the 4th vol. of the Transactions of the Dublin College of Physicians, is evidence that the habit alluded to is no myth:
“Mary Reordan, a native of Cork, was afflicted with a most surprising complaint, whereby at intervals she discharged, by vomiting, &c., quantities of insects of the beetle species, some more than half an inch long, in all stages of their existence; some as larvae, some as pupae, and some in their winged state, which, as soon as they were discharged, flew about the room. The doctor, in anxiety to elicit every circumstance which might tend to develop the mode of the introduction of these insects, asked the patient had she been in the habit of eating clay? Her answer was, that when she was about fifteen years of age two clergymen of her persuasion died, and she being told by some old woman that if she would drink daily during a certain period a portion of water in which was infused clay taken from the graves of those clergymen she would be secured for ever against disease and sin. She accordingly walked to Kinsale, a distance of twelve miles, where one of the clergymen was interred, and succeeded in bringing away an apron and handkerchief full of the clay from the grave; to this she added some mugs full of clay from the other clergyman’s grave, who was buried in the city of Cork. Her practice was to infuse from time to time, according to the exigency, in a vessel of water a portion of the holy clay, the mixture being always allowed to rest until the grosser particles of the clay subsided. She had been in the daily use of the water medicated according to this disgusting formula. The beetles discharged from the woman were principally of the bleps mortisaga species [sic], which is well known to inhabit churchyards.”*
Reading this, we can no longer be surprised that the superstitious ceremony of waking a body, accompanied as it is with offerings for the speedy release of the soul of the departed from purgatory, is, if at all within the means of the surviving relations, conducted with extraordinary observances.
*The capability of many species of parasitical animals to live within the human being, is well known. Experiments were lately tried in Germany on a criminal left for execution, by giving him in his food, without his knowledge, a few hours before his death, various parasitical insects. [!!!] When the body was opened after execution, many of them were alive and had propagated.
Vacations in Ireland, Charles Richard Weld, London: Longman, Brown, Green, Longmans & Roberts, 1857
The original is found in Extract from a communication of Dr. Picknell, Physician to the Dispensary at Cork, April 4th, 1823. Published in the Transactions of The Fellows of the College of Physicians of Dublin, vol. iv. p. 189.
Devotees scooped up the clay in rags, which were returned to the grave after consuming the holy clay.
The grave looked like a shallow pit, the bottom of which was covered with small stones and rags, scraps of cloth, cotton, and linen. On inquiring why this grave had such a peculiar aspect, I was informed that the clay was all carried away, in order to be infused in water, and drank by Catholics and their cattle, as a cure for disease in the one, and a remedy against sin in the other; and that it was deemed proper in every case when a devotee carried the holy clay away, to bring back the rag in which it was conveyed, and deposit it on the grave. Sketches in Ireland, C.O., Dublin: William Curry, Jun. and Company, 1839.
“Secured for ever against disease and sin.” The sin part I leave to the priests and theologians. But could the clay actually be a cure for man or beast? People all over the world consume clay for various reasons, some of them medicinal and some religious. Dirt and clay do contain some nutrients, like calcium. The 19th-century “Carolina Clay-Eaters,” ate white clay, claimed to be a cure for indigestion. I know persons prescribed clay by their doctors for morning sickness. For the surprising numbers of modern clay-eaters in the US see the section “In the United States” in this entry on Geophagy. An obvious parallel is pica, the disorder where persons crave dirt, chalk, ice, and other non-food substances. It is often linked with social stresses: poverty, pregnancy, and family chaos, as well as physical diseases such as anemia as a result of hookworm. Rural Ireland was rife with all of these stressors, and more. Was holy clay merely the Church’s blessing of a practice born of desperation?
Is holy clay still eaten in Ireland? Precipitate in a little water and send to Chriswoodyard8 AT gmail.com
Undine, of Strange Company, has added to our knowledge of human-insect interaction/ingestion/infestation with this post. Many thanks, Undine!
Photograph shows photographing the unknown dead for a French morgue.
The New York Morgue kept a gallery of photographs of their unknown dead
Pictures of the New York Morgue.
New York Mercury.
One picture here is peculiarly striking. It is that of a man with marked features –the face full of fierce intelligence, and having a close resemblance to the great author, Alexander Dumas. There is no appearance of death in the silent face, and through it there beam the characteristics of a man of strong passions and indomitable will. It is a face that a weird painter like Dore would revel in. Mr. mason has many interesting anecdotes to relate concerning his gallery. It appears by his statistics that two-thirds of the person who have been photographed have been identified, and in some instances the result has been the recovery of large sums of money.
RECOGNIZED AFTER THREE YEARS.
On the eighth of August, 1874, a gentleman came to the wharf at the foot of Twenty-sixth street for the purpose of visiting Blackwell’s Island. To his chagrin he was just in time to see the boat leaving the pier. To while away the time he strolled into the morgue, and was examining the photograph gallery, when he was almost struck dumb with astonishment to see the portrait of an intimate friend, who had been missing ever since the early part of October 1871. The missing man had been a wealthy and influential citizen of Columbia county, in this State, and since he had left home, all trace of him had been lost. Inquiry had been set on foot, as the settlement of large estates was involved in the establishment of the fact of his death, but without avail. The photograph at the morgue established the fact of his death. The estates were settled up, and the heirs have to thank the Blackwell’s boat and Mr. Mason’s camera for their fortune.
THE BORROWED HANDKERCHIEF.
One of the strangest stories in the photographer’s repertoire is the following: Some years ago the body of a fine-looking, well-dressed man was found floating in the dock, bumping against the piles, and covered with the ooze and slime of the dark river. There was no money in his pocket, no market upon his clothes, nothing save a handkerchief upon which a name had been worked. While the photograph was being taken, the druggist of the hospital standing by, happened to look at the handkerchief, and recognized the name upon it as that of a well-known Philadelphia druggist. The telegraph was at once brought into requisition, and a message was sent asking whether the druggist in question was missing. The answer came back “No.” Still the handkerchief in the possession of the dead man was unaccounted for, and to unravel the mystery further communication was opened with the Philadelphia druggist. Upon inquiry he remembered that some time previous an intimate friend had slept at his house and, before leaving in the morning, had borrowed a handkerchief. The handkerchief and the photograph were shown to him, and he recognized his property and his friend. How the poor fellow had met his death was never ascertained, but mourning friends saved him from the potter’s field.
THE LOST BANKER.
About six o’clock one morning the porter at the gate of the hospital noticed an elderly gentleman walking along Twenty-sixth street toward the river. There was nothing remarkable in this fact except the evident respectability of the gentleman and the earliness of the hour, for respectable gentlemen are not in the habit of walking along the East river at six o’clock in the morning. Three hours afterward this gentleman was picked up from the water in the dock, dead, and his photograph was taken. Before the day passed, detectives visited the charnel-house. Mr. Bull, a well-known banker, at one time secretary of the American institute, was missing; had any one bearing his description been there? The photograph of the respectable-looking gentleman was shown them. it was that of the missing banker. It transpired on investigation that Mr. Bull had been spending the evening with some friends, and had left them to take the cars at Forty second street depot—he lived out of town. The theory advanced was that he had in some manner become confused, lost his way, and, after walking the streets in a dazed condition, had unerringly walked into the water.
THE ORPHANS’ LOSS.
About a year ago a gentleman left his home on Staten Island to come to his business in the city. It was a happy home, for two beautiful and affectionate daughters consoled him for the loss of the kind mother and loving wife who had been called away from life. He was a prosperous merchant, and want had never entered the doorway into which the beaming sun streamed so brightly. The day passed as merrily as the others had, but when night came there was no father there. The agonized daughters, nearly frantic with undefined fear, ran to their neighbors, but no tidings of their missing parent were to be had. Two long weeks dragged on; detectives were employed, letters written, telegrams sent, but still no tidings. Then, as a last resort, they went to the morgue. There were no bodies on the cold, specter-like marble slabs, no photograph of their father in the gallery. Then somebody suggested to the orphans that they should examine Mr. Mason’s album. They did so, and, as they were turning the leaves, the eldest daughter gave a long, piteous scream that chilled the hearts of the listeners, and fell in a swoon to the floor. She had recognized the portrait of her father.
AFTER ONE YEAR.
It is not always, however, that the loved are found in the gallery of death. There came to the morgue one day the body of a man, a laborer, who had been crushed to death by the falling upon him of a heavy box. A photograph was taken and the body was buried. Some time afterward a woman, evidently drawn thither by curiosity, more than from any set purpose, wandered into the morgue and looked carelessly at the pictures upon the wall. Suddenly her eyes distended, her face paled, she clutched nervously at the thin shawl that was thrown loosely around her, and burst into tears. Somebody standing by noticed her perturbation and asked the cause. She then explained, her voice choked with emotion, that the portrait of the dead laborer was that of her husband. They had been separated for over a year, and, during that time, she had not seen him once. Now she was brought face to face with the picture of his dead body.
THE WAGES OF SIN.
At almost any hour of the day there may be found in the narrow limits of the morgue, three or four–,and when there is a “subject” on the slabs, a larger number-loiterers drawn thither either through anxiety or morbid curiosity that draws the idle to such a place. One day there happened to be among the throng, a bright, handsome-looking young man, with the bloom of health upon his cheek, and evidently fresh from the country, the fact being expressed in every liniment of his countenance that he was seeing the “sights” of the metropolis. He, like the rest, looked at the pictures, when he suddenly started, looked closely with a wondering, half-doubtful expression on his countenance. Then he wiped his hands across his eyes, in which tears glistened, and went to the superintendent’s office. He came to make inquiries concerning the portrait of a beautiful, dark-haired girl that had been seen in the gallery. He was too late. The body had been put among those of the unknown dead, and there was no means of distinguishing her resting-place. Then the grief-stricken brother told his story. The portrait he had seen was that of his sister. Only a few years before she had been a bright, winsome girl, honest and industrious, but, with the curse of the working girl a love for finery. One night she did not come home from the shop. It was the old story, and the aged parents wished they had seen their little Maggie dead in her coffin rather than that she had died the living death she had. Soon all trace of her was lost, and they knew that she had been swallowed up in the great vortex of metropolitan sin. The old folks died, and the son went into the country to work on a farm, where his sister’s shame should not be known. He had come up to the city for a holiday, and that visit to the morgue had shown him the picture of that once-loved sister, cold in death, with the hard, cruel lines of sin upon her face. She had been found drowned. The incidents related above are all actual facts, free from the garniture of imagination, and told by Mr. Mason on the hospital porch, with the cool breezes from the river that has so often given up its dead to furnish the subjects for them playing through the trees, while the waves tremblingly lap the shore and seem to whisper for more victims for death’s gallery.
Rich Miner Returns From Nome to Find Sister and Children Are Buried.
New York. December 26. Seated at a table, at which there were four other chairs, all vacant, but in front of each of which a complete dinner had been placed in courses and then carried away untouched, Henry B. Tannehill, once of New York, but now of nowhere in particular, ate his Christmas meal yesterday in the Hotel Marlborough. His phantom guests were his sister and her three children, all dead, but of their deaths he knew nothing until he arrived in this city and registered at the hotel Monday last after a leisurely trip across the continent from Nome, Alaska. Tannehill’s return to New York just at this time was in fulfillment of a promise which he was able to carry out only to the extent of his presence here. He had planned a reunion with his kin, which he intended should be memorable for its gladness and good cheer. He had been dazed upon his arrival here to learn that in his nine years’ absence, during which he had no word from them nor they from him, disease and sudden death had robbed him of all but one of his living relatives.
In his absence he alone had prospered. Nine years ago Tannehill, unmarried, lived with his sister and her husband, John Vanderveer. at No. 271 West 68th street. One night Vanderveer was struck by a New York. New Haven and Hartford train. He was dead when trainmen picked him up.
Not long afterward Tannehill, with two venturous comrades, wandered away to the frozen Klondike region in search of gold. After many vicissitudes he went to Nome, where fortune favored him.
“On the day I left my sister’s home I told her that I would be back next Christmas, or the one after and that the treat for them would be the finest that money could buy. I got out and hustled and saved considerable money in the Klondike, and when I got in here the other night.” he said, his voice quivering. “I ran over to the East Side and began to look the folks up. It didn’t take me long to find out what I least expected. My sister went out to a store one day and left the children in the house: when she came back they were dead–burned. Then she died herself of pneumonia–and worry, too, I guess. She wasn’t the sort to live long after a thing like that.”
Tannehill says he has only one living relative, a cousin, in New Zealand, whom has never seen, and to whom he may pay a visit.
Evening Star [Washington DC] 26 December 1908 p. 12
“1855, March 28.—The following story was told me by Lady S., who heard it from Mr. M., a gentleman of considerable note, and one not at all given to romancing:—
“Mr. M., a well-known lawyer, went to stay with Mr.T., in the county of ___. In the course of their first evening together, Mr. M. learned that, among his host’s neighbours, was an old friend of his own, for whom he had great regard; but of whom he had lost sight since college days. The next morning Mr. M asked the gentleman of the house if he would forgive him if he walked over to see his old friend; adding a request that if he were asked to dinner, he might be allowed to accept the invitation.
“On being assured that he might do whatever was most agreeable to himself, he went to make his call—not on foot, as he had proposed, but in his friend’s dog-cart. As he anticipated, the gentleman he went to see insisted on his staying to dinner. He consented, and sent the groom back with the dog-cart, with a message to his master to say that, as it would be a fine moonlight night, he should prefer walking home. After having passed a very agreeable day with the old fellow-collegian, he bade him good-bye; and, fortified with a couple of cigars, sallied forth on his return. On his way he had to pass through the pleasant town of ___, and on coming to the church in the main street, he leaned against the iron railings of the churchyard while he struck a match and lighted his second cigar. At that moment the church clock began to strike. As he had left his watch behind him, and did not feel certain whether it were ten o’clock or eleven, he stayed to count, and to his amazement found it twelve. He was about to hurry on, and make up for lost time, when his curiosity was pricked, and the stillness of the night broken, by the sound of carriage wheels on the road, moving at a snail’s pace, and coming up the side street directly facing the spot where he was standing. The carriage proved to be a mourning-coach, which, on turning at right angles out of the street in which Mr. M. first saw it, pulled up at the door of a large red brick house. Not being used to see mourning-coaches out at such an unusual hour, and wondering to see this one returning at such a funereal pace, he thought he would stay and observe what happened. The instant the coach drew up at the house, the carriage door opened, then the street door, and then a tall man, deadly pale, in a suit of sables, descended the carriage steps, and walked into the house. The coach drove on, and Mr. M. resumed his walk. On reaching his quarters, he found the whole household in bed, with the exception of the servant, who had received orders to stay up for him.
“The next morning, at breakfast, after he had given the host and hostess an account of his doings on the previous day, he turned to the husband and asked him the name of the person who lived in the large red brick house directly opposite the churchyard. ‘Who lives in it?’ ‘Mr. P., the lawyer!’ ‘Do you know him?’ ‘Yes; but not at all intimately. We usually exchange visits of ceremony about once a year, I think.’
“Mr. M.: ‘Does any one live with him? Is he married?’ “Answer: ‘No. Two maiden sisters live with him. He is a bachelor, and likely to remain one; for, poor fellow, he is a sad invalid. If I am not mistaken, he is abroad at this moment, on account of his health.’
“Mr. M. then mentioned his motive for asking these questions. When he had told of his adventure, he proposed that, after lunch, they should drive to and call on the ladies, and see if, by their help, they could not unravel the mystery. Full of their object, they paid their visit, and after the usual interchange of commonplace platitudes, the sisters were asked if they had heard lately of their brother. They said, ‘No; not for weeks: and felt rather uneasy in consequence.’
Mr. M. surprised at not seeing them in mourning, asked them if they had not lately sustained a great loss. ‘No,’ they replied: ‘why do you ask such a question?’ ‘Oh,’ said Mr. M. ‘because of the mourning-coach I saw, with some gentleman of this family in it, returning from a funeral so late last night.’ ‘I think, Sir,’ said one of the ladies, ‘ you must have mistaken this house for some other.’ He shook his head confidently. At their request, he then told them what had happened. They said it was impossible that their street door could have been opened at that hour, for that every servant, as well as themselves, were in bed. The more the subject was canvassed, the farther they seemed from arriving at any satisfactory conclusion. The ladies, rather nettled at the obstinacy of his assertions, examined the servants, individually and collectively, but with no better result. Mr. M. and his host eventually withdrew. On their drive home, Mr. M.’s friend quizzed him, and reminded him that when he saw the apparition he had dined, and dined late, and had sat long over his friend’s old port. But Mr. M., though he submitted to the badinage good-humouredly, remained ‘of the same opinion still.’
“A week after, when Mr. M. was in his chambers in London, his friend from the country burst in upon him, and said, ‘I know you are much engaged, but I could not resist running in to tell you that the two ladies we called on last week, three or four days after our visit received a letter, telling them that their brother, “a tall, pale man,” had died at Malta, at twelve o’clock on the very night you saw the mourning-coach and the person in it at their door.’”
The Spiritual Magazine 1 October 1871
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: While Mrs Daffodil finds that the ghostly tale delivers a delightful frisson (and plans to tell it at the next All Hallow’s festivities, where it will frighten the Tweeny out of her wits…) , she is pursing her lips dubiously over the many breaches of etiquette found in this narrative. Mr. M. deserves reproach for entering a stranger’s house and posing such a delicate question, despite paving the way with conventional platitudes. His host is equally in the wrong for introducing him to the household simply in order to gratify a morbid curiosity.
The dead man is also to be censured. He might have panicked the household by his unexpected appearance so late at night. At the very least he should have sent a telegram notifying his sisters of his arrival. One might also point out that the tall, pale gentleman properly belonged in a hearse, not in a funeral carriage, which is reserved for conveying legitimate mourners to and from the funeral and churchyard. Mrs Daffodil will reserve judgement on the dead man’s attire. It is a nice point of etiquette as to whether the corpse himself should don “sables” for his own demise.
Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes
You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.
But the Gates Will Surely Be Ajar for Him in the Other World.
“Uncle John” Thorpe stood among his flowers one morning thinking how much better they were than the money that bought them.
The front door opened slightly and there came through the crevice a very small boy, much tattered as to clothes and having streaks of the town dirt across his face.
He saw “Uncle John” back among the flowers and said:
“Mister.”
“What is it?”
“Say, I want a rose,” and he held out a penny.
“For a cent?”
“Dat’s all I can blow.”
“You’d better let me give you a carnation. It looks just as well in a gentleman’s buttonhole,” with a smile.
“No kiddin’, mister. I ain’t wearin’ flowers. It’s for me pardner.”
“Your partner?”
“De kid dat’s always been wid me. He’s out in t’e hospital and I t’ought he’d like to have a rose.” “Uncle John” picked out the rarest and sweetest rose of all and took the penny.
The boy went away with the great nodding blossom hugged against his torn waist, and Uncle John was left with the reflection that there are some things in the world as beautiful as flowers.
It was a week later when the door again opened and the same tattered boy, his face unnaturally clean, came in and once more found “Uncle John” at home among his flowers.
“Mister.”
“Hello, here; the boy that brought the rose. How’s your partner?”
“Dat’s what I came in about. He’s dead.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Say, mister, do you make dem ‘Gates Ajar’ t’ings for to put on coffins?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
“Well, t’ye boys have chipped in for one and here’s t’e stuff,” and he opened his right hand, which was heaping full of pennies and nickels.
“Uncle John” gathered together the coins and counted them. The total was 76 cents.
“We t’ought for dat we could get somethin’ purty nice fer t’e kid.”
“Yes, indeed; come this afternoon.”
“The boy went away undeceived.
“Uncle John, as he wired together the green strands and the rich clusters of bloom again reflected, and his reflection was that the gates must be ajar for such “kids.”
The Victorian Book of the Dead 