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The Victorian Book of the Dead Blog

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Thanks for joining me! This blog is about the popular and material culture of Victorian death and mourning, some of which is shared in my book The Victorian Book of the Dead. The blog will consolidate posts on mourning and death from two of my other blogs: Mrs Daffodil Digresses and Killer Budgie at hauntedohiobooks.com. I will also occasionally post on other funereal topics or share unique excerpts from primary sources. Some posts will be grim, some will be humourous, some grewsome, as the Victorians said. I will warn readers that I have a reprehensible penchant for treating the subject of death as entertainment.

If you have questions about Victorian mourning or comments, please do get in touch at chriswoodyard8 AT gmail.com

Chris Woodyard is the author of 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.

Mortui viventes docent.

Went to the Station to Meet the Corpse: 1881

9:45 A.M. Accommodation, Stratford, Connecticut, Edward Lamson Henry, 1864

https://morsemuseum.org/collection-highlights/paintings/945-am-accommodation-stratford-connecticut/

A SAD SCENE.

Mr. Cheney, a farmer of Indiana, having a married daughter living in Nebraska, was shocked by a telegram from her husband saying that her body would arrive the next evening. The family was overcome with the sudden blow. Hurried preparations for mourning garments and the preliminaries to the funeral were made, and, on the dismal evening, dressed all in black, went to the station to meet the corpse, The hearse and two or three carriages were drawn up in line, and a numerous crowd, attracted partly by curiosity, partly by sympathy, accompanied the bereaved household. As the train approached a solemn silence settled upon the assembly, and as it stopped there was respectful hush until the ceremony of a receiving the corpse was concluded. But the train hands did not share this feeling. The baggage-master pitched his trunks about and swore as briskly as ever and just as if a part of his load was not of a character to call for decorous behavior. The conductor came upon the platform laughing and trying to joke with the station agent’s daughter, who told him he ought to be ashamed to carry on that way at such a time. In the meanwhile the long and narrow box which so quickly tells its story had not made its appearance, and, after a painful delay, Mr. Cheney stepped forward and asked for the corpse. The baggageman stared at him as if he were crazy, and, making no reply, went on overhauling the trunks, as if it might be under them somewhere. Suddenly Mr. Cheney felt an arm about his neck and kiss imprinted upon his cheek. He looked. It was his daughter. The female members of the family went into hysterics. There were shouts and tears and laughter. The daughter, appalled at the somber dresses, the hearse and cortege, was frightened almost into a fainting fit. She could offer no explanation of the telegram. She could not say positively whether in a moment of absent-mindedness her husband had actually sent the dispatch as received, or whether he wrote it so blindly that the operator misread it. At any rate, she refused to ride home in the hearse, and took her place in the carriage with the chief mourners.

The Rutherford [NC] Banner 30 September 1881: p. 1

One longs to know what explanation the husband offered, or if it was wishful thinking on his part.

Chris Woodyard is the author of 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 on BlueSky @chriswoodyard.bsky.social. And visit her newest blog The Victorian Book of the Dead.

The Embalmer’s Art: 1896

THE EMBALMER’S ART.

How Cadavers Are Kept for Months.

Women Entering the Gruesome Field.

A Prominent and Practical Preserver of the Dead Talks Interestingly of the Art.

“Embalming is a butchery of the body,” said a member of the United States Cremation society to a reporter last week. “They slice you up and fill you full of poison. Embalming even changes the color of the ashes if the body is cremated. It makes them rose-pink with green spots.”

So said the cremationist, but the embalmers say pooh, pooh! A certain undertaker in University place smiles pityingly over such notions. He says he doesn’t believe in cremation, and his specialty is embalming.

“That’s all nonsense to talk about embalming being a butchery!” he remarked. “It’s only an ignorant person who would say it. Embalming is taking the place of icing altogether. We haven’t iced a body for several years with the exception of one case during the hot spell In August. Then the people were in a hurry, and said for us just to ice the body, so we did. But all undertakers of the better class are embalming nowadays.”

“Isn’t it very expensive?”

“Not any more so than icing. Of course, there are two kinds of embalming: one which is really only temporary, to preserve the body for a few days until its interment; the other of a more thorough and permanent character, calculated to preserve the body until it can be shipped, or to await the arrival of friends from Europe or something of that sort. Even in the first case, however, we often have remarkable results. Several months ago we embalmed a body for a gentleman living in Connecticut. It was only a temporary embalming, and we did not know that the body would be seen after it was put in the coffin and taken away from New York. But two or three months later we received a letter from the man saying that he had recently had his wife’s body taken from the receiving vault where it had been placed and deposited in a new vault. The coffin was opened at the time, and the body was found in just as perfect preservation as it was immediately after we had treated it.”

“How long does it take to perform this temporary embalming?”

“From one to two hours. Sometimes we do not finish it at one time, but go back to the house several times. People seem to think that you can do what is necessary in fifteen minutes. If you stay an hour and a half or two hours they think there must be something wrong. So we use our discretion and, in order not to disturb the family we make several trips. As for ‘butchery,’ that is absurd! If we removed any vital part of the body, such as the heart, for instance, then people might be justified in some sentiment against it. But we simply draw the blood from the arteries, veins, and capillaries.”

“You inject a chemical fluid in its place, do you not?”

“Oh, yes, there are all sorts of combinations used by different embalmers.”

“How long does it take to embalm a body thoroughly, so that it can be preserved for a long time?”

“That depends. We like to have the entire charge of a body for two or three days. Then we can watch it carefully, and see just how things are going. We don’t simply aim to preserve the tissues of the body. We want to do something more than make mummies. We try to preserve the natural appearance of the body.”

“Have you ever known of an embalmed body being exposed for a long time?”

“Yes; I knew of one instance. Of course, I have read a good many newspaper stories of such cases, but most of them are lies. But I know of a woman near Macon, in Georgia, who had her first husband’s body embalmed, and kept it in her house until she concluded to marry again. A young man, who had seen it there, told me. Such a thing as that would not be possible here. It is against the law.”

“Are there women embalmers?”

“Oh, yes! We have a school right here where we teach embalming, and we’ve turned out a couple of dozen embalmers in this city alone, besides those we have sent others all over the country. We have a class now which began last week. There was one woman in that. I think she must be 60 years old. A good many trained nurses take the instruction. They’ve had a good deal of experience in handling bodies, and they think they can make money out of it in connection with their regular work.”

“How do you teach it?”

“First, we teach the anatomy of the body, and show them how to locate the arteries and veins. When they have been thoroughly instructed in that, we have them observe a skilled embalmer at work, and finally give them cases themselves, to be treated under the direction of the instructor. There is a considerable demand for women embalmers, and they are quite, as skillful as men.”

“How much does a temporary embalming cost?”

“From $15 to $20.”

“How soon after death should it be performed?”

“That depends. A good many undertakers claim that It ought not to be done within six or eight hours, but I have known cases when that would have been too late. Sometimes, you know, a portion of the body is really dead before the heart finally stops beating. The extremities are often dead, to all intents and purposes, long before the breath ceases. In a case like that six or eight hours would be a long time to wait. On the other hand, we have embalmed bodies several days after death had occurred. The process is more difficult, but we have done it.”

“Do you run the risk of blood poisoning?”

“Yes, of blood poisonings and of contagion in the case of certain diseases. But there is a risk in everything,” and the undertaker smiled philosophically.

“Is there a graduated tariff for funerals here, such as there is in France and other countries?”

“No. Occasionally I have read of some concern starting up on a scheme like that; such and such a funeral for $25; such and such a one for $50, and so on. But they don’t seem to last long. As a general thing, people tell us what they want and we give them a statement of what it will cost. There is a fixed tariff for carriages and for other items, so that it is simply a case for selection and addition—and, later, for collection,” added the undertaker, with a thoughtful smile. N.Y. Sun.

Statesman Journal [Salem, OR] 13 November 1896: p. 2

For more on lady embalmers, see this post.

Mr Blomgren’s New Year’s Call: c. 1880s

Before the custom of making calls on New Year’s day had quite come to an end in New York, we were directing envelopes for our cards, during Christmas week, when some one noticed that we had forgotten our friend, Mr. Blomgren. We hastened to correct our omission, and fell to speaking of Mr. Blomgren as one we liked particularly. He was amiable and unassuming, and had the most winning manners. In fact, he was a very fine specimen of the Swedish gentleman, and each of us had something pleasant to say of him, and we rejoiced that we had discovered our mistake in time for him to get his card, which we directed to his boarding place.

New Year’s day came, and, during the afternoon, Mr. Blomgren did not present himself. However, we had rather thought that he would come in the evening and were not surprised.

It was about eight o’clock, I think, when one of us went up-stairs to put two little nieces, who were visiting us, to bed.

The children were sound asleep, and their aunt was growing drowsy, when she became aware of a tall figure standing in the door-way, and, starting up, saw that it was Mr. Blomgren, and fancied that, as the room was sometimes used as a dressing-room at our receptions, he had supposed that this would be the case to-night.

She arose and advanced toward him, saying words to the effect that every one was down stairs. He answered, without a smile—”I came because you sent me a card.”

“We are delighted to see you, Mr. Blomgren,” she replied ; “shall we go down?” But he was already gone, and she followed.

As he was not to be found in any of the lower rooms, and none of us had seen him, we decided that the mistake he had made had mortified him and that he had gone away at once, and we were all very sorry. Yet, it was not like him to be so sensitive, he was too much a man of the world, and not by any means a boy— thirty years of age, probably.

A few days after, a lady friend called, and one of us spoke of Mr. Blomgren. She had got so far as to say —”of course, we sent him cards “—when the visitor cried out:

“Sent him cards?—why, he had been dead a week or more on New Year’s day.”

He died of pneumonia, after a brief illness, and, having no relatives here, he was taken to a hospital.

I know that many people who knew him had no knowledge of his death until weeks after it occurred.

It is only fair to say that the lady who saw him afterwards decided that she must have been asleep and dreamed it all—though, she declared, it resembled no other dream that she had ever had, and she was not conscious of any waking.

The Freed Spirit: Or Glimpses Beyond the Border, Mary Kyle Dallas, 1897

Christmas Eve at the Undertaker’s: c. 1880s

One Christmas Eve.

This morgue frivolity recalls to the writer’s memory a conviviality he participated in one Christmas Eve. There was an undertaker who was a very decent fellow, and, by reason of his having to prepare certain coffins for a couple of Christmas Day funerals, he was unable to join in the about-town celebrations which usually mark the eve of what is called the festive season. So, about 10 o’clock at night half a dozen of us, all merry, armed with a brace of whisky bottles (full) and sundry bottles of brandy and beer besieged the coffin-maker’s shop, and there continued to wish one another the various compliments of the season. A coffin was the table, other coffins were the seats. With ribald song and joke the hours were spent until all was oblivion. The awakening was the punishment! Ere the undertaker had succumbed to the potency of the spirit he had deposited each member of the party in an unfinished coffin, and when the grey dawn crept through the windows and eyes were opened a cold horror seized each, which lasted until the Real was brought back by a wild yell of fright from one of the number. The joke was one to be played but once in a lifetime.

ARGENTUM.

The Barrier Miner [Broken Hill, New South Wales, Australia] 15 March 1898: p. 2

Have Yourself a Mortuary Christmas

Wondering what to send your friends and loved ones for Christmas? I’m not sure that we should take any advice from the papers of the past, which reported on some strange and macabre Christmas presents–like human ashes.

Mr Rider Haggard, the popular novelist, has, as we learn from a letter of his to the Times, been the recipient of a somewhat remarkable and gruesome Christmas gift from a correspondent who is evidently imbued with the realistic view of writing fiction. The other day the author of “King Solomon’s Mines” found amongst his post a package which he proceeded unsuspectingly to open. It contained a short note, which ran as follows–” Dear Sir–Please find herewith cremated remains of Dom D de Castro, which I found the other day in some old furniture.” The writer then gave his name and address, and added that he thought the remains would form a good foundation for a new romance. It is not surprising to learn from Mr. Haggard that the discovery of what the stuff in the parcel was “gave everybody present what is known as a turn.” We have no doubt novelists welcome anything that gives a fillip to their imagination in these days of over-production, but certainly the mortal remains of a Spanish hidalgo is not the pleasantest form of a Christmas gift. Besides Mr. Haggard, at any rate, does not need any such stimulus to develop his inventive powers.

The Freeman’s Journal and National Press [Dublin, Ireland] 21 December 1892: p. 5

GRISLY CHRISTMAS GIFT.

Alameda, California, Man Receives the Ashes of His Sister as His Christmas Present.

When Matt Buchman, of Alameda, Cal., signed a receipt for an express package last Tuesday, which was delivered to him, he did not dream that it contained the ashes of his sister. He did not make the discovery until yesterday, when he received a letter from his sister, written before her death, telling him that he would see her on Christmas day, either living or dead.

Upon opening the parcel Buchman beheld a copper vessel about the size of an ordinary fruit jar, sealed at the top and bearing numbers on the cover. There was nothing to indicate the nature of its contents. Buchman did not know what to make of the parcel.

When he had retired to his room late at night he took a pocketknife and cut a hole in the top of the vessel. In the bottom of the urn he saw a few bits of charred bone and a quantity of what appeared to be ashes. He picked the bones up and scrutinized them carefully and then in a playful way he sifted the ashes through his fingers.

The mail brought the letter from the sister yesterday morning.

The Great Falls [MT] Leader 30 December 1900: p. 9

Skeletons and other bony bits were popular gifts for medical students. Although easy to obtain, they required an extra effort to ship to the recipient.

A Ghastly Christmas Gift.

To-day a number of young men entered the office of the Board of Health and on having the certificate clerk pointed out to them immediately went over to “Mortality Jacks” and bending close to his ear whispered their business. Mr. Jacks listened for some moments but was less interested and less cautious than the questioner. A one-end-telephone conversation was shared by the other clerks.

“Pack it in charcoal,” said Mr. Jacks.

The young man bent closer to Mr. Jacks, who presently said:

“Oh, yes, it will keep the bones in place.”

Showing increasing solicitude that the strangers should not hear the conversation, the young man leaned still nearer.

“Yes. Double freight,” said Jacks. “They don’t like to carry them. It makes ghastly freight, you know.”

The young man took a hurried departure as he became aware that interest was rapidly centering in him.

“Well,” said Jacks returning to his work, “no accounting for tastes. That’s the fourth or fifth young medical student who is carrying off skeletons for a Christmas present. We have them every Christmas applying for permits to take skeletons, legs, etc., out of the city.”

St. Louis [MO] Post-Dispatch 23 December 1886: p. 3

There are many cases of body parts being sent through the mails or delivered by courier, allegedly as a practical joke, but sending an unsettlingly ambiguous message.

HUMAN FINGERS AS CHRISTMAS GIFT

Lansing Men Get Gruesome Present in Neatly Wrapped Package.

Lansing, Dec. 20–Human fingers in a bad state of decomposition constituted the grewsome Christmas presents delivered to Floyd B. Swanton and C. W. Hamilton, two local business men yesterday. Neatly wrapped packages were delivered to the business houses of the two men by a boy who said the donor wished them a very merry Christmas. Curiosity prompted Swanton and Hamilton to open the packages at once and they were horrified at their discovery. The men have reported the matter to the police as they do not know whether the fingers were sent as a practical joke, or whether the grewsome packages are the forerunners of black hand [normally capitalized as Black Hand–Sicilian or Italian gangster extortion rackets] communications.

The Muskegon [MI] Chronicle 20 December 1913: p. 11

State Examiner C.E. Brotten showed considerable sangfroid at receiving an ominous Christmas gift.

GETS SKULL FOR PRESENT

State Examiner Receives Grewsome Christmas Gift by Mail.

By Special Dispatch to the Leader.

Cincinnati, O., December 22. A human skull, enclosed in a box and neatly wrapped in tissue paper, was the Christmas present received here today by State Examiner C.E. Brotten, who is in this city to examine county offices. The skull showed marks upon it and a bullet hole in the top of it. The package was mailed from Canton, O. Brotten thinks it was sent as a practical joke.

The Cleveland [OH] Leader 23 December 1911: p. 1

There has always been a plague of unwanted Christmas gifts. This young woman didn’t even get to enjoy being annoyed at her gift.

In this city, two or three weeks ago, two sisters were discussing their probable presents, and one asked the other what she supposed Mr.__ “would give her?” and received the laughing reply: “Well, manlike, I’ve no doubt, he’ll get me something I little expect and less desire.” And Christmas day, sure enough, he laid his offering, a beautiful wreath, upon the poor girl’s coffin.

The St. Louis [MO] Republic 2 January 1871: p. 1

There’s a modern myth about how Victorian children were given mourning dolls and tiny coffins with which they were trained to mourn properly. In reality, when toy hearses or funeral playthings were mentioned by journalists, such toys were invariably viewed as morbid or inappropriate. I do wonder that the toy railroad accident didn’t catch on.

That children have no use for morbid Christmas toys is demonstrated by a carload of articles that a downtown dealer has left over from the holidays. Most persons have a penchant for morbid, decadent literature, but the day of morbid toys will never come. The dealer attempted to spring a number of novelties for the holiday seasons, but the children had no earthly use for them. The toys dealt not with pleasant, agreeable things, but with things shocking and tragical.

Among the collection was a mechanical railroad accident. You wind up a train and set it on the track. Off it goes, but in crossing a bridge an arch collapses, and the train falls, breaking into half a dozen pieces that can be put together again, and scattering passengers and luggage everywhere. An ambulance and stretchers are among the accessories of the railroad accident toy. Another toy is a dolls’ hospital– with little operating tables, little medicine bottles, saws, bandages, splints and what not. A third is a toy funeral in a box, like a Noah’s ark; but instead of a procession of bright pink cows, green lions, yellow bears and so on there is a procession of little cabs, a hearse and tiny black figures walking two by two.

New York Corr. Pittsburg Dispatch.

Buffalo [NY] Courier 7 January 1907: p. 4

An exhilarating new thing in toys is a miniature hearse, drawn by four prancing horses, and a little coffin with a doll inside, surrounded by a group of mourning dolls. Next we shall have a gallows and a guillotine.

Delaware County Daily Times [Chester, PA] 7 February 1881: p. 1

This devoted son gave his late mother a shroud for a Christmas present, which he then claimed against her estate.

Gave Mother a Shroud

Goldsboro, Nov.11. Gurney Hodgin, reputed owner of several large farms and a large millinery business of this city, gave his late mother, Mrs. Talitha Hodgin, a shroud for a Christmas present, according to his statement yesterday before Referee A. S. Grady in his claim against the estate of his mother. The shroud was one of the things charged in the claim. The hearing lasted more than half a day, and the referee will wait until next week to render a decision.

The Greensboro [NC] Patriot 13 November 1922: p. 1

This puff-piece is a master-class in shaming the bereaved into ordering a tombstone by suggesting local monumental works for the “nameless and neglected grave.”

MARBLE WORKS.

And is it so ? Has Christmas really come again, and no marble slab or monumental stone marks the last resting-place of your departed relative? For shame! This is, perchance, the third year that the Christmas snows shroud in their stainless winding-sheet his nameless and neglected grave. Away to that skilled lithotomist at once, S. Read, or to the hermoglyphic chisels of Messrs. Hocking & Bates, and if these have no designs to suit you, ask those disciples of Praxiteles, who rejoice in the high-sounding associated firm of Bolmor, Raynard & Cunningham, what they can do for you.

The Brantford [Ontario, Canada] Weekly Expositor 21 December 1866: p. 2

And talk about guilting the recipient….

A CURIOUS CHRISTMAS GIFT.

A luckless German in St. Louis hung himself, for love, having previously written a desire that his dead body might be forwarded as a Christmas gift to the maiden who looked not kindly upon him.

Janesville [WI] Weekly Gazette 20 January 1859: p. 2

“Is Santa Claus Dead?”: 1864

IS SANTA CLAUS DEAD?

On the night of that day on which, long years before,
Was born in a stable the Lord we adore.
The day had been merry and full of high joy
To many a laughing bright-eyed girl and boy,
Now each snugly slept and played in his dream, 
With the bright gifts brought in by the wild reindeer team. 
But in the lone street of the dark murky town,
Where the houses were old and dingy and brown.
In a cold attic chamber, so gloomy and high,
That its barren roof seemed to scowl at the sky,
A little girl slept on an old broken bed,
While o'er the rough canvass that pillowed the head
The bright sunny ringlets so ripplingly rolled,
The cloth seemed like tapestry broidered with gold.
By her side sat her sister, both pallid and fair,
And wearied with working, and worn with despair,
But still she sewed on, by the lamp's feeble light,
Far on in the hours of that cold Christmas night.
Like the bird when the north wind has shaken its nest,
The little one woke from her troubled unrest,
Then timidly crept to her loved sister's side,
And opening her dark eyes inquiringly wide,
She lisped, as she half raised her bright sunny head,
“Say, sister, dear sister, is Santa Claus dead?
Dear father was killed in the battle, I know,
And mother was dead when she felt like the snow.
That they both of them died I well know must be true,
And I think that our Santa Claus must have died too;
For I'm sure t'was last night, when I'd just said my prayer,
That I hung my old stocking so slyly up there,
But this morning 'twas empty, and still just as old,  
And I put it on quickly, 'twas so bitter cold,
While at the last Christmas, a long while aback,
I found that big doll, and that dear jumping-jack.
If in any way possible Santa Claus could,
He would have brought me something, for I have been good."
The sister drew closer the child to her heart,
And hiding the tear that unbidden would start,
She pressed her wan cheek on the child's curly head,
And choking with sorrow, then falt'ringly said:
"My own little sister, your dream was too true,
For truly good Santa Claus died unto you
When your father in battle was cruelly slain,
And mother was freed from her grief and her pain.
But there is One, my own sister, who dwelleth above,
A Being of infinite mercy and love, 
Who will be, if to him we are faithful and true,
Both father and mother, and Santa Claus too."

Pittston [PA] Gazette 22 December 1864: p. 2

Chris Woodyard is the author of 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 on Twitter @hauntedohiobook. And visit her newest blog The Victorian Book of the Dead.

They Buried Him in the Sight of the Mountain: c. 1892

https://www.jstor.org/stable/community.35068652

THEY BURIED HIM.

I never read or hear of the mountains that I do not recall a story told by a conductor of a train on the Great Northern road. We were going to Butte. The train had just crossed the river at Great Falls. From that point the road begins its eastern ascent of the range whose tops are whitened with the snow all the year round. A wide plain spreads out between the line of the road and the range. As the train was getting a “fresh hold on the rails,” as one of the party expressed it, the conductor stood on the rear platform of the coach and looked steadfastly at one spot until it was lost.

“Got a claim anywhere round there?” asked a traveler who had noticed the conductor’s longing look.

“A kinder of a claim,” he replied, “but not the kind you’re thinkin’ of.”

How he came to tell us makes no difference now. Here is what he told:

“’Bout a year ago, I think it was, a young man was put on the train by the conductor who brought him to where I take it. He had been east. His folks lived down there, I believe. He had been west a good many years, was a cowboy, then a deputy marshal, then a boss of a ranch, and then he got to speculatin’ in Anaconda. He had lived the sort of a life out here that a man was expected to live in them days.

“He was a hard citizen, and then a good one. Blest if I know just where he quit off, but he did. He finally got to lovin’ a girl and just when he was havin’ it the wust way, she ups and marries a good-for-nothin’ that came out here and got to clerkin’ in a rag house. Then the young man I am talkin’ about he goes east to wear out his feelin’s I reckon. And he was gone all summer. They said he was at the seaside. I thought when I heard that, as how he would not last long. When a man quits this climate to go to the seaside there must be something mighty bad about his case. If a man can’t get cured here he needn’t go anywhere else.

“Well, when he was put in my care there were four or five of the boys with him. They had heerd he was comin’ back, and they met him away down this side of St. Paul. And they nursed him all the way, and fed him just as if he had been a sick girl. He was lookin’ out of the winder of the car all the time, day an’ night, but wasn’t sayin’ nothin’. When we got to Great Falls he looked out of the car winder and smiled. It was the first time the boys had seen him do that since they met him, an’ they thought he was getting’ well. He asked ’em to set him up in his berth so he could see. And he looked at the mountain tops out there, covered with the whiteness of God, and the foot of the mountains that is washed by the purest water this side of the divide.

“The train was just gettin’ a good hold on the rails when the poor fellow sank back and the next thing I see the boys was takin’ the piller out from under his head. Then I knowed it was all over. Then one of the boys came to me and asked me if I would take $1,000 to stop the train. I told ’em I couldn’t do anything of that sort. They said money was no object. Then I asked ’em what was up, and one of ’em told me that he (meaning the dead man) had made a last request that he be taken from the train and buried in sight of that mountain that had the snow on it–the one that caught his eyes first after we had come over the river, They said they had promised him they would. I asked ’em where they would get a box and they said a man as good as he was didn’t need no box; that the angels would take care of him as soon as he was laid away.

“I asked ’em what they would do if the train wasn’t stopped. They held a short parley and said in a most respectful way, which I understood, that they had to carry out the wishes of the deceased at all hazards; that they could stop the train if I didn’t. I understood ’em. I pulled the cord and went forward, and while the engineer was mendin’ the locomotive, which got out of sorts jest then, the funeral procession moved out, and the dead was buried out there in full sight. It so happened that we got the locomotive fixed just as the funeral was over, and we took the pallbearers into Butte that night.

“And I never pass that spot that I don’t look out where they laid him. I ain’t never seen any of the pallbearers since, and I don’t know the name of the young man that they buried. Do you know, gents, that his grave is green all the year round? I once thought of puttin’ up a gravestone at his head, but thinks I, it’s none of my business, and, besides, the boys said the angels was goin’ to take care of his body, so I thought I wouldn’t be intrudin’ on any angel’s business. It was the only time, though, that my locomotive ever got anything the matter with it.” Chicago Tribune.

The Anaconda [MT] Standard 16 April 1893: p. 9

Tales of Terrible Turkeys: A Thanksgiving Post

Turkey Horror 1895

I am not fond of Thanksgiving. It’s not that I’m ungrateful; I just don’t see any merit in a holiday based on overeating and football. That and I still shudder at the time a hostess insouciantly defrosted the frozen turkey on top of the drier overnight in a paper bag, leading to hours of projectile vomiting for the whole assembly.

This may explain why you will not find here any heart-warming tales of juicy birds swimming in gravy, dressing, and cranberry relish, but rather a mean-spirited account of vindictive turkeys. Long before the invention of the deep-fat turkey fryer so loathed by the underwriting community, dangerous turkeys were in the news.

While I have only seen wild turkeys at a distance–they look like miniature velociraptors—they are said to be very aggressive and territorial. They are bulky, have sharp beaks and claws, and their heavy wings can do serious damage. One mocks a turkey at one’s peril and it is not wise to wear red around them. The males read the color red as signifying an invading turkey cock and will attack, a motif found in many of these stories. Having heard from those who keep them that domesticated turkeys are rather stupid—I would not have expected that they could do as much damage as these stories suggest.

In Belmont county, Ohio, an old gobbler attacked and killed a playful young puppy because he persisted in chasing the young turkeys.

New Ulm [MN] Weekly Review 13 November 1889: p. 2

Turkeys on a Rampage.

Rising Sun, Md., Enraged at his red handkerchief, two large turkey gobblers attacked R.B. Marshall while he was walking near the home of George Nesbitt, owner of the birds, and it required the combined efforts of both Marshall ad Nesbitt to drive the turkeys off.

The birds beat Marshall’s legs with their wings, bruising him severely. He yelled lustily and Nesbitt ran to his aid. Using light sticks as clubs they managed, after a sharp fight, to rout the angry gobblers.

St. Tammany Farmer [Covington, LA] 9 May 1908: p. 5

TURKEY ATTACKS ARTIST;

SERIOUSLY INJURES HIM

London, June 9. A Staffordshire artist, while sketching near Hanley was attacked by a turkey and had an exciting encounter with the bird lasting a quarter of an hour.

The turkey approached the artist from behind and made a sudden attack. With his sketch block he aimed a blow at the bird’s head, but missed and then sought refuge behind a tree. The turkey pursued him and injured him quite severely. A party of golfers finally came to the rescue and killed the turkey.

Los Angeles [CA] Herald 10 June 1910: p. 16

GOBBLER ATTACKS AUTO

Wins Fight With Bird Mirrored in Varnish of Car.

Prof. Frank W. Magill of Danville, Pa., drove his new highly polished automobile out into the country the first day after receiving it and stopped along the road to chat with a farmer friend.

Up strutted a fine turkey gobbler, which caught a glimpse of its reflection in the polished sides of the machine. The bird immediately challenged the newcomer and with beak and claws flew at the car.

The old bird fought until it was exhausted and the side of the auto was a wreck.

The Kentuckian [Hopkinsville, KY] 19 July 1919: p. 10

[A squib from an 1899 Michigan paper told the same story about a new, highly polished buggy.]

When [Mr. Alexander Wedderburn of Chesterhall,] was between three and four years old, having provoked a fierce Turkey cock, by hallooing to him,—

“Bubbly Jock, your wife is a witch,

And she is going to be burnt with a barrel of pitch.”*

The animal flew at the child, laid him flat on the ground and seemed disposed to peck his eyes out, when he was saved by his nurse, who rushed in to the rescue with a broom in her hand.

[*The author says that he doesn’t know the meaning of the rhyme but heard it himself as a child, applied to turkey cocks. Karen Davis, author of More Than a Meal: The Turkey in History, Myth, Ritual, and Reality, says that the term comes from “bubbly”—“snotty” and “Jock” or “Jack,” meaning a rustic boor. So the turkey’s wattle makes it look like a snotty-nosed peasant. A salutary lesson in not mocking a turkey!]

The Lives of the Lord Chancellors and Keepers of the Great Seal of England, Volume 6, John Campbell, 1847

Attacked by a Turkey

Frank Stadden narrowly escaped having his eyesight destroyed and his nose bitten off by an infuriated turkey on Monday morning. But here’s the story in brief;

John McCool sold a number of turkeys to Mr. Austin and one of them flew into a tree. Finding it impossible to coax the gobbler from its perch Frank Stadden was appealed to. Frank loaded his blunderbuss and brought the fowl to earth, but it was only slightly wounded and, when he attempted to capture it, the bird showed fight. It struck at Frank, drove its talons into his hands, bored holes into his face with its beak and greatly disfigured his proboscis. Seeing that Frank was getting the worst of the battle Mr. Austin ran to his assistance with a club and dispatched the gobbler. However, in striking at the turkey Austin’s aim was not at all times accurate, and Frank received one of the blows intended for the bird which caused a big blue-black lump to appear with remarkable rapidity upon the polished portion of his cranium. Mr. Stadden asserts that never in his lifetime has he encountered so ferocious a turkey as this particular gobbler, and says he is inclined to the opinion that either its father of its mother was a great American eagle.

The Princeton [MN] Union 21 December 1911: p. 2

Only rarely was there a happy ending when a turkey attacked a child.

Charleston, April 24. A mare belonging to John Cooper was the heroine in a savage attack which a large turkey gobbler made upon a small child of Mr. and Mrs. Cooper at their residence, the gentle animal taking a position with surprising intelligence directly over the prostrate form of the little boy and with his [sic] head fighting off the infuriated bird as it tried to scalp the child. The gobbler weighed 24 pounds. It was a magnificent bird and was admired by all who saw it. No harm had ever come, however, to the child, and it seems that I was never thought necessary to especially guard against any attacks of the kind. While the child was at play in the yard, the gobbler attacked him and knocking the child prostrate, was savagely pecking at the head and tearing the flesh, as it closed its beak and pulled at the skin and hair. The child was heard to cry in pain, but it was a minute or two before he could be reached, and when the call was answered, the mare was found enedeavoring to protect the child form the attack. As the gobbler viciously flew and pecked at the child, the mare would put her head in the way and receive the beak. The horse had seen the gobbler attack the child, and with wonderful intelligence and a sense of devotion, she came to his assistance and protection and perhaps saved his life or serious injury. As it was, the child’s head was badly pecked and the scalp torn in places, but the wounds will speedily heal and fortunately the little fellow will not be marked in life.

It is needless to add that a turkey dinner was served at the Cooper home yesterday. The handsome bird was introduced to the axe on short order after its attack upon the child and he is now getting the picking, so to speak.

Evening Post [Charleston, SC] 24 April 1911: p. 9

This was the more usual outcome.

A Gobbler Attacks a Child

English, Ind., April 26. An enraged turkey gobbler tore the nose and part of the upper lip off and destroyed an eye of a small child belonging to Geo. R. Cutter Thursday. The babe was in the yard, dressed in a red gown, which enraged the bird. Drs. Brent and Hazelwood hope to restore the nose and lip by stitching, but the eye is torn from the socket.

Daily Public Ledger [Maysville, KY] 26 April 1895: p. 3

Or this.

A Child Killed by a Turkey Cock

An inquest was held at the Police Office, Cheadle, Staffordshire, last Monday, before Alderman Flint, to inquire into the death of a grandchild of a Mr. Finney, of the Cheadle Park farm. It appeared from the evidence of William Philips, one of the farm servants, that on Friday afternoon last, while some of the family were absent at Cheadle Market, the child in question—a remarkably fine boy about two years old—was playing about in the yard with him, and that while he was at work the child slipped away, and went, as he supposed, into the house, but presently, on inquiry being made for the child, it was found to have gone into a field at the further end of the yard, where, on a search being made, it was found lying with its face downward, quite dead, a flock of turkeys being about twenty yards off. From the evidence of Phillips, it appeared that a kind of feud existed between the child and the turkeys, he having on a former occasion killed several of the young ones with a stick, wince which time the “old cock bird (to use the witness’ expression) had made pecks at the child.” Mr. Thomas Webb, surgeon, deposed, that on being sent for to the child the only visible mark of violence found upon it was upon the jaw or lower part of the face, which might have been caused by a turkey’s wing, and was not such a mark as would have been caused by a kick from a horse, but he stated that, as there were horses in the field, he examined the ground closely, but could not discover any horses’ footmark near where the child lay. The coroner and jury, together with the medical man, went to view the locus in quo and the deceased, and upon their return the former addressed a few remarks to them, suggesting that, although there was no positive evidence of the manner in which the child came by its death, there could be very little doubt, looking at the evidence which had been brought before them, that it had been caused by the turkey. A verdict to that effect was accordingly rendered. London Times. 8^th.

Constitution [Washington, DC] 28 October 1859: p. 2

I have my doubts about the previous verdict, but was surprised to find an account of a turkey killing a man:

The victim was Judge Samuel Spencer, of the first North Carolina Supreme Court. He was very old and infirm and had been placed in a chair under a tree in his yard.

“He died in 1794. His death was caused by a most singular circumstance. He had been in ill health, and was in the yard, sitting in the sun. A large turkey gobbler was attracted by some part of his clothing [his hat], which was red, for which color turkeys have a great antipathy.

“The turkey attacked the judge most furiously, and before assistance could rescue him, so severely was he injured that he died in a short time from the injuries.” [Another account says that the gobbler put a spur into the Judge’s temple, killing him.]

The History of North Carolina, John Wheeler Moore

In addition to live killer turkeys, there were many reports of families poisoned by eating them. The reason was not always understood, although there were stories of ptomaine poisoning and of cattle dying of “lump jaw” being fed to the poultry, who then died of cholera and were served at table. This last story is an intriguing murder mystery.

POISONED TURKEY SENT TO KILL WHOLE FAMILY

San Francisco, Nov. 29. An attempt to poison the family of Adolph Ottinger, a retired railroad ticket broker, by means of a poisoned turkey sent to his home Thanksgiving, became known today, when the police admitted that they were searching for the would-be poisoner.

The turkey was left in the kitchen of the Ottinger residence during the temporary absence of the Chinese cook. Believing it was the gift of some friend, Ottinger ordered the cook to place it in the pantry until one already being prepared for the table was disposed of.

The following day it was noticed that the turkey had assumed a peculiar color, and becoming suspicious, Ottinger carried it to a chemist who found a large quantity of arsenic in the dressing. There is no clew to the identity of the person leaving the turkey nor to the motive for attempting the murder of an entire family.

Los Angeles [CA] Herald 30 November 1909: p. 3

As a side note, Adolph Ottinger was much in the news, including three attempts to burn his mansion and murder Mrs Ottinger [1912] and several arrests for various financial irregularities. A longer article on the poisoning said that the turkey was found on the sidewalk between the Ottinger residence and a police detective’s home by the Ottinger’s chauffeur and that the bird poisoned two grapefruits kept in the same icebox, sickening Mr and Mrs Ottinger.

I wish you non-aggressive and wholesome turkeys for the upcoming Thanksgiving. I will be crouching in the corner in a defensive posture.

This post was originally posted in 2019.

A Paper Shroud for Baby: 1899

http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O1322169/carte-de-visite-maull-and-polyblank/

A PITIFUL CITY EPISODE.

Little Girl Makes a Scalloped Paper Shroud for Her Little Brother.

The doctor’s verdict was that Max Wilder, three weeks old. had died from infantile atrophy, brought on by a diet of cheap condensed milk. But Max Wilder, the elder, was out of work, and his wife assured the doctor that she had lacked the means to buy fresh milk.

It was a great comfort to her in her extremity to have the help of her daughter and namesake, Ellen, eleven years old. Ellen sallied forth from the tenement house in which the family lived, relates the New York Journal, on a tour of inquiry among the undertakers of the neighborhood. The lowest estimate she could get for a baby’s funeral was $7. She and her mother agreed that this was cheap, but so far as their resources were concerned it might just as well have been $700.

“They bury folks free at a place called Potter’s Field.” said Ellen. “You’ll often see it in the papers. I’ll find out about it.”

She asked the delicatessen man on the ground floor, and he told her that Potter’s Field could be reached by way of the Morgue. Ellen’s eye lit on a piece of frilled white paper covering a shelf of pickle jars and canned goods.

“I wish I could get some of that,” she said. wistfully.

“I’ll give you some,” said the delicatessen man; and he took from a closet a large, clean piece, with beautifully scalloped edges. Mary ran upstairs with it and showed it to her mother.

“We’ll wrap the baby in it.” she said. “and then we’ll take him to the Morgue—you and I.”

Mrs. Wilder was apathetic, and Ellen undertook the funeral arrangements. Little Max was already dressed in his one white robe. Ellen ripped a broad white ribbon from her confirmation dress and tied it around his waist, and into the ribbon she stuck a rose that she had been cherishing for two days in a cup of water. She had already folded the dead baby’s hands across his breast.

Then came the clean, white paper, with its scalloped edges. Ellen was proud of this. It was large enough to envelop the baby completely. By way of making a bundle that might be carried through the streets without attracting attention, she used several layers of newspapers for an outer wrapping, and tied the whole with white tape. Then she and her mother sallied forth.

Thus they reached the Morgue, Ellen carrying the bundle. Mrs. Wilder explained the case to Night Superintendent Cunningham, and asked whether the municipality would be willing to bury Max. Cunningham assured her that it would be happy to do so, and although he is not given to exhibiting emotion, he turned his head aside when Ellen removed the newspaper wrappings and exhibited with pride the inner envelopment of white scalloped paper.

“Will he get a white coffin?” she inquired.

“Well–er–he’ll have the very nicest funeral they ever give at Potter’s Field,” said Cunningham, and his voice was a trifle husky.

“I wouldn’t like to think that he didn’t have a little grave to himself.” said Mrs. Wilder, beginning to cry. “I’ll be very lonely without him, and I’ll be thinking about him a great deal, and–“

“Madame,” interrupted Cunningham, earnestly, “your child will have the very nicest grave the city ever gives And–and that’s a great little girl you’ve got there.”

Ellen and her mother picked their way back through the dark grounds with their arms about each other.

The Potter Enterprise [Coudersport PA] 9 August 1899: p. 11

“Crape Pullers:” 1891-1911

HER LITLE BOY’S IDEA.

A Philadelphia Crape Puller Tells an Amusingly Gruesome Story.

A young man who is employed as a crape puller for a prominent florist tells an amusing story in the Philadelphia Record of one of his experiences. Crape pullers, be it known, are men whose duty it is to ring the door bells of houses where the insignia of death are displayed and solicit orders for floral designs for the funeral. “I went to a house in a down town court,” said the young man, “and after being admitted produced my book of designs. I knew my people. They were of the class that would spend forty dollars for flowers, and stand off the undertaker and doctor without compunction. The dead person was a woman, and I encountered her two sisters, who selected handsome designs and paid me something on account. The dead woman’s four-year-old boy was sitting in the room, and one of his aunts suggested that a design should be shown when the corpse was ‘laid out’ as coming from the child. ‘What would you like to give your mother, James?’ she asked. James looked up with a pleasurable look in his eyes and lisped: ‘A pair of stockin’s. She hasn’t none to be buried in, and they’ll keep her feet warm under the ground.’”

Grand Forks [ND] Daily Herald 22 December 1891: p. 7

Oh, yes, so amusing. Here is more about “crape pullers.”

GUILD OF “CRAPE PULLERS”

New Line of Business That is Worked in Connection with the Florist’s.

“Crape pullers get a 20 percent commission,” said the conservative florist. “That commission comes off the flowers, though,” he added, sneering.

“What is a crape puller?”
“A crape puller is a man who, watching the death notices in the newspapers, calls on all the bereaved families and solicits orders for flowers for the funeral. We call such a man a crape puller contemptuously, pretending that he gets indoors by yanking the crape which hangs from the door bell.

“A good many florists encourage crape pulling in fact, live on it. They have booklets, illustrated with photographs that tell all about the various designs they make. With these booklets the crape puller can solicit orders in an intelligible way.

We conservatives don’t encourage crape pulling. We consider it unseemly and indecorous in the first place and in the second place, since the big commission comes not out of the pocket of the florist, but off the order of the purchaser, we consider it a little dishonest. But death is always with us. Florists must live. The new guild of the crape pullers grows by hundreds weekly.

The Holt County Sentinel [Oregon, MO] 22 December 1905: p. 12

The St. Louis Retail Florists’ Association, through its attorney, Randolph Laughlin, drew up a bill prohibiting crepe pulling. It was presented for the first time to the house of delegates last week by Delegate Lawton. In the bill a house of mourning is defined as “a place of human habitation, whether house, flat, apartment, tenement or other residence, in which someone has died within four days preceding and which has on its front door crepe or some other like emblem of bereavement.” The solicitation is made a misdemeanor, punishable by a fine of not less than $25 or more than $500. The florists who do not depend for their business on crepe pulling hope the bill will pass when it comes up this week.

The Weekly Florists’ Review 4 May 1911: p. 42-3