Kristin Seavey (0:00)

This episode is brought to you by Progressive Insurance. You chose to hit play on this podcast today. Smart Choice make another smart choice with Auto Quote Explorer to compare rates for multiple car insurance companies all at once. Try it@progressive.com Progressive Casualty Insurance and affiliates not available in all states and situations. Prices may vary on how you buy. If you grew up as a latchkey kid in a small town like me, you probably just thought you were safe. Murder wasn't something people really talked about, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. Murder she Told is an award award winning true crime podcast created by victims advocate Kristin Seavey that dives into the lesser known cold cases and mysteries from New England and beyond. Murder she Told uses detailed storytelling with an investigative twist, weaving in original interviews with families, investigators and the people closest to the case. Kristen makes true crime personal. She talks about a little known serial killer from her own hometown who murdered three women. She discusses her own childhood friend's murder, which still remains unsolved, rooted in deep research, straightforward narratives, and the victims and their families at the center of every story. Murder she Told will speak to any listener no matter where they call home. Learn more@murdershetold.com and find murder she Told now wherever you get your podcasts hello and welcome to My Victorian Nightmare. I'm your host Genevieve Manion and I'm here to talk about mysterious deaths, morbid fascinations, disturbing stories, and otherwise spooky events from the Victorian era. Because to me there's just something especially intriguing, creepy and oddly comforting about horror and mayhem from the 19th century. So listener discretion is adv. Hello friends and welcome to this, my 43rd episode coming to you from a very rainy Brooklyn. You may hear a few pitter patters on my windowsills in the background. The naked men orchids in the garden are getting a nice bath today. Well deserved. I hope that you dropped some tacky heavy baggage. This past week I had a glorious witchy picnic with my girls to celebrate all of releasing that we did during the Scorpio full moon. This was a greasy, oily baked on moon. It felt good to take the rough side of the sponge to myself. It was hard, but I feel so much more sparkly now. It's funny. I met a fan at the picnic. One of my girls brought someone who listens to the show which was so lovely. She was lovely. But it's weird to think that I have fans I never know how to be. When I meet people who listen to the show I always feel like, oh no, I need to pretend to be a cool person, I need to live up to somebody's expectations and I panic because I don't know what those are. A few sweet folks have come up to me in random places to say that they enjoy the show and I always clam up. As always in always. I am far too self conscious for this life. But I just want to say if you consider yourself a fan of the show, I am so grateful to have you here and I apologize in advance if you ever do meet me in person in my natural form, weird and probably a little scared, say why are you here? Seriously, I want to know what you're into. I think I have a very diverse listenership. Some folks come to sleep. Some come for the spookiness, some come to learn fun facts. Some come for the true crime, some for the cozy vibes, which I both do and don't understand. But this isn't about me. This is about you on Spotify. I want you to click the name of the episode title, scroll all the way down past the comments to the bottom, and that's where you're going to find my poll. You can select all that apply multiple choice what is it that you like about the show? The show is. It's all over the place by design, but I want to know which places you like the most so I can make sure to leave lean into those places a little bit more. This show is like a big box of creepy chocolates and I want to know which bonbons you enjoy the most. So please let me know and I will be much obliged. And now for some very brief Haunted Housekeeping. If you enjoy the show, please remember to rate it on Spotify and Apple podcasts. You guys gave me so many last week and I really, really appreciate it. Thank you for letting me know know that you rated it in the comments so that I could thank you personally. Those ratings really mean the world to me. And speaking of comments, you guys left me such sweet comments on last week's episode. I wasn't sure how the Winchester Mystery House episode was going to go over, but it seems you guys really enjoyed it and it means a lot to me that you let me know that you can find all of the illustrations and images associated with today's episode on Instagram @myvictorian nightmare as well as Blue sky where I am Victorian Nightmare. And if you want to grab yourself some merch with the illustration of the burglar getting bitten by a skeleton from episode 41 on it, you will be pleased to know you can do just that. I made shirts and mugs with the illustration because it's a masterpiece. You can find that and all of my merch@myvictorianightmare.com in the store link. And you will also find the link to my Patreon where you can listen to the show ad free. Thank you so much and everyone who has already joined. And finally, just remember that Dark Poetry, my other podcast full of eerie 19th century poetry, is officially back to scare you Right to sleep. Available wherever you get your spooky podcasts. Before we begin, I want to share with you a few comments from this week. I'm serious when I say I love them so much. They are so precious to me and you will see why I About last week's episode that I did on the Winchester Mystery House, Hexica writes quote, My mother was a sensitive in life. She wanted to go to the house so badly. She said it was cool architecture and the stairs were really easy to climb. She also had arthritis. But the only thing that haunts that house is rampant and shameless commercialism. Her quote. End quote indeed. And from Orec and Daisy she writes, Great episode. I've been to the house. In fact I'm sitting about 15 miles from there right now. You are keeping me company in the late evening while I sit in the surgical waiting room at Stanford. My husband is having a heart transplant as I type and you are helping to keep me sane. So thank you. Ah, for a moment would everyone just send this woman and her husband some kind and healing thoughts. I am so touched that you used my show to keep you company through that. Sending you and your husband all of my love, sweetheart. Choosing to start therapy is one of the most important steps you will ever make, but it can also be one of the hardest. Not only is it scary, it's hard to ask anyone for help, but it's often hard to find one that's accepting new clients, that accepts your insurance, and that you feel you can really connect with. So I am delighted to introduce you to Rula. Rula is a convenience, convenient, accessible telehealth provider group. Their mission is not only to make finding a suitable therapist much less scary than it already is. Their goal is to make therapy actually affordable. They take most major insurance plans, unlike most therapists you try to find on your own, and the average copay is only $15 per person. When I was in my 20s, I had such a severe anxiety and depression disorder and luckily I got help with both medications and therapy. But I really wish something like Rula existed back then. My out of pocket. Costs were in the hundreds every month and it took so long to find a therapist that I even felt comfortable with. Rula makes this entire process easy and they even provide psychiatrist care if you require medication. Unlike most online therapy platforms, thousands have already trusted Rula to support them on their journey toward improved mental health and overall well being. Go to rula.comvictorian to get started today. After you sign up, they'll ask you where you heard about them. Please support my show and tell them that I sent you. Go to r u l a.com Victorian and take the first step towards better mental health today. You deserve quality care from someone who cares okay for you today. Dear Listener, I have a non stop barrage of mayhem and madness that I cannot wait to share with you. It's gonna be a mess today. I have a young girl caught in a water wheel, stonings, pickaxings, a harrowing coal oil disaster, a ludicrous fall in a church, a man's head blown to atoms, men in drag wreaking havoc upon street harassers, a man who visits his wife's grave and leaves with her. It's not what you think. Think booby traps gone terribly wrong and so, so much more. I have barely touched the surface here. As always. I have gathered my articles from the Illustrated Police News, Law Courts and Record and I have so much packed into Today's show because January 1872 must have just been a bloodbath. I have plucked a few from both March and January volumes and January was. It was just bedlam, packed with lots of tiny articles and one that made my blood run cold. I will give you a proper warning before I get to that one, I promise. But before we get to the sheer insanity, it is time for our Spine Tingly weekly segment With Their Own Eyes where I share with you Victorian encounters with spectral manifestations and the fabulous flowery descriptions of the heebie jeebies these 19th century folks endured. Last week I introduced you to Katie A. Hobbs, the poor woman who was murdered in her own home in 1869 by an infatuated monomaniac, and I discussed a few spooky encounters that folks believed to have had with her. And there is more. She was a very busy ghost. The article continues with a title that says Mrs. Hobbs again appears and it reads, Less than two weeks ago, the lady occupant of the back parlor retired to rest late in the evening and at the witching time of night when churchyards Yawn received her latest and she hopes, her last visit from from the Troubled occupant of the world beyond the grave. Marvelous. While she was composing herself to sleep, the parlor quietly opened and the figure of the supernatural lady glided noiselessly across the floor and stopped at the bedside. Here it remained for a few minutes in silence and without motion, while the affrighted mortal trembled in every limb. The figure was attired in a black train dress, and around the head was bound a white handkerchief. After standing near the bedside for a short time, the figure slowly bent over the bed and with countenance more in sorrow than in anger, looked forward fixedly at the face of the occupant of the bed. This was too severe an ordeal to be borne in silence. And with a scream which resounded throughout the house, the lady aroused herself from what appeared to be a spirit and the figure suddenly vanished. The lady's screams, of course, awoke the occupants of the house, and the proprietor and his wife, who occupied the front front parlor, inquired what the trouble was and were informed. The appearance of the figure was described and next day it was stated that on the night of the murder, Mrs. Hobbs was troubled with a headache and had her head bound up with a handkerchief. And at the time of the murder wore a black train dress similar to that described. End quote. Okay. I checked to see if this home was still there and it appears to be an apartment building now. It definitely looks like a new ish structure, like maybe 70s or 80s. I really hope Mrs. Hubbs didn't stay long enough to see her home torn down and replaced with popcorn ceilings and linoleum floors. I do hope she crossed over before all that track lighting. What a travesty our first article is. It feels like it should be funny, but then I feel horrible for feeling that way and then petrified at the thought of this happening to me. When I think about it, you may have a similar reaction. It is called a young daughter of Mr. Villatin of CentrePort, Long island, caught in a waterwheel. And it reads, a few days ago, as a young daughter of Mr. Villatin, a miller at Centreport, Long island, was playing near the great water wheel which runs the mill. Her dress was caught by the wheel and she was driven round with frightful velocity. Every time she rose to the top, she cried out for assistance. But on turning into the water, with astonishing presence of mind, she grasped the bucket and held her breath until whirled on the other side. Her father finally heard her cries and stopped the wheel. When taken from her perilous position, she was nearly benumbed and would have dropped off probably in a few Minutes. One of her legs was broken and she was otherwise frightfully injured. See what I mean? Or is it just me? Am I a terrible person that I thought this would be funny at first? I'm a monster. That poor girl. No more info about this young lady. But I did dig into water wheel accidents of the 1800s. They were not as common as other accidents involving mill machinery, but they did occur. There were literally no safety standards or regulations of any kind at this time for water wheels. I checked. If you're interested in exactly what water wheels were for. Well, I found a little boy's diary from the early 1800s that said his family's water wheel would power their sawmill assembly. Small gristmill, the forge, bellows, trip hammer for the anvil and lifting winch. I don't know what most of those are, but they all sound very dangerous. I wouldn't last five minutes in one of these places. And that's the cheese. Our next article is fairly gruesome. In fact, our next three are rather gruesome. Enjoy. Our first one would have been organized into the the oh my God folder, but the title gives it away. That folder is reserved for the articles that start tame and then take a hard left into the fires of hell. The title of this one starts us off there and it is called A Man Stoned to Death in Columbus, Ohio. And it reads, on New Year's Day, Charlie Denning, Nelson, Hoover and others quarreled at a grocery and Denning and Hoover fought. Denning's father tried to separate them, but receiving a stunning blow from his son, desisted Denning, then literally stoned Hoover to death. The last stone, weighing three and a half pounds, struck him in the breast, killing him instantly. Denning is in jail. The only other info that I could find about this article was that Hoover had four children. I couldn't find out how Denning's trial went, but I'm gonna assume it was fairly quick. Oh man, this next one, it just gets worse and worse. Another somewhat short one. It is called the Newfoundland Horror and it reads, the Newfoundland mail steamer has arrived, bringing further particulars of the recent double murder at Harbor Green Race. The girl, Joanna Hamilton, has confessed that on Monday, November 20, Patrick Kehan and his brother in law, Garrett Sears quarreled at breakfast, after which Sears left for work. But when coming into his dinner, he was shot by Gehenn, who afterwards beat him to death with a mattock. That's like a pickaxe. Mrs. Gihan fainted and Gihen stunned her and then smiled, mothered her With a feather bed. After this, Gihen and the girl Hamilton disposed of the bodies by putting Mrs. Gihen on the roadside and Sears in a dung heap. The coroner's jury rendered a verdict of willful murder against Gihen as principal and the girl Hamilton as accessory. End quote. Christ. Okay, I dug into this one a bit and ended up digging far too. I found an article in the Delaware Gazette and State Journal that gave a bit more detail here and some honestly fabulous wording for how terrifying and revolting all this was. The girl, Joanna Hamilton, made a full confession in jail, and this is part of what she said during the breakfast. Gihan betrayed an uncommon surliness of disposition and seemed disposed to avail him himself of the least opportunity to vent his passion on somebody. Wow. Another way of saying he woke up with a dirty diaper and wanted to take it out on somebody. Poor Mr. Sears. It really seems like this guy being in a bad mood was the only motive here. Some more of this girl's confession was as follows. After patiently listening to many units untoward remarks passed by Gihen, the old man Sears at last undertook to reprimand him. Gihen then left the room and shortly returned with a pistol which without uttering a single word, aimed and fired at old Mr. Sears, inflicting a mortal wound in the brain. Old Sears fell backward exclaiming, holy Savior, have mercy on me. While prostrate on the floor, floor and gasping and moaning in his death throes, the old man received eight or 10 violent blows with the mattock, which Gihen seized in order to dispatch his victim. These blows occasioned the revolting appearance of the murdered man's skull. End quote. And apparently the older woman wasn't just murdered by suffocation with the mattress. Ms. Hamilton confession said, quote, fearing that she might again breathe, Gihen gave her a heavy blow with the mattock on the back of the skull. In the dead of night, the mangled corpse of old Sears was carried to the manure heap and buried there. As stated, the wife was left by the roadside. The killer just assumed people may think she was killed by a road accident of some kind. But clearly he didn't think any of this through very soundly. Her body was quickly found first, quickly identified, then the investigation led to her home, where investigators found the crime scene and quickly found the body of Mr. Sears. Both Gihan and Joanna Hamilton were also quickly apprehended and sentenced to death by hanging. Many folks didn't believe the girl should have been given the death penalty as she didn't kill anyone. She. She was just an accessory to disposing of the bodies. I found a heartbreaking article about the execution, which was too much considering we have so much more intensity in this episode. But I'll just read the very last lines which said the fatal trapdoors suddenly fell and GI Hun and his accomplice were swinging between earth and sky. Great sa sympathy was felt for the girl and it was hoped by many that the governor would relent before the sentence had been fulfilled. But no pardon came. The bodies were claimed by friends and buried decently. Okay, actually, I'm going to reorder some of these articles and give us some comic relief before the next one. I think we could all use a little ludicrousness after all that. And you must see the illustration for this one on the side Other Instagram and Bluesky it is called Ludicrous Fall of a Young lady in a Church at Lyons, New York and it reads A young lady in the singer's gallery of a church at Lyons, New York, while looking over the railing the other Sunday to see what the congregation had to wear that was new, lost her balance and fell plump upon a deacon's head and shoulders. End quote. That's all there is to it. She fell plump upon him. I think the illustrator did a fine interpretation of a plump fall upon a deacon's head and shoulders. I assume no one was badly injured during this event. I feel like if that did happen it would have been quite thoroughly mentioned. Like in this next article, which is simply horrific. It is called Another Martyr to Coal Oil A woman burned to death in the streets of Memphis, Tennessee. An awful and heart rending scene was witnessed in the streets of Memphis, Tennessee a few days since. Like an immense ball of fire, a woman suddenly rushed out of a side entrance on North High street, completely wrapped in flames and making two or three turns on the street street she finally ran directly across and when near the glass door of Van Buren's restaurant, she made a frantically desperate and almost superhuman leap against it. The glass, very thick and well supported by cross pieces, was shivered into atoms, but the unfortunate woman only succeeded in getting half of her burning body inside. There she remained for a moment when she was pulled out the of upon the sidewalk, but breaking away from the blistering hands that held her, she started on a rapid run northward. Oh God. Real quick. All I am thinking is stop, drop and roll. Stop, drop and roll, sweetheart. Okay, back to it. The awful scene, occupying not more than one minute, attracted a large number of persons and the flame enveloped woman before she had gone out a few yards, was again seized by resolute hands and thrown on the street, where she was held by force while the smouldering remnants of her clothing were torn from her person and several overcoats brought into requisition to smoulder what could not be pulled off there on the street. She lay on her back denuded of clothing, with her burned body quivering and writhing in agony. And as she oscillated her head and arms, she screamed, oh, my babe. My poor babe. My dear husband. The smell of burnt flesh and clothing was not offensive enough to counteract the morbid curiosity of the hundreds attracted to the spot who surged and gathered round the victim so closely as to almost suffocate her. Wrapped in a quilt, she was raised to her feet feet when she exclaimed, oh, I can walk. Where is my poor babe? And singular as it may seem, she actually walked with a gentleman on one side and a neighbour lady on the other from the street into and through the side entrance, where she came out upon the street, back through the yard and the gate into a rear yard of her own dwelling, where sympathetic hands of women laid her on a bed from which she never rose again. The case was the same from which thousands die annually, the imprudent use of kerosene oil, which should be prohibited by legislation. End quote. I looked so hard for more info on this story, but as so often was the case in papers like these, the woman's name was not mentioned, not even once. I tried looking for the restaurant's name, even My Babe, because it's such a particular phrase. I wanted to know what happened to her husband, like, did he also get burned? Or if she was just thinking about how horrible her burning alive will be for her husband. That is exactly the kind of thing I'd do while burning alive. I would probably be thinking, this is gonna bum out my friends and family so much, but please tell them I'm sorry. I don't want anyone to have to deal with planning my funeral. I need to set aside some time and just plan it all out so folks can just sit back, eat chips and shrimp. I will want someone to put aside time to mix up a signature cocktail, though. I will bother them to do that. A French gimlet. That is my very favorite. Wait. Oh, God. Genevieve, you just told a story about a woman burning to death. A little reverence, please. I truly hope that she had a signature cocktail at her funeral. Incidentally, kerosene lamp disasters like this were not uncommon in this era. Coal oil is otherwise known as Kerosene. The year of this article is 1872, five years prior to a number of patents being created for safety valves for these lamps to prevent exploding, which was apparently a big part of why these were so dangerous. They had the ability to simply explode when pressure was built up in what was called the fount. But these safety devices had a ring that would allow the pressure to escape out of a slot, as opposed to just shattering the lamp and spreading burning kerosene all over your home or your person. Yikes. Okay, this next one is dramatic. I'll say. Now, I don't usually bring you guys places in these episodes where I read the articles, but I want you to see this. If you will follow me to Printing House Square in New York City. It's no longer called that. It's now 154 Nassau Street. It used to be a hub for newspaper publishing in the 19th century. And we've got a little paper boy over here slinging original copies of the Illustrated Police News just yonder. Although I brought next week's edition with us so I can read out to you exactly what is about to happen. Here, sit on this bench with me. We'll have a front row seat for this. I also brought a bag of peanuts, but I won't eat them. They're just for you. People yelled at me for eating a Dorito in the Gunnis Pig Farm last time. I will save mine for when we get back. Okay. We are looking at a large American flag that has been wrapped around what is apparently a statue of Benjamin Franklin which is to be unveiled soon. Well, sooner than the event planners planned. I will just read the article which is called A Lunatic Assaults the Statue of Franklin in Printing House Square, New York. And it reads, an exciting station. This scene occurred in printing House Square, New York at half past 12 on the 15th. It's just about that time now. The person supposed to be crazy rushed down Chatham street with a huge knife in his hand. And there he goes. And climbing up the large pedestal on which the statue of Franklin is placed, proceeded to tear the flag off and hack the statue with the knife. A large crowd gathered around and various means were resorted to in order to get the man down. The police rushed to the place and endeavored to reach the man with their clubs, but he was too quick. Stones, sticks, missiles and various things were hurled at the man without any effect. He is tenacious, isn't he? He continued for several minutes cutting and tearing the flag until at last his foot slipped and he fell to the ground. He's okay. The police seized him, but he fought terribly and the police had to use their clubs, which excited the wrath of the crowd to such a degree that the police stopped their clubbing for fear the crowd would attack them. He was taken to the station house, followed by a large crowd, and off he goes. The person around arrested for attempting to disfigure the Franklin statue was taken to Oak street station house and locked up. He gave his name as Dietrich Barr, 37 years of age, of German birth and a sailor by occupation. He stated that he was passing by and desired to know who was concealed beneath the covering of the flag and that he meant no harm. He laughed heartily over the matter, being rather slow, slightly intoxicated and full of mischief. He was dressed in a black suit very neatly with a slouched hat. So that's what all that was about. Thought it would be nice to take a little break from the horror, but that break has come to an end. This next article has a scene in it that turned me white, er, than my carcass already is. Like if it were in a horror movie, it would have been my favorite part of the movie. It is just creepy as hell, that's all I'll say. And it is called Bloody Work. In John Street, New York, a man found with his throat cut, a woman in the case, and it reads, on Sunday evening, the last of the year 1871, whilst Roundsman Kelly of the 2nd Precinct Police, New York City, was patrolling his beat. And when passing the establishment, number 42 John street, his attention was attracted by a strange voice which emanated from the building. The officer applied his ear to the keyhole and in this position distinctly heard sounds of a person violently coughing, as if in a choking condition, which sounds were also accompanied by an occasional groan. Convinced that all was not right, the officer tried to gain entrance to the building by means of the front, but this he found impossible as it was securely locked and barred. He next proceeded to the rear of the building, but the door here was also securely bolted. The building having been secured, the roundsman ascended to the roof and from thence passed to the roof from the building from whence the mysterious sounds emanated. Removing the skylight, Kelly descended into the building and groped his way down several flights of stairs until he found his way to the second floor landing, whither his steps had been guided by the strange sounds above described up to this point, the officer had groped his way through the building unattended by light of any kind, but upon reaching the object of his search, he halted for a moment to light the dark lantern which he carried beneath his coat. This done, he recommenced his investigations. Peering about in search of the mystery, the officer encountered a sight which nearly froze him with horror. Sitting bolt upright on the landing was a big, powerful fellow. His face, hands and in fact, nearly his entire body saturated with blood, which flowed from a ghastly wound in the throat and which still dripped from his hands and arms, showing that the wounds received were of a very recent origin. The officer bent down to investigate the bloody object, whereupon the fellow, nervously seizing him by the arm, whispered while a demoniacal smile played across his ghastly features. Why do you interfere? The courts have decreed that I should cut my throat and I have done it. Never mind. I'll never do it again. The unfortunate man, overcome by the loss of blood, sank to the floor, apparently dead. And in this condition he was removed to the Centre Street Hospital. Here, stimulants were administered to him by Dr. Van der Water. And after having the wound in his throat sewed up, he recovered sufficiently to be able to answer in broken wounds whispers the interrogations of his attendants. He stated that he was employed as a watchman at No. 42 John street that his name was Adam Williamson, a Scotchman by birth and a printer by trade, and that he had been in this country about 15 years. From his incoherent statements relative to the cause of the suicidal act, it would appear that previous to his leaving Scotland he had serious family troubles. That he had long been illicitly cohabitating with a woman who, tiring of him, eventually left her former home, taking her children with her, and married a neighbor of his. This action on the part of the woman has ever since been preying upon his mind. And at this late day he seeked oblivion from his troubles by taking his own life. The wound is a terrible one, and although the main arteries of the neck were not severed, such is the terrible nature of the injuries that Dr. Van der Water was of the opinion that the man could not long survive. Roundsman Kelly is deserving of great credit for his conduct in relation to the matter. They don't make men like rounds of Kelly anymore, that is for sure. And very sadly, I found in the New York Times from January 7th that poor Mr. Williamson died on the 6th in Bellevue Hospital, 1872. It's rare. These articles are both as bone chilling as sad. Like many female murder victims, they didn't give Roundsman Kelly's full name either. I wanted to see if he had any more daring exploits I did find an article that said a Roundsman Kelly, who in New York had a similar situation where he heard a sound in a store and rushed up it in the dark and apprehended a gun thief. But there's no way to know if these roundsmen were one and the same. Regardless, here's to you, Roundsman Kelly. Okay, this next one is. It's just one sentence, but it's a doozy. It doesn't even have a title. It just says, Martin Hecker, a crazy patient in the smallpox hospital, New York on the 13th, ran out of the building, jumped into the east river and was drowned. End quote. Poor Martin. I did some more digging into the psychological symptoms of smallpox. I read an article about another, another man with smallpox who had a psychological episode of some kind and ended up frozen to death in a sinkhole in episode 39. And I discussed the disease at medium length, but I didn't go into the seemingly psychological aspects, which apparently there weren't any, at least not of note. With the disease, delirium was possible in a small number of cases. Brain swelling is as well, although in equally small numbers. But I've found numerous examples of quote unquote lunatics and maniacs with smallpox in a number of other stories. So I looked into this. Whether it was a causation, not meaning, correlation thing. Maybe there were just that many people getting smallpox and were also mentally ill. But here's what I found. It's fascinating. Indeed, there are many examples of people with smallpox suffering from terrible psychological distress. But this is likely to be caused only by perception of the disease and the psychological trauma that it causes. The common symptoms of smallpox are horrifying, painful lesions all over the body and a very unpleasant death. And pre dating the Victorian era, smallpox was believed to be the result of witchcraft. A smallpox epidemic was happening during the time of the Salem Witch Trials. Apart from the blight in the corn, which is also believed to have potentially contributed to the neurological reactions that some folks were having that appeared supernaturally insane, the presence of the little understood smallpox disease was often explained by witchcraft. So again, historically, apart from the understandable terror of the symptoms alone, there was also a deep historical, supernaturally frightening air to the disease that lingered even after we knew it wasn't witchcraft that caused it. Like if you looked at your arm and saw a putrid boil appear and then more and more quickly, I would also probably go insane and jump in a river too. Not to make light of that last article, but I'm not even joking. That would probably scramble my Circuits. Like what about your circuits? Probably yours would be scrambled too. Okay, remember that article that I read about the dude who set up a gun in his brass foundry to catch a burglar and it did indeed murder a man trying to steal some brass in episode 39? Well, townsfolks were a bit upset about that, thinking, well, what if the place had a coal oil fire like was so common and a fireman entered, he would be shot. Not to mention what if the guy forgot he set it up himself? The one and only outcome to me booby trapping my own home for any reason would be that I will have forgotten and ended up falling through a trapdoor. And that would become the story of me, the end. I would be the only recipient of the booby in those traps. Like the gentleman in our next article which is called A postmaster shot by his own Burglar trap on Long Island. And it reads, a tragedy occurred at St. James, Long island on Wednesday of last week which was of a very remarkable nature. The postmaster of the village, Henry Smith, set a trap gun for burglars and forgetting the gun, went to his office for a package and was shot. He died next morning, end quote. And that was the story of him. Damn it. I feel like I was probably this guy in a past life. Henry Smith. Okay, this next one is rather explosive and it is called a man's head blown to atoms by the explosion of a beer barrel on Long Island. And it reads, a few mornings since, a terrible accident occurred in the Long island brewery on Powers near Bergen street by which Frank Gilrim, an employee in the establishment, had his head blown to pieces by an explosion of a beer barrel. Gilram and Michael Quinn were engaged in cleaning barrels, which is done by filling the vessel with hot water and slacked lime and then rolling it about in order to generate the gases. While they were thus engaged, a barrel which they were rolling exploded with a loud report and hurled the fragments in every direction. One of the pieces struck the head of Gilram, severing it from the body and dashing it against the beams of the roof so violently that it was crushed into a mass of blood, flesh and bone. Quinn was hurled the distance of about 20ft where he laid in an insensible condition, but was not seriously injured. Gilram resided at no. 64 Union street and leaves a wife and children. My Lord, poor Frank Gilram. I checked to see if the brewery was still exists. It doesn't, but his home still does. In fact, his home was originally built in 1693 when he was living in it it was already like 150 years old. It's got what appears to be those beautiful wide plank beamed ceilings. It's a three bedroom house and its estimated value is only $2.6 million. The think how many ghosts live in that house. 1693 I wonder if anyone experienced a headless man ghost. I won't try to contact these people who live there, although I really want to. Okay, I've got two more for you. One that is short and sad but beautiful though, and one that will surely make you smile. This article is called A Widower Drops Dead over his Wife's Tombstone at Virginia City, Nevada and it reads, a man in Virginia City, Nevada who lost his wife a few months ago recently paid a visit to her grave accompanied by his daughter and mother in law. While standing at the head of the grave examining the tombstone, he dropped dead. The heart that had throbbed with love for his wife and and mourned over her death ceased its pulsations at her sepulchre. And there amid the homes of the dead, the spirit had found her way toward her mate from the spirit land. Even though this is so tragic, the way that it's written, it sounds so sweet, like it's really quite beautiful. If that happened today, it would be written in papers like man dies in Graveyard near Wife's grave, See, send flowers to etc. Etc. The love and care the Victorians had for the beloved dead and the written word is something I do wish we could bring back in style. Okay, this next article. I don't know if I will ever be in a relationship again, but if I had a time machine, I would scoop this young man up so fast, or at the very least get really shy and tell him I'm his biggest fan and probably leave as fast as I came. The article is called Summary Vengeance on an Insulter of Females at Bridgeport, Connecticut and it reads, on several occasions recently, one or two depraved specimens of humanity have been carrying out on the villainous business of grossly insane, insulting respectable ladies in public streets of Bridgeport, Connecticut. The other evening a young man, a brother of one of the ladies, dressed himself in female apparel, armed himself with a club, and started out for a promenade on Broad and Gilbert streets. He had not gone far before one of the rascals appeared on Gilbert street and Broad, making a disgraceful exposure and offering a shame, shameful insult to the supposed lady. No sooner had the scoundrel offered his usually attempted embrace than the young man raised his club and smote him to the ground. He arose to his feet and was knocked down again, the second blow breaking the club in two. The last heard of him last night was at the office of a well known physician where he called to get his head dressed. End quote. Ah, not all heroes wear capes. Sometimes they sport petticoats with bully clubs. Here's to you, sir. If you enjoyed this podcast and would like to hear more, please don't forget to rate it. Please leave me your lovely comments. You can support the show directly by joining my Patreon. And don't forget to check out my other podcast, Dark Poetry. Be kind to yourselves and I will see you in your nightmares.