A Blasphemous Invention–Religious Objections to Ben Franklin’s Lightning Rod

Benjamin Franklin Drawing Electricity from the Sky c. 1816 at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, by Benjamin West

The march of science has been a long and arduous one. Over the last 5,000 years since the dawn of history, and for generations before that since lost to time, humans gradually learned the inner workings of the natural world around them. Phenomena once explained by the actions of gods and demons can now be explained in rational terms by scientists.

Of course, this process has never been a smooth one. When the findings of science contradict what people would like to believe about the world, there is naturally resistance. One of the most famous instances of such resistance was the slow adoption of the current model of the solar system with the sun at its center. For centuries, people relied on the Ptolemaic model to explain the movement of the celestial spheres; partially because it worked, and partially because it was the view sanctioned by the powers that be, most notably the Catholic Church. Only after the passage of time, when better technology led to better data that showed unequivocally that the solar model was superior, did the new system gain wide acceptance.

A similar clash between scientific thought and religious dogma occurred in the late 18th century, involving none other than Ben Franklin. Scientist, inventor, and diplomat, Franklin was a child of the Enlightenment who used his curiosity and ingenuity to produce inventions that he believed would be helpful to humanity. Primary among his many contributions to science was his work with electricity, especially the famous experiment we all hear about as kids involving a key, a kite, and a thunderstorm. Franklin’s studies of the strange phenomena of lightning led him to produce the humble lightning rod, a design feature so ubiquitous in today’s world that modern people rarely give it any thought. In Franklin’s day, however, such a device was a revolution. It finally gave people a way to protect themselves against lightning, a frightening and deadly phenomena. Of course, not everyone was on board with the new development; soon after, a strong resistance to Franklin’s invention sprang up among the more religiously inclined. What followed was decades of debate, pitting Franklinian science against long held dogma.

 

The Wrath of God (or the Devil)

There were two rival religious explanations for lightning. Perhaps “rival” is not the best term, because at times the two seemed to coexist despite their obvious differences. The first and most traditional was that lightning was the wrath of God. Such a notion goes back to Ancient Greece, when Zeus used his famous thunderbolts to mete out divine justice from atop mount Olympus. When the pagan gods gave way to the Christian God, the same notion persisted.

This, of course, raised some difficult theological questions for believers, mostly due to the fact that churches tended to be the tallest buildings in most towns and thus attracted more lightning bolts than “dens of iniquity” like taverns or brothels. Perhaps this fact and the difficult–not to mention potentially embarrassing–conundrum it presented resulted in an alternate hypothesis: that lightning and storms resulted from the air being full of devils.

While the idea neatly solved the theological conundrum presented by the original idea of lightning as God’s wrath, it brought about a deadly custom designed to ward off evil spirits. During lightning storms, hapless bell ringers would be sent up to church towers to ply their trade in an attempt to scare off the demons of the air. Naturally, tugging a rope attached to a large brass bell in the highest point in town during a lightning storm is not a job for those too attached to this earthly life. In Germany alone, 120 bell ringers were killed by lightning in the last 30 years of the 19th century. Despite this, the custom continued in many localities.

 

Slow adoption

In spite of the obvious advantages that lightning rods presented for owners of tall buildings, particularly churches, their adoption was a slow and painful affair. Superstition and fear prevented people from trying the invention for themselves. Their fear found encouragement from many ministers and priests of the day. In America, Reverend Thomas Price of Old South Church in Massachusetts blamed the earthquake of 1755 on Franklin’s blasphemous invention. Since God could not vent his retribution from the sky, the Reverend said, he did it by shaking the Earth. He concluded by saying that “God’s  wrath will not be thwarted.”

A similar mood prevailed in Europe, where lightning rods sparked borderline riots in many towns and cities. Fearful citizens tore down lightning rods, while in some places those fearful of such mobs removed their newly installed lightning rods to forestall any violence.

Not all of the actions against the hated contraption were violent, of course. Many turned to the law to get their neighbors to take down Franklin’s invention. Robespierre, who would become an influential figure in the French Revolution, got his start in one such case nearly 30 years after the lightning rod was invented, where he was able to successfully defend the right of his client to install a lightning rod despite neighborhood misgivings.

Robespierre was not the only Enlightenment notable to throw himself into the debate. Ben Franklin himself, who normally stayed above controversies caused by his inventions, threw his considerable influence behind the lightning rod. His allies preached the benefits of the lightning rod and spoke out against religious misgivings around the device both in America and in Europe. Their influence went a long way toward demystifying both lightning and the lightning rod, but for some the intervention came too late.

Many churches still refused to install lightning rods, even as the custom of ringing bells during storms began to decline. Even a tragedy seemed to do little to change superstitious beliefs regarding lightning. In 1767, some 16 years after Franklin’s invention, priests at  the Church of San Nazaro in Brecia ignored repeated requests to install what they believed to be a blasphemous device. That year, lightning struck the church tower has it likely had many times before, but this time the Republic of Venice had decided to store thousands of pounds of gunpowder in the  church vaults. The strike ignited the stores, and the resulting explosion leveled 1/6 of the city and killed 3,000 people.

Even with the tragedy, obstinate refusal to install the “heretical rod” would continue for decades, until in the 19th century Franklin’s invention would become a common design feature. Church bell ringers could finally breath a sigh of relief.

 

 

 

Sources:

Kapitza, P.L. “Experiment, theory, and practice: articles and addresses.” Springer science & Business Media, April 30, 1980. pgs 312-316

Schiffer, Michael B and Hollenback, Kacy L. “Drawn the Lightning Down: Benjamin Franklin and Electrical Technology in the Age of Enlightenment.” University of California Press, 2003. pgs 184-195

Seckel, Al and Edwards, John. “Franklin’s Unholy Lightning Rod.” ESDJournal.com. November 25, 2002. ESD Journal. April 12, 2015. http://www.esdjournal.com/articles/franklin/franklinrod.htm

Edinburgh’s Folly–The Half-Finished National Monument of Scotland

“‘Edinburgh’s Disgrace,’ Calton Hill – geograph.org.uk – 185368” by Tim Hallam. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons –

Monuments are enduring symbols of what a culture values, and are of vast importance to archeologists studying ancient cultures. Given the vast amount of labor and resources required to make them, monuments can tell archeologists a lot about the cultures that built them. Sometimes, all the remains of a culture is its monuments, mysterious reminders of a time long past and a people long dead.

Most of the best known monuments around the world have mysteries of some sort surrounding them. By way of example, the moai of Easter Island have been extensively studied, but only now are archeologists beginning to understand them in greater detail. No one even agrees exactly why they were built, or how much impact if any they had on the catastrophic collapse of Easter Island’s once thriving civilization.

A more modern but probably less well known monument, the Georgia Guidestones, remains an enduring mystery even though it was only built forty odd years ago. The site has stirred up some controversy due to its advice for rebuilding society after an apocalypse, mostly due to the fact that one key tenet of the mysterious builder’s idea for an ideal society involves extensive population control.

One structure that may cause head scratching to future archeologists does not provide advice to future generations, and is no mystery to today’s society. Located on Carlton Hill in Edinburgh, Scotland, the twelve pillars of Scotland’s National Monument stand as a visible symbol of an ambitious project that flopped for the painfully mundane reason that kills many a grand plan: lack of funding.

 

The Scottish Parthenon

Scotland in the 18th and early 19th centuries was a hotbed of Enlightenment thinking, attracting intellectuals of all stripes from around Europe to discuss exciting new ideas. The city of Edinburgh was in a boom, with construction projects popping up all over the city. One such project was the National Monument of Scotland, later dubbed “Edinburgh’s Disgrace.”

The project had its origins in an 1816 meeting of the Highland Society, when members proposed a monument should be built for Scottish soldiers who fell during the Napoleonic Wars (1803-1815.) The society nominated Charles Cockerall as architect, and William Henry Playfair as his assistant.

The duo dreamed up an ambitious monument modeled after the Parthenon in Athens. It would consist of an upper building with classical columns, which would house a church. They planned to excavate a massive catacomb beneath the temple that would house Scotland’s best and brightest in death.

In total, the project would cost £42,000, a huge sum for the day. The Society planned to raise the money by appealing to the public, especially the wealthy aristocrats who may wish to populate the catacombs one day. Such luminaries as Sir Walter Scott, Lord Elgin, and Lord Cockburn backed the project.

Despite the support of these wealthy men, the project was only able to raise £16,000. Edinburgh’s public works boom was to blame; simply put, there were too many projects needing support, and something had to fall by the wayside. Despite this, supporters of the monument pushed forward. In 1822, the Duke of Hamilton laid the foundation stone and construction began. The first phase lasted from 1826 to 1829, when the twelve pillars that stand today were raised at a cost of £13,500. Once the funds ran out, supporters had trouble finding anymore backers. With no funds, the monument stood half-finished, as it would remain for the next 200 years.

 

Plans to finish the monument fall through

In the years since funding petered to nothing, some suggested that Edinburgh’s Folly was planned to be just that–a folly. However, plans from the era show that the architects did indeed plan a grand Greco-Roman style monument where only half of one stands today.

The centuries since have produced plans to complete the monument, some stranger than others. One plan put forward in 2004 by Malcom Fraser called for 150 flagpoles to be erected on the site. He wanted to have school children write prayers and messages of good will on the flags to be hoisted onto the poles, so that their well-wishes could be borne on the wind to the rest of the world. He said he was inspired by Tibetan prayer flags, which basically operate on the same principle.

Like every other proposal to finish the structure, Fraser’s met with a mixed response and ultimately failed. As it stands, the monument is both a tourist attraction and a point of pride for Edinburgh’s citizens. Since the people of Edinburgh seem perfectly content with their half-finished monument, it will likely stay that way for years to come.

 

 

Sources:

“Architect flags up plan to finish ‘Edinburg’s Disgrace.”. edinburghnews.scotsman.com. April 20, 2004. The Scotsman. March 30, 2015. http://www.edinburghnews.scotsman.com/news/architect-flags-up-plan-to-finish-edinburgh-s-disgrace-1-1009104

McManus, David. “National Monument Edignburgh: Architecture Information.” Edinburgharchitecture.co.uk. April 8, 2010. Edinburgh Architecture. March 30, 2015. http://www.edinburgharchitecture.co.uk/national-monument

McLean, David. “Lost Edinburgh: Edinburgh’s Disgrace.” Scotsman.com. February 17, 2014. the Scotsman. March 30, 2015. http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/heritage/lost-edinburgh-edinburgh-s-disgrace-1-3308927

 

 

Russia’s Three-Wheeled Death Machine: The Tsar Tank

Warfare, for better or worse, is strong motivation for innovation. After all, if the other guy is trying to find unique ways to kill you, it’s in your own best interest to find new ways to kill him as well. The innovations in warfare might eventually filter down to the general public, spurring the economy and laying the foundation for further technological development. That, or they come to what amounts to an evolutionary dead end, and wind up being historical head scratchers, things what students of history read about and wonder: “what were they thinking?”

Several such creations came out of World War I, which served as a laboratory in which modern warfare was born. Military aviation, weapons of mass destruction, and mechanized warfare were all utilized for the first time on a large scale during the four year conflict, which killed upwards of 20 million people. The most infamous aspect of the war was the trench warfare that characterized the western theater. The Allies and the Central powers dug in only yards from one another, so entrenched that neither side could dislodge the other. Needing a weapon that could survive the deadly machine gun fire that caused so much carnage during infantry attacks, the British designed what came to be known as the tank, which could cross the trenches and provide cover to attacking infantry.

Once the British tanks made their first appearance on the battlefield, all sides scrambled to make their own version of the new weapon. The Russians were no exception, and their version of the tank was a massive contraption, in keeping with the Russian predilection toward building things on a grand scale. They dubbed their experimental tank the Tsar Tank, the king of all tanks.

 

Netopyr–“the Bat”

The Tsar tank was a huge departure from tank design in the West. British and French tanks utilized tracks, and the French introduced the concept of a turret. The Russian’s contribution to tank design, attributed to Nikolai Lebedenko and Alexander Mikulin, introduced the idea of using two cartoonishly large wheels, resembling 19th century bicycle wheels, for propulsion. These were balanced in the back by a large roller, giving the Tsar Tank the appearance of a reverse tricycle. A scale model of the vehicle, which impressed Tsar Nicholas III with its ability to climb a stack of books, was dubbed Netopyr (“the Bat”) due to the fact that holding the contraption by its third wheel made it resemble a hanging bat.

Whatever it was called, the Tsar Tank was a monstrous vehicle. The front wheels were 27 feet in diameter, with the rear wheel only 5 feet in diameter. The monstrous front wheels were powered by two 250 hp Sunbeam engines, which were supposed to propel the machine to a top speed of about 11mph. Weighing in at sixty tons, the monstrous machine was armed with a main turret situated on top of the machine, limiting its firing arch to the space between the two wheels. Cannons were added on the sides as well, also with limited firing arcs. Finally, there was a planned machine gun emplacement on the bottom of the crew cabin, but it is unclear if this feature was actually implemented.

Theoretically, the beastly machine would be able to plow over enemy trenches and fortifications, blasting a path for the infantry. It would likely be accompanied by armored cars and other light vehicles who would protect its vulnerable wheels and underside.  However, such tactical considerations remained theoretical, as testing soon made the hulking system’s Achilles Heel painfully apparent.

 

Stuck in the mud

The Russian Army began testing the Tsar Tank in 1915, in a forest not far from Moscow. Initially, it seemed they had a winner on their hands. While the beast could only reach about half its advertised top speed, it was able to traverse rugged terrain as designed. The fatal flaw came when the contraption came to a muddy spot in the testing ground.

The three wheel design concentrated much of its weight onto the back roller, which promptly became stuck in the mud. Despite the best efforts of the Russian Army, the Tsar Tank became hopelessly mired in the soft soil. It was abandoned on site, where it remained until 1923, when it was pulled apart for scrap. Russia would learn from its mistakes, and went on to design the T-34, arguably the best battle tank of WW2.

 

Sources:

Hunt, David. “World War 1 History: The Russian Tsar Tank—The Largest, Weirdest Tank Ever Built.” Hubpages.com. November 23, 2014. Hubpages. March 22, 2015. http://unnamedharald.hubpages.com/hub/WW1-The-Russian-Tsar-Tank-the-Largest-Weirdest-Tank-Ever-Built

 

“Netopyr Tsar Tank.” g1886 Technology. Accessed March 22, 2015. http://www.g1886.com/netopyr-three-wheel-tsar-tank/

 

“Tsar Tank (Lebedenko Tank/Netopyr) Mobile Weapons Platform (1915)” MilitaryFactory.com. December 13, 2014. Military Factory. March 22, 2014. http://www.militaryfactory.com/armor/detail.asp?armor_id=827

 

 

 

Project Pigeon–B.F. Skinner and the Bird-Based Guidance System

“Rock Pigeon Columba livia” by Muhammad Mahdi Karim FacebookThe making of this document was supported by Wikimedia CH. (Submit your project!)For all the files concerned, please see the category Supported by Wikimedia CH.العربية | čeština | Deutsch | English | français | magyar | italiano | македонски | Bahasa Melayu | Nederlands | rumantsch | +/− – Own work. Licensed under GFDL 1.2 via Wikimedia Commons –

Animals have been a part of warfare for as long as humans have fought wars, so it is no surprise that animal-based weapons systems are a recurring theme on this blog. While a veritable zoos worth of animals have taken place in human conflicts over the centuries, the modern tendency is to use animals not as weapons in themselves but as delivery systems or to mount espionage devices.

For example, in WW2 the US Army tested a bat-based delivery system for incendiary bombs. The idea was that bats released over Japanese cities would go to roost within the wooden structures common to the country. Then when the incendiary devices detonated, the resulting firestorm would easily wipe out vast swaths of Japanese cities with little or no risk to American air crews. The concept was eventually scrapped, as the delivery systems for the bats never worked quite right and more conventional methods of destruction had already wreaked full scale slaughter on Japan anyway.

Another animal based weapons system came out of World War 2 and America’s ongoing effort to use her technological superiority to defeat her enemies and minimize casualties. The man who proposed the system was none other than B.F. Skinner, the psychologist famous for his work with operant conditioning, the idea that reinforcement and punishment can modify behavior. He submitted the idea that the humble pigeon, one of his favorite test subjects, could be trained to accurately deliver explosive payloads. In effect, Skinner wanted to design a bird based bomb guidance system. And the US military (and General Mills) though the idea was just crazy enough to work.

 

The Pelican

Operant conditioning as practiced by B.F. Skinner allowed him to mold animal’s behavior using rewards and punishments. The system worked typically by rewarding some random behavior–say, pecking a screen–with food every time it occurred. Over time, the animal would perform the rewarded behavior intentionally in order to get the food, and then the response would become almost automatic.

This simple premise was what lay behind Skinner’s bird based guidance system. He taught his pigeons to peck a dot on a glass screen. As long as the dot was kept centered, the pigeon would get its reward. Initially, Skinner bought 64 pigeons–40 normal and 24 homing pigeons–from a pet shop to test his idea. All of the birds earned their wings, as it were.

While the idea may seem preposterous today, it was taken at least somewhat seriously by the military, who gave the psychologist $25,000 to develop his research. The interest in the project mostly centered around the fact that then primitive electronic guidance systems could be easily jammed by enemy interference, while a pigeon encased in a warhead would suffer no ill effects from jamming efforts. What resulted was a snub-nosed craft called “The Pelican.” Capable of carrying 500lbs of explosives, the craft housed three pigeons, each with their own screen to peck. The three working together would compensate for any errors. An electroconductive coating on the glass would translate the pecks into electrical signals that would guide the craft.

Despite initial success with the project, the military could not seem to overcome the inherent ridiculousness of using pigeons as kamikazes, and pulled the project’s funding in 1944, citing that it could be better used on more promising projects.

 

Project Orcon

However, four years later, the Navy took up Skinner’s research with renewed interest. The Cold War was in its infancy, and the influx of German rocket technology after WW2 was changing how strategists saw the future of warfare. Missiles could potentially be used to bombard enemy targets with conventional or nuclear explosives from vast distances, much like how the Nazis used their infamous V2 missiles to bombard London in WW2. For all their expertise, the Nazis never did find a very accurate guidance system, and again the guidance systems of the day could be easily jammed by enemy action.

Looking for an answer to this problem, the Navy turned back to the idea of using unjammable pigeons as guidance systems. Skinner worked with the Navy for five years to develop such a system, under the auspices of a program dubbed “Project Orcon” (“orcon meaning “organic control.) While the pigeons sported an impressive 55.3% accuracy, problems with using animal-based guidance systems soon became apparent. The pigeons “flew” their bombs based on sight, and while a pigeon’s eyesight is impressive, using simple optics limited the system to being used only during daylight and good weather. In addition, the pigeons could only see so far unaided.

By 1953, the writing was on the wall. The Navy scrapped the program in favor of electrical guidance systems, which had vastly improved since WW2. The electroconductive coating used to coat the screens the pigeons pecked would later be used in radar screens and other applications. While the US would call on animals to serve in other odd capacities as weapons of war, the humble pigeon’s venerable military career had ended.

 

Sources:

“1940—Project Pigeon (1948—Project Orcon)–B.F. Skinner (American).” CyberneticZoo.com. December 27, 2011. http://cyberneticzoo.com/bionics/1940-project-pigeon-1948-project-orcon-b-f-skinner-american/

“It’s a bird! It’s a plane!” Army.mil. September 17, 2013. US Army. March 5, 2015. http://www.army.mil/article/111511/It_s_a_bird__It_s_a_plane_/

Lehman, Staci. “The Pigeon-Guided Missiles and Bat Bombs of World War II.” Gizmodo.com. December 5, 2013. Gizmodo. March 5, 2015. http://gizmodo.com/the-pigeon-guided-missiles-and-bat-bombs-of-world-war-i-1477007090

 

“The Scientific Wonder of the Age” –Montana’s Petrified Man

Frauds, hoaxes, and curiosities of all sorts have a long history in America. Something about the American character lends us to enjoying a good tall tale, no matter how ridiculous it is. That other, more famous facet of the American character–enterprise–has caused many a showman to fulfill that desire for all things strange. These tendencies have lead to some fairly strange incidents in American history, from the robber whose mummy wound up on the set of a 1970s TV show to a pygmy mummy who some believe could rewrite the history of humanity.

Perhaps the strangest curiosities to grace the American stage were those of the stone giants discovered in the 19th century. The first was the Cardiff Giant, supposedly a petrified man discovered on a farm near Cardiff in New York state. The figure was lauded as proof of the Biblical stories of giants, a fulfillment of the notion that many Americans held that their homeland was the Promised Land. The giant turned out to be a hoax, of course, but even when the Cardiff Giant was outed as a fake the stone giant fad lost little steam. For about 50 years, it seemed every town was home to some sort of ancient remains.

Even among this weirdness, one story of a petrified man stood head and shoulders above the others. Dubbed “The Scientific Wonder of the Age,” a stone figure discovered in Montana purported not to be an ancient corpse, but rather a famous figure who met his unfortunate end in the modern era.

 

The discovery

Montana’s petrified man was allegedly discovered in the Missouri River, downstream from Fort Benton, in 1897. The man who discovered the figure, Tom Dunbar, claimed to have seen the body wedged in the river bed when the water was low. He hooked a rope around it and dragged it free of the sand, only to bury it in the sandy soil of the river bank a little ways away from the water. He returned eighteen months later with a wagon to retrieve his prize. Like any good stone giant discoverer, Dunbar immediately began to exhibit his prize, wowing tourists visiting Yellowstone National Park with his tale.

In September of 1899, Dunbar sold the figure to Arthur Wellington Miles, who promptly displayed it in a pine coffin in an empty building near his lumberyard. The curiosity brought in big crowds, eager to pay to see the wonderful sight. Miles raked in a tidy sum of $60 a day ($1500 in today’s money) from curiosity seekers. The hefty sums made Miles dream bigger. He began to look east, toward New York, where the stone giant craze originally began.

However, neither Dunbar nor Miles had attached any origin story to the figure so far. If Miles was going to make it big in the east, his petrified man would need to have a draw. Conveniently, Miles was struck by a memory of a miner who viewed the curiosity in Butte had said. The miner, whose testimony was recorded in an article published in the New York World on December 31, 1899,  The miner said: “It is the General! God rest his soul! It is the General!”

 

The General

“The General” was none other than General Thomas Francis Meagher. An Irish revolutionary, Civil War General, and Governor of the Montana Territory in 1867, Thomas Meagher died under mysterious circumstances on the Missouri River, not far from where the statue that allegedly bore his likeness was found. The then governor disappeared the night of July 1, 1867, falling over the side of a steamboat into the Missouri River. Some suspected foul play, while others thought the fall might have been an unfortunate accident.

The petrified body seemed to indicate homicide. The statue seemed to have a hole in the head, which was concluded to be from the arrow of an Indian attacker. This same attacker bound the governor’s wrists after having dragged the stunned man out of the river. When the Indian heard Meagher’s friends hew and cry on the steamboat, he threw the governor into the river and slipped into the night. Then, by some mysterious process, the body was petrified on the river bottom for Thomas Dunbar to find 30 years later.

With his backstory in place, Arthur Wellington Miles organized a train tour for the petrified governor. Beginning in December 1899, the tour would hit St. Paul, Chicago, and other cities on the way to the ultimate goal: New York.

Unfortunately for Miles and his associates, the tour was not near as profitable as they had hoped. The initial enthusiasm for petrified men had been dulled by the exposure of the Cardiff Giant and the Solid Muldoon as out and out frauds. Crowds were skeptical of yet another stone giant, even if it was allegedly the body of a war hero. The tour flopped, leaving the businessmen in the red.

 

Where is Montana’s Petrified Man?

Montana’s petrified man enjoyed only a brief career in the spotlight. Arthur Miles held on to the figure for a number of years after the failed eastern tour. He sold the statue not long after World War I, and ever since the figure’s fate is murky at best. It popped up in the occasional fair or in the hands of a showman now and then through the early 20th century, but it has since been lost to history.

Unlike the Cardiff Giant, which was undeniably outed as a hoax, no one came forward to admit to making Montana’s petrified man. Skeptics of the day did not debunk the hoax, content to simply poke fun at people’s gullibility. In the wake of the Cardiff Giant fraud, no one but true believers and curiosity seekers took the idea of petrified men very seriously. While it is true that organic materials can become petrified given enough time, 30 years is hardly the time span needed for that to happen. Meaghers, more likely than not, met the fate of any other person lost to the water. There is no reason to think his fate was anything special. The petrified man was a hoax, an odd bit of flim flam now consigned to the junk drawer of history.

 

Sources:

Kemmick, Ed. “‘Petrified’ man was big attraction in turn-of-the-last-century Montana.” BillingsGazette.com. March 13, 2009. Billings Gazette. February 28, 2015. http://billingsgazette.com/news/state-and-regional/montana/article_4d6a8de1-67da-5325-8d52-91015cf3d968.html

“The Petrified Man Fake.” The Reading Eagle. December 25, 1899. pg 2. http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1955&dat=18991225&id=G8MhAAAAIBAJ&sjid=Yp0FAAAAIBAJ&pg=2184,5390411

Marvin Heemeyer and the Killdozer

“Marvin Heemeyer” by Source. Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia –

Small town life is often romanticized in movies and books as peaceful and quiet, especially since more and more Americans now live in cities than at any point in the country’s history. People who actually live in small towns know that while often the people are friendly and there is indeed a lot of quiet, often bad blood runs deep.

Grandby, Colorado was just such a town. It would have been little more than another dot on the vast map of the central US if it wasn’t for one day in June of 2004, when one of her sons went on a bizarre rampage that would leave much of the downtown area in ruins.

Marvin Heemeyer was the man behind the rampage. Small town folks often hold grudges, and hold them for a long time, perhaps because the drama relieves the monotony of an otherwise placid existence. Whatever the case, Heemeyer was just such a man. The roots of his odd attack ran back at least four years, to a dispute with the town over the construction of a concrete plant near the muffler shop he owned. Heemeyer believed the plant, situated across the street from his shop, would ruin his business. He fought with the local planning authority to have the plant’s construction blocked, but he lost. These were only the most recent in a long line of disputes with local authorities over various issues. Some, after Heemeyer’s rampage, like to paint him as a martyr, but many who knew him from before claimed that he tended to attract the drama that defined his life. Even so, nobody could see the outburst on that summer day coming.

Soon after the concrete batch plant went up, Heemeyer was forced to sell his muffler shop to pay off debts. And then he set to work. He took an old bullozer and built a concrete and steel shell around the cab, turning the vehicle into a make-shift tank. He equipped it with cameras and monitors to steer with, and cut portholes for guns. He stocked the make-shift tank—later dubbed the Killdozer—with two semiautomatic rifles, a .223 caliber rifle, and two handguns.

On June 5, Heemeyer burst out of the garage where he’d spent months constructing his revenge vehicle and took his vengeance. He began with the concrete batch plant that had strangled his business. Once he smashed the plant, he turned his wrath toward the town’s center. He struck next at the combination City Hall and library, which was only moments before hosting a group of children for story hour. A librarian rushed them out the back door just before Heemeyer’s attack.

Several more buildings fell to Heemeyer’s behemoth vehicle, including a bank, an electric utility ofice, and the home of the former mayor who supported the concrete plant. Meanwhile, police tried in vain to stop the rampage. They fired over two hundred shots at the tank, but they had nothing powerful enough to penetrate the hardened concrete and steel shell. One brave officer jumped on top the contraption to drop a flashbang grenade down the smokestack, but to no effect.

Some point out that no one died during the attack, and claim that Heemeyer was avoidoing doing harm to anyone. A look at witness testimony quickly dismisses that assertion. Heemeyer took shots at large propane tanks, evidently trying to detonate them. He also shot at electric transformers. Worse, he took potshots at police officers. Clearly, luck and the actions of local authorities in getting people out of harms way did more to prevent a tragedy than Heemeyer himself.

However, while the police might have prevented any deaths, they were powerless ot stop the Killdozer. Only the sheer weight of the contraption eventually did it in. The tank fell through the floor of the local hardware store and became stuck in the basement. When Heemeyer found he could not extricate himself from the hole, he chose to end his life, thus bringing an end to the rampage.

Granby is quiet these days, its brief moment of fame long since gone. Millions of dollars of damage was inflicted on the sleepy town by Heemeyer’s rampage, but the scars to the town’s collective psyche run deeper than any physical destruction one of its wayward sons could wreak. Now the people of Granby have to eye their neighbors with suspicion, unsure when a slight or dispute could lead to another day of terror like the one that struck Granby on June 5, 2004.

 

Sources:

Banda, P. Solomon. “Armed man in bulldozer goes on rampage in Colorado town.” tcnj.edu. June 5. 2004. Accessed on August 25, 2014. http://www.tcnj.edu/~hofmann/Granby/Granby.htm

 

Poppen, Julie. “After bulldozer rampage, town strives to rebuild trust.” Boston.com. October 24, 2004. Boston.com. August 25, 2014. http://www.boston.com/news/nation/articles/2004/10/24/after_bulldozer_rampage_town_strives_to_rebuild_trust/

 

Reid, T.R. “Man Behind Rampage Found Dead.” WashingtonPost.com. June 6, 2004. The Washington Post. August 25, 2014. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A18948-2004Jun5.html

 

 

 

 

Bela Kiss–The Monster of Cinkota

A sketch of Bela Kiss.

Humans have long told stories about monsters. From the fantastic beasts of ancient mythology to the sometimes all too human monsters of modern cinema, lurid tales of death and violence have always entranced some facets of humanity. Why this is may always be a subject for debate, but in large part these stories allow us to play out very real fears in a safe manner, where the hero swoops in to save the day. Or, at the very least, we ourselves aren’t the ones being butchered.

Unfortunately, stories are not reality. The good guy does not always save the day, and the bad guy doesn’t always feel the sting of justice. Some murderous madmen ply their bloody trade and their identity is never discovered, passing into legend and becoming immortalized as a bogeyman of folklore. Some monsters are named, but manage to elude authorities just the same.

Such is the case of Bela Kiss (pronounced Kish). An amiable young bachelor, handsome with blonde hair and blue eyes, he was the darling of Cinkota, a small town outside of Budapest, Hungary in the early 1900s. A self taught tinsmith, young Bela Kiss did well for himself, and shared his good fortune with others. He married for a time, but his wife soon cheated on him with a young artist and the two eloped to America, or so Kiss said, leaving him Cinkota’s most eligible bachelor. Women wanted to be with him, married men in town envied him for the parade of beautiful women from Budapest who could be seen coming and going from his house. But Kiss, like many men of the time, was swept into the conflagration known as the Great War, his neighbors would learn a horrifying truth: Kiss was a killer of women, and a prolific one at that.

 

A ghastly discovery

The horrible truth about Bela Kiss was discovered two years after he marched to war in 1916. Kiss’ landlord, figuring that the reports of the tinsmith’s demise must have been true since it had been two years since anyone had seen or heard from him, decided to clean up the cottage and rent it out to a new occupant.

Starting with the obvious, the landlord began the cleanup operation with seven large metal barrels in the front yard. These barrels had been the subject of rumors for a long time. Neighbors whispered that Kiss was storing alcohol, while Kiss explained them away saying he was stockpiling gasoline for the coming war. The explanation seemed to satisfy everyone concerned, but despite that the landlord couldn’t help but be curious. He poked a small hole in one barrel, and was soon overwhelmed by the stench of death.

The landlord called the police, who descended on the scene and opened the barrels. Inside, they found the naked bodies of seven women, some with the killing ropes still around their neck, still others with puncture wounds in the neck that implied the killer had drained the bodies of blood. They had been pickled in wood alcohol.

A search of the grounds turned up more barrels and more bodies, for a grand total of 24 killed, including one male, later identified as Bikari, the young artist with whom Kiss’s wife had been unfaithful. Mrs. Kiss herself turned up in another barrel.

The ghastly discoveries continued. Police found evidence of how Kiss systematically lured in his victims. He placed adds in a Budapest newspaper, under the name Hoffman, advertising that he was a “lonely widower seeking female companionship.” He kept the correspondence in a series of packets, giving police a portrait of a predator.

Kiss, who had been luring lonely women from Budapest since 1903, targeted women with large bank accounts and few friends. He talked them into emptying their bank accounts, promising wedded bliss. Some 175 women had responded to his ads. One, Katherine Varga, sold her dressmaking business and planned to move to Cinkota with her handsome suitor. She was later positively identified as one of Kiss’s victims. Other women brought lawsuits against Kiss when they realized he was manipulating them, but they disappeared before the proceedings could finish. They too were discovered among the pickled and strangled bodies.

 

An elusive killer

The last anyone had heard from Bela Kiss, he had been fighting among the Carpathian Mountains. He was presumed dead. Regardless, police contacted the military ordering the immediate arrest of Bela Kiss. The problem, of course, was that the name Bela Kiss was as common in early 20th century Hungary as John Smith is today. Add to that the chaos of war, and the fact that Hungary’s armies were in disarray, and it is no wonder that the search came up largely fruitless.

There were a few tantalizing leads in the case, however. A Bela Kiss was discovered in a Serbian hospital, either injured or dying of typhoid, but by the time police could arrive to detain him, the killer had lain a dead soldier in his bed and escaped.

Later, in 1920, a member of the French Foreign Legion contacted authorities about a suspicious Legionnaire, who he believed might be the infamous Monster of Cinkota. The suspect had bragged about his proficiency with a garrote, the method used in the Cinkota murders. However, the mysterious soldier disappeared before he could be detained.

In 1932, a New York detective by the name of Henry Oswald sighted a man he thought might be Bela Kiss walking out of the subway at Times Square. The suspect was soon lost in the crowd. Rumors still persisted that Kiss had taken up residence in the New York area, working as a janitor, but no one could be sure.

No doubt, Bela Kiss is long dead now. While the long arm of the law sometimes falls short, death never fails to get its man eventually. Still, there is no way of knowing how many women fell prey to Bela Kiss’s deadly appetites in the years after the horrific discoveries in Cinkota in 1916.

 

Sources:

Bardsley, Marilyn and Noe, Denise. “The Crimes of Bela Kiss.” CrimeLibrary.com. Crime Library. February 7, 2015. http://www.crimelibrary.com/serial_killers/history/bela_kiss/1.html

Bovsun, Mara. “Hungarian man murdered 24, pickled each corpse in barrels of alcohol in early 1900s.” NYDailyNews.com. February 9, 2014. Daily News. February 7, 2015. http://www.nydailynews.com/news/justice-story/killer-murdered-24-pickled-corpses-barrels-article-1.1607445

Howard Hughes’ “Flying Lumberyard”–The Spruce Goose

In 1942, the outlook seemed grim for the Allies. Continental Europe had fallen to the Nazi onslaught, leaving England to stand against the forces of Fascism alone. In the East, Soviet forces buckled under the brutal weight of the largest land invasion in history, Operation Barbarossa. For her part, America was beginning operations against Japan, still reeling from the surprise attack in Pearl Harbor and the less well known Nazi U-boat attacks on the East Coast.

During these desperate times, Allied planners were willing to consider any scheme that might confer an advantage, no matter how ludicrous it might seem in retrospect. One such plan was dubbed Project Habbakuk, which involved a no less ambitious scheme than building a floating island of ice to act as an aircraft carrier impervious to assault from German U-boats.

Habbakuk barely made it off the drawing board, but one audacious plan meant to circumvent German U-boats made it much further than designer blue prints. U-boats were creating havoc among Allied shipping in the Atlantic. Henry J. Kaiser, a steelmaker who conceived of the Liberty ships, the very ships being torn to shreds by Nazi subs, hit on the idea for an utterly massive transport plane. Weighing in at 400,000 pounds and sporting a titanic 320 foot wingspan, the plane would be larger than anything the world had ever seen fly up to that point. It would be a flying boat, capable of transporting 700 troops, constructed entirely of wood. The last point was a stipulation of the US government, who wanted the planes to be built out of materials deemed non-essential for the war effort.

The task of designing the mammoth machine fell to the brilliant but eccentric aviation designer and entrepreneur, Howard Hughes. Working with a small team, Hughes threw himself into designing and building the plane, which was designated the HK-1, even as controversy surrounded the funding of the project. A Senator dubbed the machine a “flying lumberyard,” from which its more common nickname “the Spruce Goose” later arose (it was actually constructed from birch.)

Hughes himself was part of the controversy. He constantly meddled with the design of the craft, obsessed with making it perfect. His perfectionism resulted in delays. By 1944, the monstrous plane was still not finished, and the outcome of the war was almost a foregone conclusion. At the very  least, the original reason for building the HK-1 in the first place was gone, as better tactics and aircraft technology allowed the Allies to beat back the submarine menace. Henry Kaiser backed out of the project at this point, not wanting his name associated with the controversial contraption. Hughes re-dubbed the machine the H-4 and continued work on the project without Kaiser’s backing.  Meanwhile, the myriad delays caused by Hughes’ perfectionism led to a Senate committee to look into the project.

Finally, five years after being commissioned, the Spruce Goose was completed in 1947. The government’s price tag was $22 million, with an additional $18 million coming out of Hughes’ own pockets. On November 2, 1947, Hughes, a small crew of his staff, and journalists from various media outlets climbed aboard the massive plane for a taxi test in Los Angeles Harbor. Hughes took the pilots seat, and fired up the plane’s 8 engines. Whether on purpose or other wise, what was announced as a taxi test became the Spruce Goose’s first and only flight. Hughes gunned the engines and the huge craft lifted off the surface of the harbor, wowing onlookers assembled on the shore. The Spruce Goose lifted some 33 feet off the surface of the water and reached a speed of 80 mph before Hughes set her down a mile from the point of take off. Hughes was coy as to whether the flight was on purpose–some speculated it might have been accidental–but it’s at least possible he did the flight on purpose to see whether all his time, effort, and money had paid off.

The Spruce Goose was returned to its special hangar, where it would remain for decades. Hughes ordered the engines to be fired up every month, indicating that he possibly toyed with the idea of continuing work on the project or perhaps taking the massive plane out for another spin. However, the Spruce Goose never flew again. Hughes died in 1976.

The Spruce Goose itself has long outlived its creator. The massive plane has moved from owner to owner after Hughes’ death. It currently resides at the Evergreen Aviation & Space Museum in McMinnville, Oregon, where it continues to wow visitors with its massive size and radical design.

 

Sources:

Neely, Mike. “Hughes HK-1 (H-4) ‘Spruce Goose’” TheAviationZone.com. The Aviation Zone. January 31, 2015. http://www.theaviationzone.com/factsheets/hk1.asp

 

Patterson, Thom. “Museum: Iconic Spruce Goose is safe.” CNN.com. January 20, 2014. CNN. January 31, 2015. http://www.cnn.com/2014/01/20/travel/spruce-goose-museum/

 

“The Spruce Goose.” Evergreen Aviation & Space Museum. January 31, 2015. http://evergreenmuseum.org/the-museum/aircraft-exhibits/the-spruce-goose/

 

 

 

Superman vs. the KKK–How the Man of Steel Took on America’s Most Infamous Hate Group

Christopher Reeves in his most iconic role, Superman.
“Sprmnmovie” by Source. Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia –

Mythology has played an integral part in the development of human societies since our ancestors first developed the ability to tell stories. Mythology allowed ancients to make sense of a world that was hostile and random. It also gave people ways to relate ideas about morality and how to live a good life.

These days, traditional mythologies are largely relegated to the pages of textbooks, and the mythologies of the large established modern religions have been largely tamed by familiarity or literal interpretations that leech away their rich metaphorical underpinnings.  However, humans seem to have a need to tell stories about divine beings fighting cosmic battles against evil. The new mythology, that of the super heroes,  largely consists of well-muscled men in brightly colored tights fighting equally garish opponents. From the pages of comic books to the theater to the television, super heroes have become a cultural force to be reckoned with, especially in recent years.

Of these god-like beings, none are as well known as Superman. The champion of truth, justice, and the American way, Superman has been wowing fans with his magnificent feats of strength and courage since Action Comics #1 was released in 1938. Superman has combated a variety of foes in his long career, but perhaps his greatest victory spilled over from the world of fiction into our world when the Man of Steel fought his most dastardly real-life enemy since he battled the Nazis for Uncle Sam: the Ku Klux Klan.

 

Stetson Kennedy’s superhero origin story

“Stetson Kennedy” by Sean Kennedy – Wikipedia:Contact us/Photo submission. Licensed under CC BY 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons –

The story of how Superman took on the KKK began with a man by the name of Stetson Kennedy. Born in Florida in 1916, Kennedy grew up in the Jim Crow South, where African Americans were treated as second class citizens due to their skin color. Seeing the gross inequality left a deep impression on Stetson, which was deepened when he took a job in 1937 working for the Works Progress Administration’s Federal Writers’ Project. There he worked with Zora Neale Hurston, who later wrote Their Eyes Were Watching God, traveling around Florida to collect folklore and oral histories. Hurston, obviously a talented writer, was unable to use the front door of the office, and couldn’t even legally travel with Kennedy.

Soon after Kennedy’s work with the WPA, the US was plunged into World War II. Kennedy was kept out of the conflict by a back problem, so he instead fought the Nazis at home by using his writing to shed light on the inequalities in the South that were so similar to the horrific racist ideas espoused by the Nazis. Once the war ended and the Nazis were defeated, Kennedy turned his attention to America’s own homegrown racist group: the KKK.

While today the KKK is not much of a force in America, in Kennedy’s day the Klan was a force to be reckoned with, claiming politicians, police officials, and other important figures among its ranks. In the wake of World War II, the Klan hit a period of rapid growth. Kennedy, seeing a chance to make a difference, decided to infiltrate the racist organization and gather its secrets and stories.

Once he gathered his information, Kennedy approached authorities, but no one was really interested in taking on the Klan. They were too powerful, and too entrenched. Kennedy then hit on a brilliant idea–he approached the producers of The Adventures of Superman, a popular radio serial, and pitched them the idea for a serial where the Man of Steel took on the Klu Klux Klan.

 

Clan of the Fiery Cross

Members of the Ku Klux Klan attending a 1922 parade.

To understand why Kennedy approached the producers of a Superman radio show with his information, it is critical to know how much of a phenomenon the Man of Steel was at the time. By 1946, Superman comics circulated in the millions, and the radio show of his exploits reached millions more. Superman was the champion of the little guy, who stood against racism, corruption, and stood for “truth, justice, and the American way.” (A phrase that originated on the the Adventures of Superman.) If Americans, especially children, were going to be swayed by any popular character, it would be Superman.

The producers of The Adventures of Superman jumped at the chance to pit Superman against the KKK. What resulted was a 16 part radio serial titled “the Clan of the Fiery Cross.” Though the Klan was not mentioned by name, it was obvious to everyone that the enemies Superman was taking down were the KKK. The show revealed much about the Klan’s activities and beliefs, although contrary to popular belief it did not contain secret codewords and passwords that had Klan leaders scrambling to change their codes.

Even so, the serial was a body blow to the KKK. A secret organization, the Klu Klux Klan depended on secrecy (and violence) to maintain its aura of mystery and fear. Ripping away that secrecy and exposing the Klan for what it was–a club of racists in white sheets–did much to turn away prospective members. Many current members left when they saw their organization had been outed and was now seen as ridiculous in the public eye. There was one story of a man who decided to quit the Klan when he came home to find his son had found his Klan hood, and was playing the bad guy to the neighbor boy’s Superman. After all, who wants to be in an organization that is on Superman’s bad side?

One radio serial cannot end racism and hatred, of course. The Klan still exists, and although it is not as widespread as it once was, it is still a dangerous and rabidly racist organization. But what can be gleaned from this strange episode is that stories are important. They can have a real and lasting impact on the real world. Iconic characters like Superman can be used to sway opinions on critical issues. That is why it is important that the art of story telling, the craft of building compelling characters and worlds for them to inhabit, does not die. It shows the lasting power of mythology. Sometimes, even in a world of science and reason and order, we need Superman to swoop in and save the day.

 

Sources

Bell, J.L. “Five questions for Rick Bowers.” Hbook.com. February 3, 2012. The Horn Book. January 17, 2015. http://www.hbook.com/2012/02/authors-illustrators/interviews/five-questions-for-rick-bowers/

 

Juddery, Mark. “How Superman Defeated the Ku Klux Klan.” Mentalfloss.com. October 31, 2009. Mental Floss. January 17, 2015. http://mentalfloss.com/article/23157/how-superman-defeated-ku-klux-klan

 

Sims, Chris. “Ask Chris #221: Superman Takes Down the Clan of the Fiery Cross.” ComicsAlliance.com. November 21, 2014. Comics Alliance. Januuary 17, 2015. http://comicsalliance.com/ask-chris-221-superman-takes-down-the-clan-of-the-fiery-cross/

 

The Cardiff Giant

The Cardiff Giant

The bones of the ancient dead have long fascinated people from every culture and era in history. America is no different. From the mummy of an outlaw that wound up doing time in a sideshow to a tiny enigma some believe is evidence for a new species of dwarfish human, odd remains have a habit of popping up within the vast expanses of the United States.

Mortal remains need not only take human form to arouse curiosity. Bones and fossils of the Earth’s most massive and ancient creatures have spawned not only awe but fearsome legends all their own. For example, the ancient Greek discovery of mammoth skulls, with their large central cavity that looks something like a massive eyes socket, and bones likely influenced the creation of the cyclops myth. The Greeks were not the only people to believe that giants walked the earth at one point in its history; indeed, the idea of giants is common to every culture around the globe, as other cultures likely discovered large remains and came to the same conclusion as the Greeks.

Of course, modern science does not recognize giant humanoids as part of the fossil record. Still, the belief in giants is prevalent even today, due in large part to their being mentioned in the Bible’s Book of Genesis as having existed before Noah’s Flood. In the 19th century, the belief in giants and the fascination with bones and bodies came together to produce an odd phenomena–that of the petrified giant. The most famous and best documented of these hoaxes occurred in 1869, when two laborers digging a well near Cardiff, New York discovered a giant stone man under the ground. The find was dubbed the Cardiff Giant, and it would go on to create a craze for petrified giants that would last for the next forty years before finally dying out in the early 20th century.

 

A giant discovery, and an even bigger fraud

The odd story of the Cardiff Giant begins not in the ancient past, but in 1866 with a man by the name of George Hull. A cigar-maker and a staunch atheist, Hull found himself in Iowa on business when he crossed paths with a Methodist revivalist, Reverend Turk. Hull and the good reverend exchanged heated words. The minister mentioned the scripture from Genesis referring to the antediluvian giants, which birthed an idea in Hull’s mind.

To put his odd plan in motion, Hull returned to Iowa in 1868 to find a suitable stone for his purposes. Once secured, he hired men to quarry the 11 foot block of gypsum, telling them it was for a monument to Abraham Lincoln to be built in New York. Then, he had the giant block shipped to Chicago, where it was shaped by a German stone cutter, who was sworn to secrecy. The finished giant, measuring about 10 feet long and weighing in at 3000 pounds, was shipped by rail to Cardiff, New York in November 1868, where Hull and his cousin and co-conspirator William Newell buried the bulky sculpture.

A year later, Newell hired Gideon Emmons and Henry Nichols to dig a well on his property. On October 16, 1869 the workers hit stone beneath three feet of soil. One man reportedly exclaimed, upon clearing away dirt and seeing a large stone foot: “I declare, some old Indian has been buried here!”

What followed after the excavation of the statue could be described as “giant fever.” Once word got out, people flocked from miles around to see the sight. Hull and Newell erected a tent over the statue and charged $.25 a head to view it. When the crowds swelled and Hull saw he could bilk even more money from the eager sightseers, he doubled the price of admission.

The giant electrified the public. Many believed they’d laid eyes on a petrified giant straight out of the pages of scriptures. A pastor from Syracuse declared as much, and since when was the clergy wrong about anything?

Other experts did not agree. Some believed it was a statue built by missionaries to impress local Indian tribes, while others thought perhaps it was a statue made by some sort of ancient people who predated the coming of the white man, and perhaps the Indians themselves.

Andrew White, first president of Cornell University, visited the site to lay his skeptical eyes on the sensational find. Even the skeptic was impressed by the theatrics of it–a giant being lay in its grave, lit only by the soft light of candles, as quiet onlookers stood in quiet awe of its bulk and age. Of course, upon a closer look White found that the figure was a carved statue, and not a particularly good one at that.

Seeing White’s skeptical reporting, added to the fact that Newell himself had let the cat out of the bag, made Hull nervous. . He sold the giant to David Hannum and a syndicate of businessmen who were interested in the spectacle for a cool $23,000. The businessmen took the giant’s show on the road toward New York City.

Meanwhile, P.T, Barnum heard of the row surrounding the giant. The legendary showman offered Hannum and his cabal  $50,000 as is for the statue. When Hannum declined, Barnum simply sent a man to view the Cardiff Giant. The agent molded a lump of wax into the likeness of the giant, and Barnum paid to have his own version of the giant carved. When Hannum heard that Barnum’s giant was drawing crowds, he uttered famous words often attributed to P.T. Barnum himself: “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

 

Giant mania ends

The Cardiff Giant was not the only so-called petrified man found in mid to late 19th century America. The country seemed to be teeming with the stone encased bodies of the ancient dead. Hull himself made another hoax body, this one called the Solid Muldoon, sporting a monkey-like tail no less. Hotels in New York commissioned their own giants, using the stone bodies to draw in crowds of curiosity seekers.

For its part, the Cardiff Giant was falling on hard times. Hannum took Barnum to court over the copying, where a judge told the hoaxer that he could have his injunction if the giant came and swore to his own genuineness. Needless to say, the skeptical judge threw the case out. Meanwhile, Yale paleontologist Othniel C. Marsh denounced the giant as a fraud, writing that the statue was probably of recent origins. George Hull finally confessed the hoax on December 10.

The statue that spawned dozens of imitations was outed as a fake. Still, over time the giant and its many imitations still brought in money for sideshows and scam artists, although the returns never matched those of the early giant craze.

In 1901, the statue made an appearance at the 1901 Pan American Exposition in Buffalo. Few paid it any attention, its moment of glory forty or more years gone. A publisher from Des Moines, Iowa bought the Cardiff Giant. He sold it in 1947 it to the Farmer’s Museum in Cooperstown, New York, where it is currently on display.

 

Sources:

“The Cardiff Giant.” Farmersmuseum.org. The Farmer’s Museum. January 1, 2015.  http://www.farmersmuseum.org/node/2482

Rose, Mark. “When Giants Roamed the Earth.” Archaeology. Volume 58, number 6. November/December 2005. Retrieved from:  http://archive.archaeology.org/0511/etc/giants.html