A bejewled skull relic at the beautiful Franziskanerkirche in Salzburg, Austria. The label pasted on the skull’s forehead reads “S. Evtyches M.” Though this skull is likely only a namesake, the original Eutyches was a Byzantine monk who was made an infamous heretic when he suggested that Christ was a sort of human-divine chimera. Though only a slight distinction from saying Christ was both fully human and fully divine, he was nonetheless cast out from the church and died in exile.

In this case, the aesthetic of our voyage vault is as intriguing as the snippet of history we were able to extract from it. The skull, encased in an alter, was found in a massive and beautiful church in Salzburg. It rests on a gold embroidered pillow, surrounded by piles jewels and gold, but the most captivating detail of this magnificent skull are the brooch eyes. Settled into the eye sockets are two red jewels, mounted in flourishing silver settings. Finally it is adorned with a crown that reaches around the sides of it, like golden sideburns, meeting over the mouth of the skull in a grand jeweled mustache. Or perhaps the gold leaves wrapped across the skull’s mouth are simply to prevent it from uttering any more heresies.

If life at its grandest is your oyster, then Willie K. Vanderbilt II was born a pearl. For the grandson of railroad magnate, William Henry Vanderbilt, building mansions was second nature, yachting trips and horse racing his casual hobbies, and living the high life; de rigueur. Adorned with the golden name Vanderbilt, Willie K. spent his youth traveling the world, eating the finest treats and playing with the fanciest toys. At age 10, he rode a steam-powered tricycle in France, launching a life-long love of speed and an obsession with racing cars.

As a young man he spent years infuriating Long Island locals, who were constantly awoken late at night to the sound of him speeding up and down the quiet roadways of small town Long Island, where he grew up and spent most of his adult life. In 1904 he set a new land speed record of 92.30 mph, and launched the Vanderbilt Cup the same year. It was the first major American auto racing trophy, and is still in existence today. The Vanderbilt Cup could have been Willie K.’s major legacy…could have been, had he not had an incredible sense of wonder in the world around him, and an adventurous energy that he could not ignore.

The Vanderbilt Museum has something for everyone. Beautiful sprawling grounds for the horticultural enthusiast, an insect collection for the entomology buff, a Spanish Revival mansion known as the Eagle’s Nest for lovers of architecture, taxidermy for the natural historian, a 3000 year old mummy for the historian, a planetarium for the huge groups of school children who descend on the museum on weekdays, and for Curious Expeditions it is the entire collection. Whole, still intact, curated just as it originally was in 1922, when Vanderbilt opened the Eagle’s Nest as a public museum.

It is a museum of a museum, a collection preserved in time, organized according to the logic of the collector. The Vanderbilt Museum is one of those rare places in which visitors can truly experience the wonder with which ethnographic artifacts and natural history specimens were discovered, collected, and displayed, just as they are, with no need for flashy interactive displays.

Willie K. was a curious man and he traveled the globe on his massive yacht, which had room to carry a sea plane on its deck, in search of the wondrous. He traversed the ocean floor in the cumbersome brass diving suits of the day. There was no place too far or too deep to stop the wealthy self-styled adventurer from exploring it. And while he was down there, he collected whatever treasures he found in the ocean for his museum. The Eagle’s Nest has fantastic cases with labels reading, “Bottom material dredged off of the Chilean Coast, 5 miles from Lengua de Vaca Light, Ton Gay Peninsula. Dredging at 90 fathoms with 350 meters of wire out. “Alva” Cruise, ‘38.” Each case is filled with chunks of rock, coral, bone, and shell, all neatly laid out by size and shape, according to the collector’s whim.

In the same room with Vanderbilt’s ocean fragments, mounted insects, floor to ceiling shelves of avian taxidermy and ethnographic artifacts feel harmoniously at home together. A pair of shrunken heads from Peru gaze up (or, ahem, would gaze up if their eyes weren’t sewn shut) at a pair of extinct passenger pigeons. Groups of iridescent hummingbirds float a foot away from a set of french dueling pistols. A case near the front of the room holds an amputation kit used on ocean vessels to your left, arrowheads and tools made of horn and bone found on Long Island to your right. And yet everything seems to be in its place. It is the eclectic collection of man who never had to hear “no” for an answer.

While a good natural history museum can show us what our world once was, is, and the wonder it contains,  a good personal collection can show how one person felt about that world, passions made manifest.

There is no better way to illustrate Willie K. Vanderbilt’s passions- and the range of his journeys and collecting- than his marine life specimens. Some are in jars of water and alcohol, others dried, some mounted, or painted, grouped together with mural-ed backgrounds, some are simply glued to bits of cardboard, while others are elaborately posed in deep dioramas. But one thing unites them all; the very breadth of the collection itself. It seems never to end, and as you leave the first room of marine life, you think you’ve seen quite a nice collection, until you discover that what you’ve just seen was merely a wing of the building, and outside, across the parking lot, is the actual museum with its two long floors of specimens.

The “Hall of Fishes” boasts one of the largest privately held collections of marine specimens in the world, not to mention the mounted whale shark, the largest fish taxidermy in the world at 32 feet long, restored just earlier this year. Willie K. was proud of his collection, and much of the mounting was overseen by the best in the field, a curator at the American Museum of Natural History, who also traveled with Willie K. to the Galapagos Islands on a scientific voyage. The museum was originally surrounded by a golf course, and,  the irreverent playboy he was, on warm summer days Willie K. would gleefully invite his guests to the museum’s roof to tee off.

Sadly, the pride and joy of Willie K and the rare treasure trove of a 20th century cabinet of wonders is in danger. From Newsday.com, “The Suffolk County Vanderbilt Museum will be forced to close its doors to the public by early next year unless the county makes up for declining revenue from its endowment, museum officials said yesterday. The officials who run William K. Vanderbilt II’s former Centerport estate say revenue from the endowment Vanderbilt created to run the museum has plunged by almost two-thirds since 2000…So for the first time, the museum is asking for county tax dollars…for operations next year.”

We hope that this wonderful piece of history will find a way to remain just as it is. Such preservation of an original is incredibly unique, especially in America, and there is nothing like it to inspire a wonder and excitement in that natural world. As the museum’s website says, “In accordance with Vanderbilt’s vision, the museum interprets the collections to visitors to increase their appreciation for the diversity of life on this planet, and thereby promote a benevolent view of human nature.”

Amen.

These examples of wax moulage were made in Vienna around the turn of the century to help instruct medical students, and catalog various diseases. The moulage closest to us is labeled Scrofuloderma, which is a nontuberculous mycobacterial infection of the skin.

The label reads “Wachsmoulage eines Markschwammes der Netzhaut”, which roughly translates to “Sponge of the Retina Wax Moulage.”

Wax Moulage in a Glass Dome.

 All that can be read on this peeling label is “herediataria”, which indicates a hereditary disease.

Part of the label translates to, “Representation of an Occupational Illness.”

Label Translates to “10 month old with Barlow’s Disease [Infantile Scurvy].”

Label Reads Vaccinosis, which is a general name for chronic disease caused by vaccines.

UPDATE: According to commenter Eddie Frothingham, “The explanation of vaccinosis is mistaken. Vaccinia virus is better known as cowpox, and was used to afford immunity to smallpox. Inoculation with vaccinia virus became known as vaccination. The legend on the photo notes the infant is “child of a milker” (ie dairyman).”

These Pathological Wax Moulages were seen at the extraordinary Josephinum Medical Museum in Vienna, Austria. The museum is best known for its superb collection of anatomical waxes, made by the same artists as its more famous sister collection La Specola in Florence. Austrian Emperor Franz Joseph commissioned near exact copies of La Specola’s collection for his military medical school. The models were crafted in Florence, and then began an epic journey, traversing through the alps on the backs of mules, and over the Danube by boat, to their final resting place in Vienna’s Josephinum, all a great personal expense to the Emperor. These anatomical models would be reason alone to visit this often overlooked museum, but the Jospehinum also has a wonderful display of antique medical instruments, from bloodletting cups to a tobacco enema kit.

 The museum also has a small but beautiful collection of pathological wax moulage found in today’s Voyage Vault. While certainly disturbing, we here at Curious Expeditions also find something beautiful in the artful manner in which disease was once preserved for study. They harken back to a time when science and art were entwined, a time we are innately drawn to. For more, see our Josephinum flickr set here, the museum’s website here, and take a look at the always wonderful Morbid Anatomy’s posts on wax anatomical models here.

Orson Squire Fowler was determined to be a preacher. At the tender age of 17 he walked 400 miles from his small town of Cohocton, New York to Massachusetts so that he might be tutored in the ways of the ministry. When Fowler enrolled in Amherst he made fast friends with another minister-to-be, a young Henry Ward Beecher. Everything was set for Fowler to become a man of god. That is, until Dr. Johann Spurtzheim came to town.

Dr. Spurzheim was no fool. He had seen the kind of money that could be made from science. Spurzheim had been the assistant to one Franz Joseph Gall and traveled the European countryside with him on his lecture circuit. Gall had invented a science called “Organology”, and was paid handsomely to explain its principles to aristocrats and royalty. Eventually Spurzheim got tired of toting around Gall’s skulls, plaster casts of brains, and two monkeys. The two had a falling out and Spurzheim split for America where he could deliver his own lectures and make his own money. He would even come up with his own name for this science of organology. Spurzheim called it “Phrenology.”

Fowler and Beecher sat rapt listening to the Austrian Dr. Spurzheim lecture about Phrenology. Both boys were both taken with phrenology, but Fowler was truly enthralled. Proof positive was reached when Dr. Spurtzheim examined Beecher’s head and noted Beecher’s “strong social brain” and “very large benevolence.” The young men rushed back to Amherst to hold a mock debate about Phrenology with Fowler on the pro-side and Beecher on the anti-side. From that moment on Fowler was no longer a man of god, he was a man of science. Well, sort of. He was a man of Phrenology.

A few weeks ago, M and I were walking along the old Croton Aqueduct trail (a pretty walking trail running above the aqueduct that once brought New York its water supply). Just off the trail near Irvington, New York, we discovered one of the most beautiful houses we had ever seen. Curiously, the house wasn’t sporting your run-of-the-mill 4 sides; this was an 8-sided octagon house. You yourself may have seen one these octagon homes, for throughout the U.S., and particularly in the Northeast and Midwest, are scattered some 2000 of these 8-sided “Inkwell” houses. The house M and I had stumbled on is perhaps the most beautiful octagon house in the entire country. Known as the Armour-Stiner House, it is particularly unique for its domed roof added to the octagon house in 1872.

(The house has a fascinating history including having been the residence of Aleko E. Lilius, a Finnish writer and explorer who lived and plundered with Chinese Pirates including “The Mountain of Wealth” a female pirate who plundered ships off the coast of China. Lilius went on to write the extremely awesome sounding “I Sailed with Chinese Pirates.” The house is currently one of five beautiful residences owned by the architect and preservationist Joseph Pell Lombardi.)

While the original architect of the Armour-Stiner octagon house is unknown, it is almost irrelevant, for the true architect of this house and every other Victorian octagonal residence was a single  man who saw the future of mankind in the shape of an octagon.

Despite not becoming a preacher, Orson Squire Fowler still he had plenty to preach about. Fowler had become quite rich on the science of Phrenology and was the founder and partner of the phrenological firm and publishing house “Fowlers & Wells” in New York. Fowler ran the offices, examination room and a museum known as “the Golgatha of Gothem”  featuring an massive display of over 1000 human skulls, animal skulls, and casts from the heads of “the most distinguished men that ever lived” out of a building on 27 E. 21st St. He used the money he made from phrenology to pursue some of his other singular passions.

A firm believer in good living and health reform, Fowler advocated a vegetarian and fruit based diet, the need for daily showers, equality of women, abstaining from tobacco, children’s rights, penal reform, and host of other ideas that were shockingly progressive for their day. Of course Fowler wasn’t always advanced in his thinking and also believed in mesmerism, hydrotherapy and, of course, phrenology, all psuedo-sciences with little basis in empirical study. Fowler was a sort of New Ager before the old age was even over. But while Fowler had published books on everything from “Matrimony, or Phrenology applied to the Selection of Companions” and “Memory and intellectual improvement” to “Love and Parentage” there was one field he had yet to tackle. Fowler was to reform the very shape of the home itself.

“Why,” asked Fowler, was there” so little progress in architecture when there is so much in other matters! Why continue to build in the same square form of all past ages?” Orson Fowler knew close to nothing about architecture, he had never built a home, much less been trained in architectural design.  In appropriate new age style, Fowler looked to nature for his design reforms. “She has ten thousand globular or cylindrical forms to one square one” Fowler wrote “Why not then adopt this spherical form of house?” Not being completely impractical, Fowler knew truly cylindrical houses would be far too expensive and difficult to construct. The compromise was the octagon.

Fowler published “The Octagon House: A Home For All, or A New, Cheap, Convenient, and Superior Mode of Building” In 1848. The book was well received, perhaps because along with the octagon shape, Fowler suggested a gravity-fed water system with indoor plumbing, central heating and natural gas lighting in his design, features that regardless of the house shape were a vast improvement over other current house designs.  The book went through 9 printings with hundreds of Inkwell houses sprouting up within the decade.

It looked for a while as if octagons really were the way of the future. Millionaires across the country had to have one.  P.T. Barnum had one built for himself, and Mark Twain wrote both Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer in the eight sided comfort of his sister-in-laws octagonal home. There were octagon schools, barns, even dead people were getting in the act with Ontario, Canada building a number of 8 sided “deadhouses.” But all was not well with the inkwells. The combination of the economic panic of 1857 and the civil war put many octagon projects on ice, and having lost his money in the 1857 panic, Fowler was forced to rent out his own magnificent octagon residence. Pioneering types who set out for “Octagon City”, a utopian settlement based on Fowler’s ideas, arrived to find nothing save a sad, square, log cabin. In a final cruel twist of fate, Fowler’s original octagon house became a death trap when the indoor plumbing backed up and all the renters died of typhoid.

Fowler too was to become a victim of changing times. Phrenology began to lose respect among the Victorians, and so did Fowler. After the civil war Fowler began publishing more on sexual and marriage reform culminating with his 1870 book “Creative and Sexual Science.” Fowler had gone too far, and the prim Victorians wern’t ready to hear “How to judge a man or woman’s sexual condition by visible signs” or “how to increase female passion.” Accused of being “an immoral character” Fowler’s reputation, along with many of his more progressive ideas were done. And so, it seemed was the reign of the octagon. Fowler passed away in 1887 in his hometown of Cohocton shunned and forgotten. His own original octagon house was dynamited only 10 years later having fallen into utter disrepair. There is one place where you can still see the Fowler name. On the bottom of the classic ceramic phrenology bust it reads Fowler. L.N. Fowler that is. Sadly for Orson it is Lorenzo Niles Fowler, his little brothers name that has been preserved by history. Orson’s has all but been forgotten.

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Synchronicity is a funny thing. Shortly after starting this post I received my New Scientist magazine (I got a subscription thanks to the recommendation of the fabulous Heather McDougal of the always wonderful Cabinet of Wonders). I was slightly astonished and delighted to find that one of my absolute favorite authors, Paul Collins had done an piece on octagon houses, a subject that he had also touched on in his excellent book, The Trouble with Tom. I encourage anyone who enjoys Curious Expeditions to read anything by Paul Collins, he is a master of historical non-fiction and generally seems to be a really cool guy. He has an awesome blog Weekend Stubble.

If you want to know more about octagon houses or find the one nearest you, check out these amazing resources: Wikipedia has some surprisingly good octagon related pages including the octagon house wiki, a list of octagon houses wiki, a world list of octagon structures wiki and a US octagon structures wiki. But the granddaddy of them all is the astounding and very thorough list at the Octagon House Inventory, by Robert Kline, a retired engineer living in Grand Rapids, MI. It is people like Robert Kline who make the world a cooler place. It is also worth checking out the Armour-Stiner house site and seeing Lombardi’s other magnificent residences.

For more on Fowler can be found at the wiki, and in John H. Martin’s terrific essay, and in this great interview from 1887. A number of cool phrenology images can be found here and here.

A Feejee Mermaid, in the folklore section of the Haus der Natur in Salzburg, Austria.

These part man, part fish staples of sideshows and wunderkammers never look like the beautiful mermaids of legends. Their faces are always twisted in anguish and horror, their bodies all claws, ribs and matted fur. The great P.T. Barnum exhibited the most famous feejee mermaid, supposedly caught off the Fiji Islands in 1842 by “naturalist” Dr. J. Griffin. Barnum himself described the mermaid as “an ugly, dried-up, black-looking, and diminutive specimen… its arms thrown up, giving it the appearance of having died in great agony.” Huge crowds came to see the famous mermaid, making Barnum’s creature the most popular withered monkey/dried fish of all time. The Museum der Natur’s folklore section is filled with incredible gaffs and hoaxs (like the extraordinary snouter), and leaves visitors like us longing for the time when artful taxidermy could be famous, and horrible dried up monsters could be real.

For the full story of the wonderful Feejee Mermaid hoax, visit The Museum of Hoaxes, a perfect place to wile away a Sunday afternoon.

M and I stood alone in a strange little circular room. The balcony wrapped around the top and skylights made it possible for all to see the table located in the middle of the round open floor. I looked for bloodstains in the wood.

The early 1800’s was a tough time to be a surgeon. There was no electricity to light operations, the tools were simple-almost no different than those used to cut wood and food-and the operating room was a crowded, loud, and stressful affair, full of eyes watching and judging your technique, skill and speed.

Of course, it was worse to be the patient. Antiseptics, anesthesia and any sense of a patient’s privacy had yet to be invented. If you were headed to surgery there was a good chance you wouldn’t be returning, at least not with all your limbs.

In the days before anesthesia, the primary tool of the surgeon was the speed at which they could detach limb from trunk. Operations had to be given in clear weather during mid-day so that the surgeon might be able to see what he was doing. Students crowded into the seats to see how it was performed, or just for an afternoon show. The patients were generously given a choice of opium, liquor or a knock on the head with a mallet to render them unconscious.

The operating theatre was quite literally that, a combination of surgical operating room and vaudevillian theatre, complete with an unruly audience of young docotrs, poorly trained quacks, and slapstick physical comedy. But in this theatre the blood wasn’t staged, and the tragedy could be quite real.

So there you are, the poor patient, laid there, drunk out of your mind, teeth clenched around a rag, waiting for the surgeon to begin sawing through your swollen and infected leg. You look up for a moment hoping to commune with God and instead find a mustachioed, spectacled face of a young “surgeon” smiling down at you from the theater balcony. He gives you a quick wink. Then the screaming begins.

The Pennsylvania hospital, like many things Philadelphian, is an American first, the first hospital on (what would become) American soil. And like most things in Philadelphia, that history starts with none other then America’s favorite son, Benjamin Franklin. Founded in 1751 by Franklin and Dr. Thomas Bond, the hospital  aim was to help those who couldn’t help themselves, focusing on Philadelphia’s poor and mentally unwell.

Today the current, very modern hospital still helps those in need. But rather than destroying the original buildings, the new hospital has grown piece by piece around the original one, preserving its history like the rings of a tree. As you make your way through the modern, institutional hospital, following signs to the Pine building, it’s hard to imagine anything old could exist in such a sterilized environment…until you come to a foreign set of red carpeted stairs, emerging at the top in the old hospital, in all its 18th century grandeur. The juxtaposition is jarring.

The Pine Building’s original Great Court holds a small hand-pumped fire engine from 1780. (A wise purchase considering the hospital’s near constant use of candles and stoves for light and warmth.) The grand stairs lead you past portraits of the great American doctors, Dr. Rush, the “Father of American Psychiatry”, and Dr. Physick, the “Father of American Surgery.” On the second floor is a beautiful medical library, once the most important of its kind, featuring 13,000 books in dark wood bookcases, and a series of plaster anatomical casts.

But it is on the third floor that the hospital’s history really comes alive, in the beautiful and wonderfully preserved/reconstructed operating theater. Built in 1804 and used until 1868, the theater was the first of its kind in America. While surgery in the operating theater would have been no treat, the building of the amphitheater was among the first steps that formalized surgery and turned it into a recognized medical discipline…Of course, you still wouldn’t want to have been the one on the table.

“Opium, Whiskey or Mallet?”

For more information visit U Penn’s historical site about the theatre and the hospital. The Pennsylvania hospital is located at 800 Spruce St, in Philadelphia and the historic section is open for self guided tours until 4. Entirely worth the visit.

“The Grand Armory” displays 1,600 of the castle’s 4,000 pieces of weaponry and armor from the 14-16th centuries, at Castelul Peleş.

Castelul Peleş rises out of the ancient Romanian forest like an fairy tale .  Located in Sinaia, Transylvania it is arguably the most beautiful castle in Romania and possibly all of Eastern Europe. Its sharp pointed peaks touch the grey sky, its grand base rests comfortably in a blanket of snow in the Carpathian Mountains. Peleş, commissioned by King Carol l of Romania in 1866, takes its cues from many European influences, most notably Italian and German architecture. As in its design, so too was its construction a mishmash of Europe, as Queen Elisabeth of Romania described the merry scene in her journal, “Italians were masons, Romanians were building terraces, the Gypsies were coolies. Albanians and Greeks worked in stone, Germans and Hungarians were carpenters. Turks were burning brick. Engineers were Polish and the stone carvers were Czech. The Frenchmen were drawing, the Englishmen were measuring, and so was then when you could see hundreds of national costumes and fourteen languages in which they spoke, sang, cursed and quarreled on all dialects and tones, a joyful mix of men, horses, cart oxen and domestic buffaloes.”

For more of this stunning castle, please visit our Flickr Set.

It is a massive and haunting building. To the outsider it looks like a great castle mistakenly thrust into the middle of urban Philadephia.  The massive walls weren’t built to keep crusaders and robbers out, but to keep them in. The castle is a prison. Welcome to Eastern State.

In French, oublier means “to forget” and when it was a person that the French wanted to oublier, it was into the oubliette they went. A normal oubliette was simply a narrow shaft with a locked grate on top into which a prisoner was lowered; usually, gleefully flung. They were simply forgotten, and left to starve to death.

The idea of “life imprisonment” is a surprisingly new concept. Up until the end of the 18th century, imprisonment was merely a precursor to the torture or death sentence waiting to be carried out. (One version of life imprisonment did exist. It was being sent to a new colony to do forced labor, or as the prisoners heard it, “Welcome to Virginia.”)

In the past, prisons were commercial ventures (as they often still are) and prisoners had to buy their own food and drink from taverns located within the prison. Filled with prostitutes, booze, corrupt officials, and little to no order, the prison functioned as a brutal city within a city. The poorer a prisoner, the less time they had to live. The reform of the prisoner was an unknown idea and starvation, cold, disease and violence often put an end to prisoners who were there only for a few months. There was no need for life imprisonment, because prison was a death sentence.

So it must have seemed a noble idea when prison reforming Quakers developed the Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia. It was designed as a place of safe reform where order reigned and those housed in its walls might have a chance to be penitent for their crimes. Eastern State was to be the world’s first “penitentiary.”

Compared to other facilities of its day, Eastern State was a technological marvel, and at a cost of $800,000, one of the most expensive building projects of its day. At a time when President Andrew Jackson was still using a chamber pot, prisoners in Eastern State had their own private toilets. Inmates were also served three hearty meals (usually boneless beef, pork, or soup and unlimited potatoes) a day, and had their own exercise areas. The cells each had a narrow skylight so that the divine wisdom of god might shine down upon them! Eastern State was a paradise compared to other prisons of the time. Except, despite all the comforts that were even better than home, this paradise also drove men mad.

Known as the “separate system,” part of what made Eastern State unique is that prisoners weren’t to interact with anyone, at all, in any way. They ate alone, they exercised alone, they read the bible (the only book they were allowed) alone. They weren’t allowed to talk to each other, or the guards. When, on the rare occasion they were taken out of their cells, they were put into hoods. They weren’t supposed to see the guards and the guards weren’t supposed to see them. Guards even wore felt shoe covers so as to keep the prison as quite as possible. Utter silence, utter solitude. It was meant to inspire penance; instead, it inspired insanity.

When Charles Dickens visited the prison in 1842, he wrote “The system here is rigid, strict, and hopeless solitary confinement. I believe it, in its effects, to be cruel and wrong. I hold this slow, and daily, tampering with they mysteries of the brain to be immeasurably worse than any torture of the body.”

It turned out that not only did Eastern State’s “separate system” not work particularly well for reforming prisoners, but that Eastern State fell victim to many of the same cruel practices of other prisons. Guards used torture, such as the iron gag which ripped at one’s tongue, and ice cold water baths in winter to discipline inmates for any attempts to communicate. The sewage system backed up, the prison smelled terrible, and everyone (including the guards) suffered from a high rate of disease. Eastern State even had its own “oubliette,” a pit that had been dug beneath a cell block, where prisoners would be kept for weeks on end. Certainly not what the Quaker founders had in mind when they set out to reform prisoners.

Eventually, due to overcrowding and disapproval of the “separate system” Eastern State changed into a more standard prison, known then as the “New York System,” with inmates sharing cells and communication permitted. Despite the change in methods, the prison stayed in use for 142 years (housing such criminal luminaries as Willie Sutton and Al Capone) from 1829 until 1971. Left abandoned for many years it was narrowly saved from destruction, and in 1994 Eastern State  re-opened its massive doors to the public. Left in a state of magnificent decay, anyone who finds themselves in Philadelphia would be well advised to pay a visit, and be penitent.

Below is a photo tour of Eastern State from our Flickr Set.

A huge case lined with skulls at the Museo delle Cere Anatomiche (Museum of Anatomical Waxes) in Bologna, Italy. The case of skulls is at the entrance of the museum, and another case just as full covers the other side of the hall. These are Luigi Calori’s 2,000 human skulls, organized according to many different themes, from groupings of ancient Roman skulls to cluster of skulls from suicide victims. Calori was the head of the anatomy department of Bologna University in 1831. The very room in which anatomy students were taught in the 19th century is the site of the museum, open to current students and curious visitors alike.

The museum is absolutely incredible, with wonderful collections of both anatomical models and pathological specimens, a small selection of which can be seen at our Flickr Set.

When D and I hopped on the Staten Island Ferry that summer afternoon, we had no idea that our wanderings would find us face to face with some of the most charming homespun curiosity cabinets we had ever seen.

The Staten Island Museum has a number of surprises with which to reward the curious visitor, from the wonderful “Wall of Insects”, (only a small portion of one Victorian naturalist’s collection, the rest stored safely in the museum’s attic) to the glass case bursting with taxidermied birds, all native to Staten Island. This style of mounting many different birds without regard to habitat-seabirds on the same branch as birds from the forest-was very popular in Victorian times. It certainly gives the impressive image of variety, if not proper natural environments.

Near the back are two dark curtains leading to a tiny room. Inside is a rather bland case of minerals. Ah, but wait! There is a button. Those who push it are treated to a wonderful phosphorescent mineral display, brilliant oranges, yellows, purples, blues and greens glowing from the case of what looked before like dull rocks. Each carries this secret magic, each with its own hue of personality. D and I stood in that tiny room for what seemed like ages, pushing that magical button again and again, both of us under the hypnotic spell of phosphorescence.

But the most exciting part of this little museum is the spherical, baseball-sized, poison-negating hairball. Mystical poison-negators were all the rage in those days when being poisoned (more often accidental than evil intentions) was a very real concern. The most common solution was unicorn horn (aka narwhal tusk), said to negate all poison and any number of ailments; a cure-all for only the very rich, worth many times its weight in gold. For Ottoman sultans, the poison prevention was quite thorough - all of his food was served on ancient Chinese porcelain glazed with celadon, made of powered jade and kaolin. If poison touched these dishes, it was believed that the green glaze would splinter and change colors, and some say it would actually shatter into a million pieces. (Source) Apparently it didn’t always work, as it is believed at least one Sultan was poisoned to death.
While these solutions are certainly exciting (what’s more exciting that a narwhal tusk?) the sad and likely truth is that not one of them ever saved a life. Enter the magic hairball, more politely known as the bezoar stone. A mainstay of curiosity cabinets, bezoar stones are created in the intestines of cud-chewing animals, when something indigestible is eaten, turned round and round in the stomach of the animal, and found lodged inside the digestive tract. Bezoar stones are a type of hairball, churned into a perfect compact sphere of protein. Among the animals that produce such stones are cows, goats, sheep, giraffes, American Bison, European bison, yaks, water buffalo, deer, camels, alpacas, llamas, wildebeest, antelope, pronghorn and so on. Even humans on occasion have produced a sort of bezoar stone, though this usually only happens in the rare case of Rapunzel Syndrome. Occurring almost exclusively in children-especially girls-the syndrome is named for that fairy princess notable for her unreasonably long hair because that’s our culprit: hair. These children unconsciously chew and swallow hair, whether their own, or just as often, the hair of their dolls. The indigestible hair gets lodged in the mucosa of the stomach, and most of these human bezoars (also known as Trichobezoars) can only be removed by open surgery.

The word bezoar comes from a Persian word meaning literally, Protection from Poison. Cups were made with the stones set inside, and smaller stones were worn around the neck, at the ready to be dipped into suspicious cocktails. But the bezoar stone is unlike other poison protectors of the day, in that, sometimes, it actually worked.

If the poison administered was that most common of poisons, arsenic, and you were lucky enough to have your lucky bezoar stone around your neck, the stone could remove the arsenic. From Mel Fisher Maritime Heritage Society, via Cabinet of Wonders:

“Modern examinations of the properties of bezoars by Gustaf Arrhenius and Andrew A. Benson of the Scripps Institution of Oceanography have shown that they could, when immersed in an arsenic-laced solution, remove the poison. The toxic compounds in arsenic are arsenate and arsenite. Each is acted upon differently, but effectively, by bezoar stones. Arsenate is removed by being exchanged for phosphate in the mineral brushite, a crystalline structure found in the stones. Arsenite is found to bond to sulfur compounds in the protein of degraded hair, which is a key component in bezoars.”

Sometimes, every so often, the mysterious magic of yesterday turns out to be true, although the explanation changes-from magic to science-which really can be a truly magical thing.

Come to this small, under appreciated museum for the bezoar, and stay for the Victorian taxidermy, curiosities (like the four-footed chick in a jar next to the bezoar stone above), wet specimens, and lovely wunderkammer-esque display of shells and coral.

Disembodied puppet hands, as seen at the Marionettemuseum inside the huge Hohensalzburg Fortress in Salzburg, Austria. Visit our Hohensalzburg Flickr Set for more from the Marionettemuseum and the fortress itself, complete with a torture chamber.

M and I walked into the Rare Book department of the Philadelphia with a goal in mind. We had come to see him. Perched on a log, preserved with arsenic, frozen inside his shadow box he stands as a strange piece of history. Though he has been dead since 1841, his legacy is longer then most people’s, much less other animals. Grip the Clever, Grip the Wicked, Grip the Knowing. We had come to see Grip.

Ravens are smart. Common ravens have among the largest brains of any bird species and they have been shown to fashion tools of leaves to use them to extract grubs as well as solve complex puzzles. Young ravens are exceedingly playful and have been observed sliding down snowbanks, feet akimbo, squawking in delight. They even play games and seemingly tease other species, such as boldly playing catch-me-if-you-can with wolves and dogs…and then there’s the talking.

So smart, in fact, is the Covus Corax, that a single bird, a raven named Grip, is responsible for two, count them two, contributions to the cannon of classic literature. Not even Lassie can compete with that.

“Mr. Dear Maclise

You will be greatly shocked and grieved to hear that the Raven is no more… On the clock striking twelve he appeared slightly agitated, but he soon recovered, walked twice or thrice along the coach-house, stopped to bark, staggered, exclaimed “Halloa old girl!” (his favorite expression) and died.”

So wrote Charles Dickens to Daniel Maclise on March 12th 1841, adding

“The children seem rather glad of it. He bit their ankles but that was play…”

Dickens’ overblown letter has a humorous tone, but his pet raven Grip, and its death from eating lead paint chips, was quite real. This was not the first raven Dickens had owned as a pet, but it was his most beloved and when it died he had it professionally taxidermied and mounted (having one’s pet stuffed having became all the rage in England after George IV had his pet giraffe stuffed). Despite the ankle biting, it seemed Dickens children loved Grip as well. They begged their father to put the talkative pet raven into the newest story he was working on. An obliging father, Dickens did just that.

Ravens are surprisingly human-like in a number of ways. Wildly successful creatures, they eat anything and everything and adapt well to almost any environment, so much so that ravens inhabit most regions of the globe. Ravens, like us, also mate for life, which can be a long time considering they live up to forty years. And while they mate for life they can be very quarrelsome with their chosen mate… yet another feature they share with we homosapiens.

Ravens weren’t always thought of in the dark, foreboding light they are now. The vikings greatly esteemed the raven and “norse legend tells that Odin, lord of the gods, was attended by two ravens, named Hugin (Thought) and Munin (Memory), who served him as reconnaissance agents, returning after each long, snoopy flight to perch on his shoulders and whisper into his ears.”4 Ravens are also important in the mythology of the indigenous peoples of both the Russian Far East and the Pacific Northwest (no coincidence there, as at one time they were likely one group). In one Miwok creation story the ravens themselves transform into people. To the Miwok, ravens weren’t just like us, they were us.

Ravens are great talkers. In the wild, ravens have calls for all occasions; alarm calls, chase calls and flight calls, as well as chatty calls for socializing. If one member of a raven couple is lost, its mate will reproduce the calls of its lost partner to encourage its return. Terrific mimics , the common raven can reproduce almost any sound from their environment, including human speech.

“Polly, put the kettle on. Hurrah! Polly, put the kettle on and we’ll all have tea. Grip, Grip, Grip-Grip the Clever, Grip the Wicked, Grip the Knowing.”

So says the talkative raven Grip in Barnaby Rudge, Dickens’ (somewhat less esteemed) historical novel about the “no-popery” riots of 1780. While Dickens may have made his children happy, there was one young man who was left unsatisfied. The young critic wrote that although he liked the book,

“[the raven's] croaking might have been prophetically heard in the course of the drama.”

But there was something about the raven character that stuck with the young critic. That and a single line from the book that read “What was that – him tapping at the door?”

Edgar Allen Poe was seriously struggling. He had quietly published a few books of poetry (one credited simply to “a Bostonian”) which no one read, he was broke, his young wife had recently died and his creative writing prospects didn’t look too good. To make ends meet Poe was working as a literary critic, moving back and forth between Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York City and making literary enemies all along the way. He was also drinking… a lot. He did however have a new poem. He called it “The Raven.”

It almost didn’t get published. It was rejected from the first journal he submitted it to, but Poe hit gold with the Evening Mirror. Edited by Poe’s friend Nathaniel Parker Willis, who had often encouraged Poe to “be less destructive in his criticism and concentrate on his poetry” the paper published an advance copy of the poem with the glowing recommendation that it was “unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification… It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it.” Willis was right, and within a few months the poem was published in numerous journals, and was a high society sensation. Poe had had his big break.

It is no surprise that Ravens insinuated themselves to peoples of the north. According to folklore “the ravens would fly along with hunting parties and make a wing-dipping move to signal the hunters toward caribou, so that the hunt would be successful and everyone, humans and birds, would tuck into a bounteous feast.” 2 As unlikely as this scenario sounds, it seems to bear out.

Observed in the wild, ravens prefer to hunt in the company of wolves, and the common raven has been observed using a special call to alert wolves, foxes, coyotes (and apparently, at one time, hunter-gatherers) to the site of dead animals. The canines and or homosapiens, would then tear into the carcass, opening up the delectable inside to the hungry birds. 1. One way to to look at this is that the together the ravens and wolves, or ravens and humans for that matter, form a grisly and mutually beneficial hunt and scavenge society.

Of course another way to see it, is that the Raven is using the larger predators to get exactly what it wants. The raven is manipulating them. Hence, in indigenous pacific northwest mythology, the raven is both the Creator of the world and a trickster god. It’s not for nothing that a group of ravens is called a conspiracy.

Poe was gaining great popularity from his poem but along with it he was also receiving some very harsh criticism, on not just his work but his character. He was suffering retribution from those he had offended as a literary critic, as well as regularly being accused of plagiarism. Writer James Russell Lowell, a contemporary of Poe’s, clearly saw the debt owed to Dickens and wrote what he called “A Fable for Critics” in it he says

“Here comes Poe with his Raven, like Barnaby Rudge, / Three fifths of him genius, two fifths sheer fudge.”

That was the least of it. T. S. Eliot, W. B. Yeats, and Emerson all dismissed him referring to Poe as “a jingle man.” In addition, Poe was still struggling for money. Despite the poems popularity he was only paid nine dollars for its publication. He was also still drinking heavily. He did enjoy performing readings of the Raven at fancy salon parties. He would turn down all the lights and recite the poem with great drama. The women were thrilled and everyone called him “the Raven.” Like the Miwok myth, Poe was the Raven, and the Raven was Poe.

Despite being a creator god to the indigenous peoples of the pacific northwest as well as the memory and thought of Odin, ravens in the West are not well thought of. “In Sweden, ravens are known as the ghosts of murdered people, and in Germany as the souls of the damned. In Danish folklore, a Raven that ate a king’s heart gained human knowledge, could perform great malicious acts, led people astray, and had superhuman powers.” All in all, across Europe they were thought of as “terrible animals.”

The reputation of the common raven probably began to deteriorate with the founding of cities. While a raven would have been a helpful hunting partner in a pre-agricultural society, in a city the raven becomes simply another scavenger. Worse then that, as a carrion bird, they enjoyed feeding on dead flesh, any dead flesh, including that of dead humans. The medieval practice of leaving the impaled criminals out as a warning to others, must have been a feeding bonanza for these birds, (especially since they could fly up to the impaled victims and pluck out their eyeballs unlike, say, a dog) and no doubt helped fixed these black birds in people’s minds as a ghoulish and foul beast.

Partially, it is exactly what has made them so evolutionarily successful that bothers people. Like vultures, ravens often act as kleptoparasites, (parasitism by theft) stealing the kills of others. To the civilized eyes of the Victorians, there was something dark and ominous about this, and ravens in general. And if you didn’t think so before 1845, Poe’s “The Raven” would certainly help to cement the Raven’s spooky image.

It would only be 4 years after publishing “The Raven” and gaining worldwide fame that Poe was found delirious on the streets of Baltimore, and died shortly thereafter. Even after his death, Poe was subject to insult. An obituary attibuted to “Ludwig” was published in the Times stating “Edgar Allan Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it.” The Raven, however, could not be so easily killed. The poem went on to be published in innumerable books, influence countless writers and is easily one of, if not, the most famous poem ever written.

Today, Grip the Raven, who inspired both Dickens and Poe can still be seen, proud as ever, in the Philadelphia Rare Book Department. If a single raven can inspire two classic works, and a conspiracy of ravens can help humans hunt down a caribou, perhaps people will begin to see ravens not as a dark and ghoulish creature but as the intelligent, elegant and playful human-like bird they are? Perhaps we will disown the dim and arrogant eagle and adopt the clever, adaptable raven as our appropriate national symbol? The answer is most assuredly… Quoth the Raven…Nevermore.

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For more info on the Common Raven, check out these articles here, here and here.
There have been innumerable riffs and remakes of the Raven check out the amazing “The Raven in Popular Culture” wiki. Some particularly cool versions are an incredibly funny version called “Ravens of Piute Poet Poe,” a version in Georges Perec’s novel A Void without the letter E called “The Black Bird,” and a reworked version in which the length of words correspond to the first 740 digits of pi. Also excellent is the original poem itself being read by Christopher Walken.

For those who want to know more about the intelligence and behavior of the common raven, an excellent book is “Mind of the Raven” by Bernd Heinrich.

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A miniature wooden butcher shop, T. Harringtons, as seen at the Toy Museum (Muzeum hraček) in Prague, Czech Republic. The Toy Museum exhibits charming antique toys from Bohemia and Europe at large, and is housed in the former count’s chambers at the Prague Castle.

A yellowed and well-loved copy of Art Recreations sits tucked in the bookshelf. A modest brown leather book, the unsuspecting passerby would never know they were walking past a goldmine. Published in 1860, Art Recreations is a thorough guide to artistic pastimes for Victorian women. It offers detailed lessons in many standard art forms, like pencil drawing, grecian painting, and watercolor, but somewhere towards the last third of the book, the mediums veer into bizarre and thoroughly antiquated crafts. This back section begins with a deceptively simple guide to taxidermy. It opens graphically with,

“Take out the entrails; remove the skin with the greatest possible care; rub the whole interior with arsenic…after taking out the entrails, open a passage to the brain, which must be scooped out through the mouth…”

From there the book proceeds into the subtle art of aquarium preparation, wax work, “cone work” (the regrettably obsolete medium of pine cone), and the rather specific art of “Wild Tamarind Seed Work” (brought to England from the West Indies). All of it goes to show just how much time the unemployed VIctorian woman had on her hands. However, the most exciting lesson for these industrious Victorian woman with ample free time is the wonderful lesson in hair art.. as in human hair.

Curious Expeditions has long been interested in hair art. Spanning from a sweet memento between lovers to a macabre relic of the deceased, D and I had seen a few touching examples of this mourning keepsake at the Volkskundemuseum (Museum of of Folk Life and Art) in Salzburg, Austria. Unlike the complicated hair formations often seen in hair art, these were small, simple locks pressed between two rounds of glass. There was something mesmerizing and eerie about these two artifacts, physical pieces left from long forgotten people.

Even before the intricate hair art became popular in the 1800s, hair of the living was frequently gifted and worn. Hair bracelets and locks of hair pressed in glass were popular love tokens in the 1600s. Valentines and postcards with hair pasted on them were often sent as keepsakes to far away loves. Napoleon wore his watch on a chain made of his wife’s hair, and Queen Victoria was known to give locks of her hair away as gifts to her children and grandchildren. And at the Paris Exposition in 1855, fair-goers were delighted by a full-length, life-sized portrait of Queen Victoria, made entirely of human hair.

It is a strangely romantic gesture to give a bit of oneself away (in modern days a more extreme version is the bone ring, grown from bone samples of your loved one). But it is the darker side, the desire to keep a bit of the departed alive and with you, that so fascinates us here at Curious Expeditions.

It was thanks to Queen Victoria that mourning jewelry came into vogue in the 19th and 20th centuries. Her husband, Prince Albert, died of typhoid in 1861, and Queen Victoria remained in mourning for him for the rest of her life, a full 40 years of black. As with many aspects of their strained moral earnestness, Victorians reflected Queen Victoria in her habits and ethics. Thus, strict mourning customs came into fashion. Mourning widows were not allowed to leave their homes without full black attire and a weeping veil for one year and a day (called “full mourning) after her husband’s death. During “second mourning,” the next nine months, the widow was allowed some small ornamentation, like mourning jewelry and lacy embellishments to her black attire. The art of proper mourning was vital in demonstrating the wealth and class of a family. It was of the utmost importance to appear fashionable in these times of grief, and many wealthy woman dressed their servants in black as a grand show of a household in mourning.

Besides fashionable dress, mourning jewelry was a further symbol of dignity and social status. Much of mourning jewelry was made of jet, or “black amber,” a solemn fossilized coal. Hair jewelry also became common, with locks of the deceased’s hair set into bracelets, brooches, rings, watch fobs, earrings and necklaces, often clipped off right at the funeral parlor. Soon jewelry makers found themselves immersed in a new industry of professional hair art. Great distrust encircled these professionals as rumors flew that bulk hair was used in place of the actual hair of the deceased. Many suspected that their “custom pieces” were in fact mass produced. Thus, the diligent Victorian lady took it upon herself to learn the fine art so she could know for certain that it was in fact the deceased’s hair she wore around her neck, and not wisps from a stranger.

Eventually, this art broadened back out from objects of memento mori to keepsakes and elaborate pictures of flowers, wreathes, weeping willows, and landscapes made of hair. And of course, in a repressed society such as the Victorians found themselves, everything was fraught with symbolism in hair art. A willow meant forsaken love, lavender meant distrust, a conch shell meant reincarnation, and a zinnia meant thoughts of absent friends. The technique is a painstaking assemblage of bunching, twisting, knitting, weaving, brushing, and braiding. Though some of these complex pictorials were made from the hair of the deceased as memorials, they just as often used hair from the living, incorporating hair clipped from members of an entire church, school, or family.

Today, the practice is all but dead. The Victorian Hairwork Society, however, is a collective of artists keeping the tradition alive with their skilled hands for any nostalgics who may be interested in commissioning pieces. Of course there’s always Leila’s Hair Museum in Independence, Missouri, which proudly exhibits hundreds of Victorian hairworks. Rooms filled, floor to ceiling, with the hairy remnants of Victoriana past. Photographs may capture a moment in time, a mere instant in a person’s life, but their hair…it was a part of them. Perhaps Leila says it best, “When I look at hair, I see more than hair. My museum is filled with other people’s families. It tells a story, but there’s a lot more story that I won’t be able to know ’till I get to the other side and meet them.”

For more on Victorian Mourning Customs, we recommend Morbid Outlook.

The Hungarian “Gloomy Sunday” is an infamous song. Hauntingly beautiful, the story goes that the song was so sad, so depressing, so completely soul crushing, that upon hearing it even once, Hungarians were driven to suicide. And not just a few, during its era, hundreds of suicides were attributed to the melody.

The song, written by Rezső Seress in 1933, was supposedly penned for an ex-girlfriend. The lyrics (which are said to be lost in the English translation, as the Hungarian language is known for its incredibly rich and basically untranslatable wordplay) tells the tale of a man who lost his lover to an untimely death, and plans to commit suicide. In some tellings, Seress’ ex-girlfriend was found dead, a week later, with a suicide note reading only, “Gloomy Sunday”.

The legend grew. One story went that a young paperboy who had everything to live for heard the song in passing and immediately threw himself into the Danube. Rumors about the song that hypnotized any who heard it into walking straight out of the first open window became became so pervasive that Hungary is said to have responded with a nationwide ban of Gloomy Sunday. It was just too dangerous.

The Kegyeleti Museum translates into English in many different ways, depending on your source. Some call it the “Tribute Museum”, the pamphlet at the museum itself calls it the “Piety Museum”, and some do away with the euphemisms and call it, simply, the Funeral Museum. As such, it couldn’t have a better location: the beautiful Kerepesi cemetery in Budapest, Hungary. Even without the museum, the cemetery is a perfect place to wile away the hours; quiet, the sky framed by the leaves of old sycamore trees, the sun highlighting the ivy which covers so many crumbling stone graves. The sprawling cemetery dotted with grand mausoleums for Hungary’s heros, feels like some magnificent, deserted city.

The first display in the museum is a collection of mourning clothes from various regions of the Carpathian Basin. Within that small slice of the world is a mosaic of different customs, ranging from traditional black dresses to brightly embroidered veils covered in red, yellow and blue flowers and birds, to the “white-mourning” costume of Csököly. White Mourning was once a common practice among medieval European queens as the color of deepest mourning. Some scholars believe that since white cloth needed neither dye nor decoration, it was therefore the most solemn and earnest show of respect for the dead. Others suggest that white mourning was celebratory, the funeral as a festival of life. The lovely medieval tradition of white mourning remains only in the tiny Hungarian village of Csököly. (Though white is still the color of death in much of Asia.)

Rezső Seress often complained of depression. Gloomy Sunday didn’t help. Following the worldwide press of the song that drove people to their deaths, Gloomy Sunday became a hit, covered by more than 40 artists around the globe, in many different languages (including our favorite, Esperanto). But Seress knew he would never write a “hit” like Gloomy Sunday again, and the song hung like a weight around his neck, until his suicide in 1968. He lept from a window from his apartment, shortly after his 69th birthday.

The funeral museum also holds a large collection of the death masks, a plaster cast made of a person’s face after death, of famous Hungarians, many of whom committed suicide themselves. As a fascinating way of preserving life in death, Hungary embraced the art. Death masks were made for a number of different reasons. Before photography, they were made to aid in the painting of portraits of the deceased, or to record the faces of unknown corpses in hopes of eventually identifying them. Sometimes they were cast as mementos of the dead, and in the 17th century, death masks were often used as part of the effigy.

In the “Room of the Last Honour”, a Hungarian death mask is eerily propped up on a coffin, in place of an open casket. Perhaps this is because these inanimate plaster objects somehow seem to retain more of life than the still, closed eyes of a corpse. In Hungary, where death seems a part of the everyday, reminders of life are essential.

Different types of coffins are found in the final room, poetically labeled “The Road’s End.” The grim “plague coffin” had a hinged bottom, so the body could be slipped into the mass grave with minimum contact to the undertaker, and then recycled on the next plague-ridden cadaver. (When Leopold II tried to introduce this novel money-saving invention in Vienna, the people were said to have rioted in the streets.) The room also has a few coffin lids from the mummies found in Vác (just outside of Budapest) in 1994. During renovations of the White Church, a walled up and forgotten crypt was discovered. The crypt held 268 lovingly painted coffins, and naturally mummified bodies, their jewelry and clothes still intact. (For more, see Painted Death.) They were sent into the afterlife with everything they would need, and placed in stunningly painted boxes to travel there in.

The legend of Gloomy Sunday has been hotly debated for years. It seems no one can agree whether it actually led to suicides or whether it was ever even truly banned from airwaves. What is known is that, until recently, Hungary had the highest rate of suicide in the world. And suicide was an almost accepted way out of a bad situation. When Gloomy Sunday was recorded, Hungary was in a deep economic crisis, and had just surrendered over two-thirds of their land following defeat in WWl. The country was poor, broken up, and the fascist party was making its way to the top of politics. Its no wonder that many Hungarians took their own lives, and surely many were found clutching notes with lyrics from Gloomy Sunday scribbled down; it is a beautiful and almost noble picture of suicide. “My heart and I have decided to end it all,” as the last line poetically goes.

The Museum of Piety, the Tribute Museum, or the Funeral Museum is a unique angle of Hungarian ethnography. Funerals, cemeteries, and the deceased have always a part of life, something that unites all humanity. But the small differences and the ways in which people choose to honor their dead is a fascinating way to experience a culture. Hungarians are especially preoccupied with death and can at times seem very “gloomy” indeed to the outsider. Whether the legend of Gloomy Sunday is true or not, there is no debate that it captured the fascination of the country. It was a enormous hit that is still talked about today. Every Hungarian knows the legend. There is something poignant and poetic about a song that drives people to their death, an explanation to the tragedy of suicide that can be so hard to understand.

Listen to Gloomy Sunday (in Hungarian)

View our Funeral Museum Flickr Set