Forgotten News

by Jack Finney

  He was one of the first to order a 40-million-year-old fossil from Long Island City (for $45). Now you can make him the very first to own his own

  KEY AND BUTTON-HOOK RACKS

  Rolling-pins of all sizes, from the toy pin of a few inches to the ordinary kitchen size, can be utilized for making key-racks. Gild and otherwise decorate the rolling-pin; insert brass hooks at regular intervals and suspend by bright ribbons.

  From Bloomingdale's you've got him "patio loungers"; from Saks, a $30 fur-lined single boot for warming both feet at football games; but you're still missing his big gift. Make it an inkstand and paperweight Executive Desk Set.

  INKSTAND

  Into the center of a toy row-boat fit a small glass inkstand. Fasten a couple of brass hooks on each side as pen-racks. The bow and stern of the boat can be used for holding stamps and loose pens. The boat can be left plain or may be decorated, according to taste.

  FLAT-IRON PAPERWEIGHT

  Cover the face of a common flat-iron with plush, cut an inch larger all around than the size of the iron. Fasten on the thermometer—(which can be bought at a slight expense)—as indicated in the engraving; stitch a narrow piece of plush at the lower end of the iron, turning down the upper edge and stitching in three sections for postage-stamp pockets. Paint or embroider a few flowers on the face of the plush. Before covering the rim, glue upon it a layer of cotton, sprinkled with sachet powder. Draw the plush smoothly over the cotton, and glue over the inner edge of the iron. Cover the inner edge with plush, and gild or paint in black such part of the handle or iron as is not covered with plush.

  Jack Finney, author of "Time and Again," has drawn on St. Nicholas Monthly of 1875 for this Christmas list.

  Originally published in The New York Times, December 18, 1970

  When Felony Had Style

  Top left, burglars' key nippers for unlocking a door from the outside.

  Top right, burglars' diamond-pointed crank drill for drilling through safes.

  Above, burglars' powder can, funnel, powder blower and fuse.

  I complain, Mayor Lindsay, not that crime in New York has increased but that its quality has deteriorated. And to that I offer the testimony of Thomas Byrnes, famous nineteenth-century head of the New York cops, one of the first to publish photographs with dossiers—of what must have been some of his favorite crooks and methods. Even routine burglars were craftsmen then, often ingeniously designing their own tools, which Inspector Byrnes shows us (almost proudly, I think). And if one thing didn't work, something else was bound to.

  As for the people who committed the crimes that made Byrnes's life so full, there is John Larney, for example, below at the left. He won his alias as a small, sweet-faced boy who disguised himself as a match girl, attended a big outdoor New York shindig, and picked $2,000 worth of pockets. Came the Civil War, and he patriotically enlisted, not once but 93 times, collecting a cash bonus for each. Later, in prison, his eyesight tragically failing, he was given freedom of the jailyard, and climbed the wall, regaining liberty and eyesight simultaneously.

  left: John Larney, alias Mollie Matches, Bank Sneak and Burglar; right: Horace Hoven, alias Little Horace, Bank Sneak

  The man beside him, Horace Hovan, would register at a hotel with his wife, then hire a carriage and driver a day or so later. His brother, who looked very like him, and whose voice and mannerisms were identical, would appear, and with a pleasant word for all take Horace's wife for a drive. Meanwhile, Horace Vas busy distracting a bank clerk, and helping himself to a handful of cash from the till. "Horace Hovan," said Inspector Byrnes, "is without doubt one of the smartest bank sneaks in the world."

  James Lee, below at left, is apparently still in the customhouse uniform he wore when rapping at the doors of New York houses. A "package from Europe" had arrived, he'd say, and $9.98 was due; never more or less. The lady of the house got a receipt good for the package at the custom house. While waiting Lee would sometimes sit down at piano or organ, says Byrnes, and play, "Nearer, my God, to Thee."

  left: James Lee, Bogus Custom House Collector; right: Hugh L. Courtenay, alias Lord Courteney, Swindler

  The man beside Lee is "Lord Courteney, the bogus British nobleman, well known in New York. He was "34 . . . born in England . . . slim . . . six-foot-two . . . dark hair, heavy eyes . . . And in the Royal Navy uniform he is wearing here, he not only conned New Yorkers and others out of wads of cash, but "delighted and infatuated the young ladies" who cut his uniform buttons off for souvenirs.

  Dave Cummings, below at left, became fascinated with the sight of a safe standing in a pool of light each night behind the glass door of a well-known jewelry store. Dave made a fine-looking duplicate, switched it with the real safe, which he trundled to the back room, and relieved of $100,000 in diamonds and jewelry, not a nickel ever recovered.

  left: Dave Cummings, alias Hogan, Hotel Thief; right: Joseph Lewis, alias Hungry Joe, Banco

  The modern-looking fellow, above at right, was a "terrible talker," says Byrnes. He must have been, because he charmed no less than Oscar Wilde, who was visiting the States. For a week they were chums, lunching and dining together at the famous Brunswick Hotel. The friendship broke up when Hungry Joe conned Oscar out of $5,000, which Oscar paid with a rubber check.

  left: Sophie Lyons, alias Levy, Pickpocket and Blackmailer; right: Louisa Jourdan, alias Little Louise, Pickpocket and Shop Lifter

  Okay, Women's Lib, okay! Sophie Lyons "blackmailed scores of businessmen" by somehow persuading them to remove their clothes, playfully hiding them, then selling them back for prices like $10,000. When one stubborn man got back his clothes, and left without paying, good old Sophie "made a daily practice of sitting on a horse-block in front of the residence of one of her Grand Rapids, Mich. victims, who was a very prominent man. He got rid of Mrs. Lyons by turning the hose on her, and pounding an unfortunate theatrical agent who espoused her quarrel."

  "Little Louise," "ladylike in manner and appearance," went to Brazil as companion to a rich Spanish woman, stole the lady's diamonds, was caught, given forty lashes and had the bottom of her right ear cut off. She got a new hair-do, covering her ears, and became "one of the smartest female pickpockets in this country."

  left: Franklin J. Moses, alias Ex. Gov. Moses, Swindler; right: Edward Fairbrother, alias Doctor West, Hotel Thief

  Byrnes even had an ex-Governor of South Carolina to watch out for, and a graduate of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, Edward Fairbrother. He had an M.D. degree, spoke five languages, came to New York to practice medicine and, he said, "I had no disposition for crime. But time's whirligig turned me up a criminal; and I fought hard against it, too." Losing the fight, however, he—what? Snatched an old lady's pocketbook? Robbed a pay phone? No, sir, John V. L., not a gent like this; he stole $6,000 in diamonds from the residence of the Mayor of New York.

  Jack Finney, author of "Time and Again," is in love with Old New York.

  The burglars' tools are from Helen Campbell's "Darkness and Daylight or Lights and Shadows of New York Life," published in 1897. The portraits are from "Professional Criminals of America," by Thomas Byrnes, published in 1886.

  Originally published in The New York Times, February 5, 1971

  Getting It Right This Time

  Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, April 27, 1878/New York Public Library

  An in-depth survey conducted among three New York cabdrivers stuck in cross-town traffic, two rush-hour bus passengers and a man coming up out of the subway suggests that a hundred-year-old proposal of Dr, R. H. Gilbert's for an elevated railway might still be worth a try.

  This is how it would have looked if the State Legislature had only listened to the doctor in 1871—and the way it could still look, running the length of upper Park Avenue, maybe, alleviating the Pam Am blight a little, and restoring some of the feeling of grace that street once so gloriously had.

  Carefully following the doctor's plan, we'd "place along the street at distances of from fifty to one
hundred feet compound Gothic iron arches which shall span the street from curb to curb at such an elevation as shall not interfere with the ordinary use of the streets [mostly waiting for the lights to change]. The gaslights [and let's not change that] will be supported on the ornamental columns, which take the place of lampposts, and the telegraph wires will be carried on the arches, so that the streets may be relieved of much which now encumbers them. The arches are strongly connected with each other by means of a vertical, latticed or trussed girder running between the tubular ways, which are to be firmly joined to it on either side by ties of suitable construction. Through the tubes . . . cars carrying passengers are to be propelled by atmospheric power [no pollution!]. There is also provision in the same set of arches for two or more sets of tubes for the transportation of mails and packages (speeding up current local delivery schedules by at least several days). The stations will be situated at distances of about one mile apart along the line, and will be provided with pneumatic elevators . . .

  ". . . The motor being air, there is no fire-carrying engine to explode . . . No collisions can occur, and it is impossible for the cars to get off the track. In no way can passengers . . . be precipitated into the streets beneath . . . This railroad being a covered way, cannot be obstructed by snow or ice, or by the action of the elements . . .

  ". . . the inventor promises to transport through passengers the whole length of the island in a maximum of twenty minutes, and he personally believes that the time would be little more than half of even that short period.

  "The enterprise can be brought to running order in six months, and its cost is estimated at a figure far below that of other schemes now before the public."

  What more could we ask? Dr. Gilbert was no idle dreamer but a qualified engineer. So what are we waiting for? Probably we'd have to wait for what Dr. Gilbert had to wait for, the Legislature. He and Manhattan waited another half dozen years after his 1871 proposal, and what they finally got, of course, wasn't soaring Gothic arches or nice clean atmospheric propulsion. The corner-cutting financiers in silk hats gave them utilitarian right angles and more pollution.

  Jack Finney is author of the novels "Marion's Wall" and "Time and Again."

  Originally published in The New York Times, June 11, 1973

  Man's First Flight: Over Manhattan. 1876

  Attached to what looks like a pair of flying ironing-boards in the Smithsonian, is a sign identifying it as man's first flying machine. Well, maybe. But could it be at least possible that the thing in the picture above, nutty-looking but no more so than the Wright brothers' contraption, is the real one? That it actually flew across the skies of New York a hundred years ago?

  Well, the picture was published in a New York newspaper of December, 1876, and the accompanying story said, calmly enough, that yes, it did, "Mr. W. J. Lewis, of New York City, has invented a flying machine," it begins, "which scientific gentlemen pronounce a decided wonder, and which is the forerunner of an apparatus with which he promises to attain a speed through the air of at least one hundred miles an hour." There follow detailed specifications of how the thing is built and works, and then, electrifyingly, "During a formal test Mr. Lewis directed his machine at various angles, and in all instances it flew"—flew!—"straight in the direction pointed."

  Back to those specifications: They do have a certain plausibility, they're packed with such solid information as, "Running through the entire length of the frame is a shaft connecting with and communicating the power to the different propellors. The shaft of the rear propeller is connected with the main shaft by a universal joint. . . . Situated near the center of gravity are a pair of movable planes, slightly convex-concave, one on either side, which are used to guide the machine up or down. . .

  Back to the picture, too. In spite of the boxcar-like appendage, maybe Mr. Lewis's machine isn't quite so nutty-looking at second glance. Look at the frame, obviously designed for lightness. And what does that strange downward angle at the rear suggest but the helicopter we thought we'd invented. Could it be, could it possibly be that ... ?

  Joe Lippert Jr. says yes, it could. Who's he? A designer for Grumman Aerospace Corporation. A good one? Well, Robert S. Mullaney of Grumman says he is "one of the most imaginative aerodynamicists and designers since da Vinci. . . And in a report headed, "The Lewis Flying Machine of 1876," aircraft designer Lippert says* "It is believed that such a device . . . could make short flights since it is indicated to have the necessary lifting forces, and arrangement of forces to provide longitudinal stability, directional and roll control."

  Wow! Those specifications actually make sense to one of Grumman's ace designers! He continues, "From the description and illustration a 'modern9 equivalent [note the qualification of 'modern'] may be sketched as follows:

  [Several words seem to be missing from the NYT Archive scan here - Ed.] hand; both the Lewis machine and a "modern" helicopter with the same familiar downward angle to the rear ... and identical placements of propellers and lift surfaces, "The counter rotating lifting propellers," his report breathtakingly continues, "would reduce the overturning torque, but there would be some residual torque. . . " Well, what the hell; maybe Lewis's machine twisted a little, so what? "The downward inclination of the rear portion of the fuselage is interesting since this results in a thrust inclination of the rear thrusting propeller which produces a stabilizing influence. This principle is still in use today . . .

  "... A minor exception or defect in the design could be the placement of the 'rudder' in the forward position. Some early pioneers did however fly aircraft with forward surfaces. ... It is concluded that... a similar model today... could fly and be controllable."

  So—sorry, Orville. It does look as though — when you Were five, and brother was nine — W. J. Lewis of New York City beat you to the wire by a good quarter of a century.

  But how could this incredible truth have been forgotten? Along with aviation's true pioneer? Actually, it's not hard to understand. The nineteenth century took "progress" for granted, and stunning inventions in its stride. No soothsayer of the time ever failed to predict twentieth-century skies filled with flying machines. So what happened after W. J. sent his machine twisting and torquing across Manhattan's skies in 1876? People just weren't a bit surprised; they'd been expecting it. Probably wondering why it had taken so long. And then, what with one thing and another, they got busy, and it just slipped the nineteenth-century's mind.

  The news story on man's first successful flying machine concludes, "Before the introduction of steam as a power in aerial navigation [the one in our picture, the story says, was propelled by "a huge watch spring"], Mr. Lewis proposes to construct a boat with pedals, and by the use of his own strength will attempt a journey to Philadelphia, being quite ready to take any moderate wager that he will reach that city within half an hour from the time of starting."

  You see? He got sidetracked. And presently people forgot. Otherwise we might have Remembered the Maine with bombs dropped from steam-driven helicopters. Maybe, incredibly, Lewis aced Philadelphia and never came back. One thing we can be sure of: A man like W.J. Lewis didn't lose that bet; he probably pedaled to Philadelphia in half an hour without raising a sweat. And then — what if he did build that steam-driven model? And was lost in the Pacific twenty years before Amelia Earhart was born. In any case, the Smithsonian ought to amend that sign, changing Kitty Hawk to Manhattan. Or at the very least, add a question mark.

  Jack Finney is author of the novel "Time and Again."

  Originally published in The New York Times, August 1, 1973

  Esprit de Postal Corp.

  The clerks and city carriers singing Auld Lang Syne previous to the delivery of the last local mail

  Is it possible that Manhattan's faltering postal service would be improved by a Christmas present from he Postal Corporation to itself? It would arrive long after Christmas, of course, but we're all used to that. The present would simply be a change of scene for Post Office personnel
, and it might work wonders—it did once before.

  For thirty years, and who but the Post Office would think of this, the main post office of Manhattan was an abandoned church. "Looking down from what was formerly the gallery of the old church," says an account of the time, which was 1875, "there appeared bands of Post Office employees working like gnomes by flickering gaslight in the cave-like body of the building . . . It isn't true that they're still there along with some overdue mail of yours, because, "All of New York rejoiced when the announcement was made that the Post Office was at last to be located in an edifice worthy of the Metropolis . . .

  "The Carriers' Department was the first to leave the old building. Forming in line, and singing 'Auld Lang Syne,' they filed out . . . while the remaining employees of the Post Office and the crowd which had gathered to witness the scene cheered uproariously. The carriers, still singing, marched up Nassau Street, to the new Post Office . . .

  The distributing clerks taking their departure for their new quarters.

  "At 10:30 o'clock, the distributing clerks . . . filed down the stairs from the gallery, and out of the building on the Liberty Street side, where they were met by a drum corps consisting of two fifes, four snare and one brass drum, and, forming in procession in the middle of the street, marched" to the new Post Office, "to the tune of the drums. Every man in the procession bore some trophy of his past labors and future intentions, in the form of a bottle of ink, a high stool, a paper box, an article of clothing, or something which he had been in the habit of using in his daily duties in the old building, and which he was loath to part with, now that he was about to enter the new. At the head of the procession was carried the ensign of the squad, composed of a piece of white muslin . . . with the letters P. O. in black ink. The procession was received with loud cheers on its march . . .