Hidden History of Northwestern Pennsylvania

answers.

INTRODUCTION

Maybe the most important reason for writing is to prevent the erosion of time, so that memories will not be blown away by the wind. Write to register history and name each thing. Write what should not be forgotten.

—Isabelle Allende

It’s quiet here in Northwestern Pennsylvania. You can drive through our lush green hills and valleys as the cicadas sing in the summer, gaze at the bright fall leaves as they drift to earth in the peak of October, taste and touch the seemingly never-ending lake effect snow and peek at fawns emerging from the woods on a dewy May morning. But if you listen closely, you can hear the whispers of our ancestors drift through the breeze and into your ear, begging for you to look harder.

In this book, we will pull back the curtain on the hidden stories that live in our foothills. From the pioneer days of an unfettered wilderness to the hustle and bustle of industrial-era cities and towns, we will explore ghastly murders and terrible tragedies, ghostly books and political revivals. Whether spurting from the ground or arcing through the air on the way to the endzone, the hidden history of Northwestern Pennsylvania is in the details of the lives of people who lived it.

History can often be boiled down into dry events and times, forgetting the beating heart of our collective past: us. Humans are the central line to every story, every piece of hidden history. Each part will dive into a moment in our past that is not widely known. The first explores the horror that can develop in a secluded area of the country where quack doctors, untreated mental illnesses and unexplainable murders splashed across the pages of local newspapers have disappeared into the archives, only to be resurrected once again.

As industry developed and transportation grew, trains became the single most important factor tying disparate communities together across the region. Unscrupulous barons took advantage of the need for speed, allowing accident after accident to claim the lives of countless innocent passengers, horrifying their communities, while ultimately evading justice.

Next, we will step into the more unusual stories of this neck of the woods, including ghosts, asylums and gangs of fire-starters that were almost hanged in public gallows in front of a cheering crowd. As the spirits descended, early Northwestern Pennsylvanians were captivated by their allure, including a few prominent society figures who claimed to commune with the dead.

For a change of pace, the fourth chapter explores a less grisly side of our history: industrialization in steel, toymaking that made children smile for a generation, a Socialist political revival at one of the oldest exposition parks in the country and an immigrant religion that was carried on the backs of the poor to a section of Erie County marked by fields and dirt roads, not unlike the home they left in central Europe. Work, play, politics and worship are unique in Northwestern Pennsylvania, with human stories hiding around every bend.

Although a great deal of this area is known for a thick, dark substance drilled from deep in the earth, another much clearer liquid has a layered history as well. The first commercial oil well was drilled in Titusville in 1859, but mineral water did not wait long to see its own industry innovated in the area. At Cambridge Springs, Pleasantville and Corry, mineral water became the new clear gold, and people flocked to the area to try a sip of the curative waters.

Another cure people hungered for was to treat the litany of illnesses, ailments and diseases with which they were plagued throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. As a result, cures, remedies, liniments" and more cropped up, as concocted by different businesses across the tri-county area. The tonics claimed to help with everything from deadly consumption to rashes and animal ailments. Traveling medicine shows were popular, giving those in the most secluded areas a tie to the world and hope for recovery. Unfortunately for them, rural medicines were usually more show than cure, leaving scores of people still knocking on death’s door.

History is marked by great men. So often forgotten are the great women who shook the world yet were passed over in the written record. The seventh chapter gives voice to the stories of six women—mothers, daughters and granddaughters—who dedicated their lives to changing the status quo in any way they could: a mother and daughter from Warren who used their fortune and sadness-riddled lives to help those in need, a woman and her granddaughter from Erie who were pioneers of African American business and education and a mother and daughter from Girard who used their power to create infrastructure and stand up to none other than the president of the United States. Titans of industry, business and leadership were the women whose hidden histories are illuminated here.

Finally, we dive into a fun and inspirational set of hidden stories that call to some of our innermost drives at competition and adrenaline: sports. From the story of how the most famous award in college football finds its roots in the backyards of coopers in Titusville to an African American baseball team that showed the community why equality was essential and a racehorse that no one believed in and yet soared to new heights of triumph, Northwestern Pennsylvania guards no shortage of stories that will get your pulse pounding en route to victory.

Throughout each of these stories, you will glimpse what it was like to live in one of the most rural areas of Penn’s Woods during multiple periods of boom and bust. These hidden histories allow you to live with your ancestors through times of soaring triumph and heartbreaking sorrow. By exploring our hidden history, we add color and shape to the vast picture of the past we collectively share. Our history is living and breathing. It never stopped existing simply because we forgot it was there. So, step inside, let your eyes adjust and visit the hidden history of Northwestern Pennsylvania.

CHAPTER 1

HORROR, BLOODSHED AND MURDER IN PENN’S WOODS

THE JENNINGS HORROR

Mary Jennings was a sweet fifteen-year-old girl who was going to school and growing up quietly in the Northwestern Pennsylvania countryside until her life was viciously taken, to the shock and dismay of the entire region, in February 1876.

Miss Jennings was a perfectly healthy young woman when a man came to town and professed her to be ill and in need of treatment at once. J.S. Osborn declared that she was afflicted with blood cancer and must be immediately treated, to the surprise of her family and friends. The Titusville Herald noted, "She was a young girl just merging into womanhood, and was troubled with those disabilities incident to her age, such as occasional headache, pain in the stomach, nervousness and a general feeling of unrest. The symptoms were physiological or natural, and therefore required no medical interference. It is only necessary that they should have attended to her sanitary or hygenic [sic] condition to recover her in the process of time to the natural functions of her womanhood."

In layman’s terms, Mary was entering puberty, getting some teenage acne and starting her period. However, Osborn was about to make sure Mary would never see the end of her teenage years.

As treatment for her affliction, the doctor applied a corrosive salve to her skin—bichloride of mercury. The compound created horrific blisters across her entire body, from her neck to the base of her spine. Osborn also rubbed it on her face and hair. Mary’s entire body began to shed its own skin, sloughing off in pieces and burning her to death from the outside in. Not only did her skin come away from her body, but even her gums, teeth and internal organs began to blister and rupture. The Herald termed her death worse than murder.

Example of a bottle of mercury bichloride, such as that killed young Mary Jennings. Splarka, Wikimedia Commons.

The Herald reporter went on to say that there has never been a more cruel, relentless or appalling death than that which overtook this innocent and estimable young lady, who with her body rotted to the bones died in unendurable agony, on her hands and knees, calling on her God to kill her and relieve her from the most excruciating suffering. Crucifixion is considered to be one of the most painful deaths and has been ostracized by all civilized nations, but it is nothing compared with the death of Mary Jennings. The former takes but few hours to destroy life, but the latter took three weeks of agony utterly indescribable by human pen.

Three weeks it took poor Mary Jennings to succumb to her horrific injuries. And she was not the only victim.

The Herald found out that Osborn was not a real doctor, but a quack who posed as a medical professional and preyed on a variety of communities across Northwestern Pennsylvania. Upon investigating, the paper uncovered that he also inflicted his hideous compound on other people across the region. A woman from Sugar Creek was dying at the same time as Mary Jennings from being mutilated by Osborn. The previous October, Osborn had also applied his liniment to a woman named Mrs. Hancox and her two sons. Before treating them, Osborn bled Hancox to the point of fainting and then applied the mercury across her back. He then did the same to her two sons. Fortunately, these three victims did not die due to timely intervention by a true medical professional, Dr. George Barr.

Osborn was eventually caught in Dempseytown and tried on February 9, 1876. He was imprisoned, but unfortunately his imprisonment was not permanent. The October 5, 1876 edition of the Herald reported that Osborn was able to flee his jail cell by applying the same corrosive compound of mercury that he used on people to the iron bars of his cell. The compound melted the bars and he escaped. If his mercury could melt iron bars, imagine the atrocities it wrought on human skin.

Thankfully, Osborn would not escape justice altogether. After fleeing jail, he landed in Kentucky, where he found himself in a fight with a man whom he ended up killing. That Kentucky town hanged Osborn a few days later. The devil himself should fear Osborn, people said, because his medicine was more destructive than the fires of hell.

Mary Jennings would not live to see her sixteenth year, but eight months later, her murderer would not live to torture another innocent soul.

THE SEPTEMBER OF BLOODSHED

A Horrible Cutting Affair

Despite the constant reports of violence we are inundated with every day, we live in a low-violence society compared to the 1800s in the Oil Region. In particular, September 1874 saw a rash of violent acts committed in Northwestern Pennsylvania.

On Monday, September 7, 1874, a woman identified only as Mrs. Henderson of Concord Township (located between Corry and Spartansburg) bludgeoned her husband with an axe. Apparently, axe murders were not all that uncommon in the Corry area, since only two years earlier, in 1872, a railroad worker named James Nevins beheaded Hugh Donnelly, a man escorting him to see a doctor in Titusville, while they were boarded in the Corry jailhouse for the night.

Regarding the murder of Mr. Henderson by his wife, the Titusville Morning Herald reported, A horrible cutting affair occurred yesterday near Concord, Erie County. It seems that there lives a little south of Concord a man by the name of John Henderson, who is intemperate, and between him and his wife serious quarrels often occur. Clearly, another theme in these violent events was drink—often the drunkenness of the husband was a factor in either the wife being murdered or committing murder.

The article goes on: Some time yesterday the neighbors observed the woman leaving the house in a hurry, and supposed, as usual, a family jar had transpired. In the course of an hour, two women passing found Mr. Henderson lying on the ground near the house weltering in his gore, his head dreadfully gashed—the brain protruding, speechless though conscious. The early days of oil probably conjure many images in your mind, but men lying in the street with their brains spilling out is likely not one of them. Northwestern Pennsylvania of the 1800s was a bit ghastlier than we prefer to imagine it.

Later, Mrs. Henderson was caught attempting to flee. She recounted the event to the police as follows: She says her husband came home and she got him something to eat, that he went and got his razor and then sat down to the table but soon requested her to take the razor and cut his throat. Upon her refusal, he threatened to cut her throat and started for her with an apparent intention of putting his threat in execution. She fled, and just outside the door he overtook her, when she, in self-defense, seized an axe and dealt her husband blows to the head, which felled him to the ground. She stoutly insists that she acted in self-defense.

The Herald took the position that Mrs. Henderson was lying and had attacked her husband during one of their perennial fights. The paper said her recounting of the event was riddled with strong improbabilities.

On Saturday September 19, 1874, John Henderson died. The next day, a jury was called to decide whether Mrs. Henderson should be taken into custody. She was arrested on Monday morning and taken to jail. However, the intrigue did not end there.

The October 3, 1874 edition of the Herald reported that Mrs. Henderson died, a scant two weeks after her husband succumbed to his wounds. It gives no context or story regarding her death. The announcement is included in a small section called Navigating Around the Circle with a slew of other local updates. Mrs. Henderson was never even given a first name in the papers.

So, was drink to blame? Spousal abuse? Or did Mrs. Henderson just snap and kill her husband? Had she planned it and cooked up a story to (unsuccessfully) cover her tracks? The world will never know. But the September of Bloodshed was not over in Northwestern Pennsylvania.

A Deed of Blood

On a typical Thursday morning in Venango County on the southern end of Northwestern Pennsylvania, an act of horrific violence was perpetrated by a mother against her children with seemingly no provocation or motivation. The next day, the Titusville Morning Herald was emblazoned with the headline A Deed of Blood—A Partly Deranged Woman Attempts to Brain Her Daughter with a Hatchet and Not Succeeding Drowns Herself in a Well—A Terrible and Sickening Recital.

Thursday, September 20, 1874, started like any other morning for the Belser family in Rouseville, Pennsylvania.