Physically weak, extremely shy and introverted, Lord John Bentinck, Marquis of Titchfield, isolated himself in his family’s London home. With the death of his father in 1854, the Marquis became the 5th Duke of Portland and owner of the ancestral estates, including Welbeck Abbey. He did not attend his father’s funeral. A newspaper account stated his absence was due to illness. When his mother died, he did not attend her funeral, either. Again the explanation was illness. Initially, he considered refusing the title because of the responsibilities that came with it; three years passed before he took the oath. He let Welbeck Abbey sit idle for nearly ten years while he lived in London. It was a quirky mystery, but his eccentricities seemed harmless enough. He had his newspapers ironed before being handed to him. He demanded that his money be washed and polished before he would touch it. He insisted that cabbies drive in a circle to prove they could manage the horses before he would board. He did not like sunlight—perhaps because of his skin problems. He ordered over 500 wigs and fake beards to hide behind anytime duties forced him to meet someone. In his only known photograph—and it is disputed it is of him—he has a ridiculously thick, full beard and a wig hiding all but his eyes. He tied his pants at the ankles in the manner of common day labors and not in the manner of a proper gentleman. He ordered sets of clothes in different sizes so he could wear his clothing in layers. He continued to wear heavy coats in the summer and he always had that umbrella ready to spring open. His quirks were innocent and fine entertainment for Londoners who enjoyed talking about the crazy Duke of Portland. In 1864—an important year in our narrative—he left London and returned to Welbeck Abbey intending to undertake a major renovation. Locals laughed behind his back that his planned “improvements” were senseless, but they loved him anyway, as he spent his vast inheritance to hire thousands of locals—skilled and unskilled, it didn’t matter—for the massive never-ending building projects at his estate. He had a lake drained, then refilled. Repeatedly. He basically destroyed the magnificent Abbey in the name of continual renovation. First, he placed antiques and family heirlooms in storage and had the large manor home stripped of everything, pictures, furniture, draperies… everything. Next, he had all the walls of the empty manor painted pink. The floors were parquet, at least in part for it each time a floor neared completion he would order it pulled up and done over. Then he sealed off all but five rooms in the western wing. These rooms were his “home”, access strictly forbidden anyone but his personal valet. At least one room was used to store the antiques. Another was used to store boxes of wigs, beards and silk handkerchiefs. The latter had a variety of embroidered initials that didn’t fit the names of anyone in Lord John’s family or circle. In each room a bare toilet had been installed without partitions or privacy. Other than the valet, all servants and workers were forbidden to interact with him. Indeed, all others were forbidden to even look at him. He had a trap door in the floor built so that if someone needed to enter any of his five rooms, he could hide under the floor until they were gone. His valet said weeks would pass without anyone, including him, seeing the duke. The valet knew he was there only because his food was being eaten. The food was always the same: a roasted chicken. He would eat half in the morning and the remainder in the evening, his only two meals. Carrying shyness to the absolute extreme, Lord John tried to make himself invisible. Issuing instructions in handwritten notes left in trays outside his door, he ordered all insignia, names, coats of arms, anything that might identify him, removed from his carriages and other belongings. He ordered construction of heated stables housing over 100 horses. The walls and stables were pink. He ordered construction of a huge riding house, 400 feet long, over 100 feet wide and 50 feet high, heated with over 4,000 gas jets. The interior broke the miles of pink walls. Instead, mirrors lined the walls producing depths of endless reflections. Despite the grand structures, he never went horseback riding. He ordered construction of England’s largest roller skating rink. But he never went roller skating. He ordered construction of an outstanding observatory with a glass roof and large telescope. But he never used it. He ordered construction of over 15 miles of tunnels under his estate. They were engineering marvels, in places wide enough for two carriages to pass. Some had skylights and all were illuminated by a gas lighting system. He had all the walls painted pink. There was no logical reason for the tunnels. Some were a secret underground maze. The tunnel that led to the train depot ran almost directly under the gravel road that led to the front doors of Welbeck Abby. What purpose the tunnels served no one knew. And while it would have been easier and less expensive to construct buildings on the surface, Lord John insisted most be built underground. He ordered construction of an underground 10,000 square foot ballroom with pink walls. He never went dancing, and the ballroom was never used. He ordered construction of an underground library. He never read any of the books. He ordered construction of a large underground billiards room. He never used it. He ordered the construction of an underground rail system that linked all the buildings on his estate. The system was elaborate with heated rail cars and other luxurious accommodations but it was used primarily—so far as is known—to transport roasted chicken from the kitchen to a dumbwaiter that Lord John could pull into his sealed room without interacting with anyone. In addition to the dumbwaiter, he ordered construction of a hydraulic elevator system capable moving twenty people at a time into and out of the tunnels. It was never used during his lifetime. For exercise, the Duke would go for walks in the dark woods after midnight. By most accounts, a female servant would carry a lantern with instructions to remain 20 yards in front of him and to never look back. Another account claims he walked alone with the lantern attached to his belt. Despite his skin ailments, Lord John repeatedly refused to allow a doctor to examine him. He conducted nearly all his business by mail. On the rare occasions he had to go to London in person for business, he would put on three layers of shirts, two overcoats with large turned up collars, a wig, a tall hat and as always he would carry an umbrella that he hid behind if anyone got too near. He would pull the shades of his carriage and secure them so tightly no one could peek in. At the depot, so he wouldn’t have to leave the security of his carriage, a crane would lift the entire carriage onto the train. Once in London, the process was reversed, and when he arrived at Harcourt House in Cavendish Square he would order the sidewalks and entrances cleared, and the servants had to keep their backs to him as he dashed down the hall to his office. Once, when a worker tipped his hat at him, Lord John had him fired immediately. He was supposed to be invisible. Toward the end of his life he fell completely silent. No one heard him speak, evidently not even his valet. Hence, the nickname “Prince of Silence”. Rumors tried to explain the quirky mystery of his behavior. It was said he had a physical deformity that left him impotent. Indeed, the rumor had a kernel of truth; there survive records of a childhood accident that doctors said would leave him unable to have children. Or maybe he was hideously ugly; some whispered he had been scarred by smallpox. Again, recalling his skin disease, the rumor was not entirely false. Darker rumors circulated and caught the attention of authorities in London. That he had murdered his brother or was perhaps a serial killer, persisted. One claimed there was a dead body in a glass box atop Harcourt House. Police investigated, found the glass box and declared it an observatory for watching the night sky. Another rumor claimed that the Lord John who hid his face was an imposter. The real Lord John, the quirky recluse, was actually living in a private insane asylum in Richmond and his powerful family was maintaining an elaborate sham to protect the dukedom. A simple check with the asylum proved the rumor false but it wouldn’t die; it merely morphed: Lord John was in the asylum under an assumed name. The rumors just kept getting more and more ridiculous until the most preposterous one actually landed in court. In 1878 Walter Druce and his wife Anna Marie were riding in a carriage in Castle Hill when they spotted his father walking along the street with another gentleman. It was an extraordinary sighting because his father had been dead for fourteen years. At about the same time, the Duke of Portland, heavily bundled in his sealed carriage, was moving out of Welbeck Abbey to resume permanent residence in London. He would never return. These two seemingly unrelated events launch our very quirky mystery.
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Mystery aficionados are probably familiar with the bizarre story of Lord John Bentinck, the 5th Duke of Portland. Our re-telling will be the basic story. That provides ample quirkiness, but it can also be convoluted and confusing, leading in the end to a strange death, at least two people in mental hospitals as well as a couple of others who probably should have been, and claims of an empty casket, all of which makes Lord John’s story such fertile ground for mystery writers. In Part One we will simply set the stage. In Part Two we will discuss quirky John Bentinck and in the final installments we will unfold the strange mystery. Part One: The Quirky Background England has produced countless eccentric noblemen but it is doubtful any were as strange as the “Prince of Silence”. William John Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck had a very impressive political pedigree and since that may have contributed to his unusual behavior, we’ll begin by looking at the significance of his name. Even that is subject to controversy, as we shall see. All his brothers were named William, hence each went by his second name. John, the second of three sons, was born (1800) to William Bentinck, fourth Duke of Portland, whose own father and father-in-law had each served as Prime Minister of Great Britain. John’s mother was Henrietta Scott, whose brother-in-law had also served as Prime Minister of Great Britain. John was also the brother-in-law of Evelyn Denison, 1st Viscount Ossington, who served as Speaker of the House of Commons during fifteen important years of John’s life. Obviously, Lord John was a member of an enormously powerful and influential political family. How it helped him, or hurt him, or hid him is part of the mystery. John’s fraternal side appears for the most part socially and psychologically normal. It is on John’s maternal side that a few cracks start to appear. Henrietta’s father was famed military officer General John Scott, whose nickname “Pawky” was Scots for “a shrewd, devious trickster”. An accomplished soldier and Member of Parliament for over twenty years, General Scott spent his inheritance gambling. Ordinarily we would write “squandered his inheritance gambling” but let’s not forgot the general’s nickname. He won, time and again. He claimed to have built a fortune of over £500,000 strictly through gambling. That is the modern equivalent of 60 million pounds or 82 million dollars. General Scott had one of the more famous gambling wins of the 19th century when he won over a million dollars in a game of whist. General Scott married twice. His first marriage ended when his bride eloped with another man during the honeymoon. His second marriage was to Margaret Dundas, daughter of the famous Judge Robert Dundas. Henrietta was their first child, named after Margaret’s mother. Henrietta had a reputation for repetitious quirkiness that modern psychologists would likely call autism. A cruel joke claimed the Fourth Duke of Portland married her as a consequence of a lost bet with her father; however, nothing suggests it was not a normal arranged marriage typical of the noble classes. Henrietta birthed seven children. (Some sources say nine.) None of the boys married, which gave rise to claims the Bentincks were woman haters, but John Bentinck couldn’t form relationships with anyone. We know that as a child John was shy and awkward. Something of a “mama’s boy”, he tended to hide behind Henrietta’s skirts. He also endured a sickly childhood; he was variously described as “frail” or “fragile”. He had a skin disease that periodically erupted in painful blisters that plagued him throughout life. Perhaps those are the reasons Henrietta insisted her son John be educated at home. So far as is known, John never attended a formal school. His first real excursion beyond his mother came in his teens when he attempted to fulfill the requirement of military service. His service was undistinguished. He was dismissed for “lethargy” in 1823. His quirks became evident. He expressed the desire to be invisible. He started wearing several layers of shirts. He wore heavy fur coats in the heat of summer. He wore wigs. It was as though he was trying to insulate himself from the world. He carried an umbrella that he would open to hide behind if anyone who got too close to him. A year later his older brother died and John became the Marquess of Titchfield. The title made him a Member of Parliament, but he had no interest in politics and intensely disliked being seen by others. Instead of public appearances, he preferred to deal with matters that he couldn’t ignore via correspondence. This led Sir William Foulkes to mock him: “He is a perfect stranger to you; you have never seen him and perhaps you never will see him; and I must say that had it not been for that most useful work ‘The Peerage’ I should never have known that such a person existed.” Again citing ill health, John resigned from Parliament, giving his valuable seat to an uncle. His father was livid, called him a failure, and publicly expressed the wish that his younger brother George could inherit the dukedom of Portland. That’s almost like saying he wished John dead. John moved out of Welbeck Abbey to take up residence in the family’s London home, Harcourt House. He had a high brick wall built around it to keep out prying eyes. Two important events occurred that further contributed to his quirkiness. The first was a failed love affair. He became infatuated with the beautiful opera singer Adelaide Kemble, member of the famous Kemble family of actors. She achieved such fame in England that she was invited to study under the world’s greatest soprano of the time, Giuditta Pasta in Italy. John followed her like a love sick puppy as she toured the continent to great acclaim. He may have been present when Adelaide hosted the famous composer and pianist Frederick Chopin in London. He hired a portraitist to sit in his private booth in the opera house and “capture her features from every angle”. The artist produced twelve paintings of Adelaide without her knowing. There is no indication that she ever returned his affections; indeed, her biographies don’t even mention him. She married Edward John Sartoris and their son, Algernon Charles Frederick Sartoris married Nellie Grant, daughter of U.S. President Ulysses Grant in a lavish White House ceremony. When Lord John learned of her marriage, he turned all her portraits to face the wall and sent an urgent message for the artist to take them back. The artist arrived to find Lord John curled up in a corner crying. The second crisis occurred when his younger brother George died. An extrovert who enjoyed the rowdy life, George, like his grandfather, was a gambler. His specialty was horse racing. He won over a million dollars (today’s dollar) and had several prominent people in debt to him. He headed a group to revise the rules of horse racing and betting which gained him such fame that he was appointed to several important government posts and seemed positioned to follow his father and ancestors in politics. One night, while walking to a friend’s house for dinner, he disappeared. A day later a search party found him dead on the side of the road. Although medical officials weren’t sure whether the cause of death was stroke or heart attack, they ruled it was a natural death. Nevertheless, rumors spread rapidly that he had been poisoned or had died of a gunshot wound, either via suicide or murder. Several eyewitnesses came forward who claimed they saw George and John walking together on the road near the spot George’s body had been found. Rumors lingered that the Marquis had murdered his brother. Was he an sickly, broken-hearted hermit; a coward hiding from vicious rumors; a lunatic babbling nonsense in the dark recesses of a manor; or did he perhaps have some ulterior motive for hiding? Might he have been as “pawky” as his brother George and his maternal grandfather? We’ll examine his quirkiness in Part Two. Until then… be sure to check out the art from all of our quirky but completely sane artists! What do you think of when you think of Puritans? The three most likely answers are Thanksgiving, a religion of dark dresses and bonnets, and witch trials. One person was known to have been at that first Thanksgiving who lived long enough to play a role in the Salem witch trials seventy years later, but he was not exactly a Puritan himself. The quirky American story of Richard More is well documented thanks to his father and grandfather, neither of whom ever set foot in the New World. The tale began in early seventeenth century Shropshire England when the only son of Jasper More died in a duel. In accordance with the laws of the day, Jasper’s 500 acre estate would go to distant relatives or even strangers because his daughter, Katherine, an unmarried 26 year old, could not inherit the land. His cousin, Richard More, offered a solution: he would give Jasper 200 pounds (roughly $80,000 in today’s currency) and his son Samuel as a husband for Katherine in exchange for Jasper’s estate. Jasper agreed. That kept the land in the family, and got Katherine off his hands. The arrangement was not a happy one for either Samuel or Katherine. Samuel was only sixteen, ten years younger than Katherine, and spent most of his time in London learning a trade. Nevertheless, Katherine had four children in four years. Samuel began to doubt the children were his. They looked, he thought, a lot like one of More’s tenant farmers, a man Katherine’s age named Jacob Blakeway. Samuel formally charged Katherine with adultery. Katherine responded with a shocker: her marriage to Samuel was illegal because she had earlier secretly married Jacob; therefore her children by him were legal. The court rejected Katherine’s defense. Her children were declared illegitimate and taken from her. Samuel had no use for them, and without Katherine knowing it, he put them on the Mayflower, a ship hired to take a group of Puritans to the English colony in northern Virginia. The Puritans accepted the More children—Elinor age 8, Jasper age 7, Richard age 6, and Mary age 5—as their indentured servants. The 66-day journey was brutal. The children spent most of the trip in a hold beneath the deck where they would have eaten insect infested biscuits, used buckets to relieve themselves, and lacked water to bathe. Making conditions in the crowded hold even worse, weather was so bad, and seasickness so common, the sailors mocked their passengers as “Puck-stockings”. Unfriendly winds drove the Mayflower off course, forcing it to drop anchor near Cape Cod. Three of the More children died on board. The sole survivor was six year old Richard. Further up the coast the Pilgrims found an abandoned Native American village, probably the site of a smallpox epidemic. Naming it New Plymouth, the Pilgrims moved in, and the boy Richard, who probably spent that first pitiless winter on the ship, took his place as a servant in the home of William Brewster, the only college educated member of the community and its acknowledged leader. Among the boy’s duties was assisting in the burial of the dead. He most certainly was present at that first Thanksgiving. Richard was fourteen when his indenture to Brewster ended. He apprenticed with Isaac Allerton, a fisherman and sea captain who transported supplies from England to the colonists. Within ten years Richard himself had become a sea captain. Only twenty-four and well-respected, he made his base home in Salem, married, and for a while joined the church there.
From here his story becomes more controversial and depends on how the facts are read. We know he gained a reputation for hard drinking and causing trouble. He had several wives in different ports, and was at least once charged with adultery, which got him excommunicated. On the positive side, he was certainly a naval hero. When he learned a settlement on Cape Fear was starving because no ship could reach them through stormy, rocky waters, he volunteered to try to get through with supplies. Despite the odds against crashing waves, he succeeded and literally saved the colonists. He participated in several naval battles against the French, and was honored for having never lost a ship. When a close friend was murdered, he adopted his three children. He also had eight legitimate children of his own. The number of illegitimate ones is unknown. When he retired from the seas, he opened a tavern in Salem. Among his best friends was the Reverend Nicholas Noyes who launched the Salem witch trials. Richard provided testimony about the drunken behaviors he had seen from his tavern patrons. His eye-witness accounts sent at least two men to the gallows. Reverend Noyes turned against Richard and charged him with a variety of immoral deeds. Rather than risk death, Richard confessed and did a public penance for several weeks. Whether viewed as a scoundrel or a hero, Richard More, member of that first Thanksgiving, was certainly a quirky character. And if all of this talk of Thanksgiving leaves you feeling like you need to buy some gifts for the people you are thankful for, there are many to be found on Quirky Gifter! The 1870 California census contains a quirky entry for a man whose job is identified as “Emperor”.
Joshua Norton (1818-1880) had been a successful businessman in South Africa before he arrived in San Francisco in 1842. After a decade of successful investments in commodities and real estate, he had become one of San Francisco’s wealthiest and most respected men. In 1852, China banned the export of rice, which caused the price of rice in San Francisco to skyrocket. Learning that a shipment of Peruvian rice would soon arrive, Norton made a deal to buy the ship’s entire contents, hoping to corner the market. However, soon more ships bearing Peruvian rice began arriving, causing the price of rice to plummet. Norton sued, claiming he had been assured only the one ship would arrive. He won the lawsuits in lower courts, but eventually the California Supreme Court overruled them, and Norton was wiped out financially. Infuriated by what he saw as a lack of justice, in a series of letters to newspapers in 1859, he declared himself Norton the First, Emperor of the United States: “At the peremptory request and desire of a large majority of the citizens of these United States, I, Joshua Norton…declare and proclaim myself Emperor of these United States.” I read recently about the alligator that had once lived in the bathtub of the East Wing of the White House. Although interesting, this article about White House pets differed from an earlier account that I recall reading, which makes me wonder which is correct. Supposedly, the American Revolutionary War hero, Marquis de Lafayette presented Thomas Jefferson with a baby alligator that the president placed in the bathtub, and, as animals tend to do, it grew and grew until it was a horrifying sight complete with big teeth and scary eyes. Another version claimed Lafayette gave the alligator to President John Adams, and a third version made it a gift to President James Madison. Doubting Lafayette gave alligators to three presidents, I suspect none of the stories are true.
Being neither an historian nor an academic, I don’t know twiddle from twaddle, but I suspect the stories may have developed from an earlier quirky but true story. Western explorer Zebulon Pike, he of Pike’s Peak and Masonic fame and himself the definition of quirky, presented Thomas Jefferson with two bear cubs. Jefferson kept the cubs as pets, and as animals tend to do, they grew and grew until they had to be kept in cages outside on the White House lawn for the entertainment of visitors. In those days the White House belonged to the people who could come and go as they pleased, which would make Jefferson’s exhibited bears the earliest federally supported free public zoo. Are the bears the oddest pets to entertain a president? Pets are common in the White House. Donald Trump is only the second president to not have a pet; James Knox Polk was the first. During the Civil War the White House fell into some disrepair and when Andrew Johnson moved in he found it infested with mice. He took a liking to them and spread grain around his bed so they could eat while he snored. As animals tend to do, they grew and grew in number. Imagine the President of the United States sleeping in bed with a hundred mice scampering around him. When he refused his daughter’s plea to exterminate the rodents, she went behind his back and had it done without his consent. Other presidents, especially Theodore Roosevelt, Rutherford B. Hayes, and Calvin Coolidge, had a menagerie of exotic animals that included a kangaroo and a pygmy hippo, but they sound more like collections than pets. James Buchanan received an elephant as a gift, and Congress gave him permission to keep it on the White House lawn. Woodrow Wilson had sheep to mow the grass. John Adams kept silkworms in the White House, but again I don’t know that they would qualify as “pets”. Perhaps the quirkiest pet was not unusual but it was certainly a “character”. Andrew Jackson had a sailor-mouthed parrot named Polly that enjoyed insulting people with strings of curses and four letter words, much to the delight of Jackson whose backwoods grit horrified the cultured Washington elites. He so loved Polly that it was brought to his funeral, but when it began shouting curses at the guests, it was ejected from the proceedings. At the Quirky Gifter Craft Fair you might not find a living pet, but you can certainly find unusual handcrafted animals. They might not shout curses at your guests, but they could still be the highlight of your party. Dragon egg, anyone? Diane Boettcher of Mount Shasta City claimed to have a flaming white angel on her television screen. The time was August 1987 during the first Harmonic Convergence on the slopes of Mount Shasta. Depending on estimates, up to 6,000 people attended the event, now an annual festival, to herald in a New Age of Spirituality, so the timing of the appearance of a flaming white angel was perfect for people seeking a supernatural “sign”.
She explained she had been watching a local news report on the Harmonic Convergence when suddenly the image of a white angel superimposed itself over the regular televised picture. She could change channels, even turn the television off and on, and the image remained. “She’s really beautiful,” said Boettcher of the angel. “[She is] all rainbow colored. At times there is a golden halo and a white aura all around her. She loves children.” News of the angel caused a sensation. Thousands of people lined up to see Boettcher’s “holy television”. That there was a human-like shape on the screen was never questioned, but interpretations of the image varied. Some saw what Boettcher evidently saw, a flaming angel of love, while others saw Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and even an alien “being of light” from outer space. Her living room became a mecca where people knelt in front of the television to pray. As the line of pilgrims grew longer outside her home, countless newspaper and television reports followed, including a write-up in the Washington Post, speculating on what was causing the phenomenon and what it might mean. One of the visitors was Bob Wilson, owner of Shiloh Electronics in Mount Shasta City. He immediately recognized the image as the work of a faulty capacitor. “I didn’t say anything in the house because there were people praying in front of the television and I didn’t know how to break it to them.” Back in his shop he installed a bad capacitor on a display television and sure enough, the flaming angel appeared. For $99.99 Wilson offered to transform any ordinary television into a “Holy TV” He sold not a single one. There are no bad capacitors for sale on Quirky Gifter, but you might find something even better than a flaming white angel. Check out our shop of unique, handcrafted gifts and talents today! French composer Erik Satie (1866 –1925) founded the minimalist avant-garde movement that included Claude Debussy, with whom he publicly feuded over which had influenced the other. As a musician—Satie preferred being called a “phonometrician” (a measurer of sounds)—he had a direct influence on Maurice Ravel, one of his students, Olivier Messiaen, and John Cage. Satie is well-known not only for his quirky compositions, but also for his personal eccentrics. He once composed a piece so radical that it caused a riot outside the concert hall. He was arrested and jailed for eight days for promoting “cultural anarchy”. Satie is often cited as the inventor of “background music” for a piece composed where the audience members were encouraged to speak to each other as they sat encircled by the musicians. When they refused to talk and instead wanted to listen to his music, he went into a rage and kicked everyone out. Of his work, he stated that “musical ideas played no part whatsoever in their composition.” He predicted that would be the future of music shaped increasingly by “scientific” technology. His quirkiness extended to his personal life. In his early days Satie preferred dressing in a black clerical cassock. Then in middle age his taste suddenly shifted. He purchased twelve identical gray suits, placed eleven in a closet and wore one until it became threadbare, at which time he would retrieve another from storage and wear until it, too, needed replacing. Six suits remained untouched at the time of his death. He went to extraordinary lengths to bleach his food because he felt it unhealthy to eat anything with color. He walked looking backward over his shoulder for fear of being attacked, and he carried a hammer for protection against muggers. Instead of a pillow, his bed had a hole into which he could insert his head so blood could flow to his brain. Satie lived in a tiny apartment described as a “wardrobe closet”. He refused for twenty-seven years to allow anyone to enter. When he died, it was a cluttered mess, filled with cobwebs and debris, including two pianos, one stacked atop the other due to lack of space, over 100 umbrellas, and countless scraps of paper with unusual drawings, expressions, and musical notations. On one scrap of paper he wrote “My name is Erik Satie, like everyone else” and another listed his daily routine: “I rise at 7:18; am inspired from 10:23 to 11:47. I lunch at 12:11 and leave the table at 12:14.” Historians are divided on whether the musical genius had a mental illness or was just a big jokester mocking convention. Either way, he was certainly quirky. If you are looking for a gift to celebrate the musical genius in your family, you can see what they think of a bed with a hole in it or, better yet, find the perfect handcrafted item here at Quirky Gifter! |
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