An inconspicuous report in the “Evening Bulletin” issue of Oct. 31, 1863 (shown below), from Providence, Rhode Is., is headed: “The Field of Gettysburg”. Remembering that the historic Battle of Gettysburg was fought nearly 4 months prior, it would have been no surprise that the cemetery at Gettysburg would be formally dedicated to the memory of the thousands who died in that struggle. The planning being of little consequence to anyone at the time, we are not surprised that this is the first such report we have seen in any newspaper.

The report has two points of curious interest. First, the dedication was originally planned for October 22, but it had to be postponed until November 19: “…by which time all the dead braves will be, probably, interred.” There is also mention that: “Edward Everett will deliver, probably, his finest oration…” plus more on the planned event. There was no mention of President Lincoln.

Lincoln was not formally invited to participate until November 2, just 17 days before the ceremony, and 11 days after the original date for the event. By contrast, Everett had been invited months prior. The committee did not expect Lincoln to give a major speech. David Wills’s official invitation letter specifically requested that the President provide just “a few appropriate remarks” to formally set aside the grounds after Everett’s grand oration.
Indeed, Everett gave a “grand oration”. He spoke for two hours (13,607 words), while Lincoln followed with his two-minute Gettysburg Address (272 words), which ultimately became one of the most famous speeches in human history.

What if Lincoln had not been invited at the last minute? The dedication of the Gettysburg Cemetery would still have been reported in most newspapers of the day, given Edward Everett’s speech, but over 16o years later, history would have had little memory of the event. It was Lincoln’s two-minute address that made the difference.

The topic at hand was recently revived when a collector, who had just purchased a London Gazette dated August 9, 1666 containing a brief report on the week’s mortality bill from the Great Plague (shown below), informed us of his purpose in collecting the newspaper – which we found fascinating… and which eventually led to a discovery.

A Purpose – He purchased to use as inspiration for an event-tethered short story (historical fiction?). If you have a little time, I’m sure he would not mind if you took a gander:  THE KING’S BAKER

A Discovery – After reading his story I decided to dig a little deeper into the 1665-6 London Plague and was drawn in by an article posted by the London Museum titled: THREE MYTHS ABOUT THE GREAT FIRE OF LONDON

A MYTH – I don’t want to give anything away, but suffice to say, I need to go back to a lot of people and correct what I once thought was true. Yikes!

A Truth – For those who like to pine for the past, during the week prior to the above newspaper’s distribution in 1666, 42 people in London alone were known to have died from the bubonic plague. Life was not easy; but death often was.

The man who seized control of the case was Dr. Doctor Willard Bliss (whose first name was actually “Doctor”). Summoned to the scene, Bliss immediately took charge, sidelined other physicians, and restricted access to the president. He was convinced the bullet sat on the right side of Garfield’s body near the liver. It did not. A post-mortem examination revealed it lodged safely on the left side, embedded near the pancreas without harming any vital organs. Bliss, however, never accepted he was wrong.

Worse than his misdiagnosis was his method of treatment. Though Joseph Lister’s antiseptic techniques were gaining traction in Europe and among progressive American physicians, Bliss effectively rejected them. He repeatedly probed Garfield’s wound with unwashed fingers and unsterilized instruments, transforming a minor entry wound into a massive, pus-filled infection channel. He subjected the president to painful examinations without anesthesia, fed him rectally with concoctions of beef bouillon and egg yolks, and heavy-dosed him with quinine and morphine. Garfield lost nearly 100 pounds as his body broke out in systemic abscesses. On September 19, he succumbed to sepsis and a ruptured splenic artery.

At his trial, Guiteau famously—and with grim accuracy—claimed: “I deny the killing, if your Honor please. We admit the shooting.” He argued that while he had merely shot the president, the doctors had killed him. The public record increasingly backed that assertion.

Critics fiercely condemned Bliss’s arrogance and stubborn refusal to adopt modern medicine. A popular 19th-century jab soon circulated with particular sting: “Ignorance is Bliss.”

The phrase itself was far older, coined by English poet Thomas Gray in 1742 (“Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise”). But after Garfield’s death, the old line took on a bitter new life. Bliss’s name and vanity turned a classic poetic observation into a sharp medical epitaph. The pun stuck in popular retellings, granting an 18th-century idiom an extra layer of tragic dark humor no poet ever intended.

Garfield’s wound was easily survivable by modern standards—and likely survivable even by the best medical practices of 1881. Instead, he received confident ignorance dressed as expertise.

On July 2, 1982, Walters tied 42 helium-filled weather balloons to an ordinary aluminum lawn chair in the backyard of his girlfriend, Carol Van Deusen, in San Pedro. Armed with a pellet gun, a CB radio, a camera, and a parachute, his plan was simple: float lazily across San Pedro toward the Mojave Desert. Instead, when his tether line unexpectedly snapped, Walters shot skyward like a rocket, losing his glasses in the process and soaring to an astonishing 16,000 feet! Freezing in the high-altitude air, he startled commercial airliner pilots who radioed in shock to report a man sitting in a lawn chair in controlled airspace. To descend, Walters systematically popped several balloons with his pellet gun, eventually landing tangled in power lines in a Long Beach neighborhood – unharmed, but briefly causing a local blackout.

His story came to light quite by accident during a search through our archives for something completely unrelated. Our gaze was immediately drawn to the front page of the Los Angeles Times from July 3, 1982, which featured a remarkable photograph of a man taking flight from the comfort of a lawn chair.

If you are fascinated by eccentric dreamers who take “seat-of-the-pants” ambition to literal new heights, spending a little time reading contemporary accounts of Larry Walters’ flight is pure joy. It serves as an amusing, incredible reminder of human ingenuity, boundless determination, and the unpredictable nature of backyard aviation.

Below is a photo from the front page of the Los Angeles Times our friend was seeking, complete with the bold headlines “Seat-of-the-Pants Pilot Goes Aloft in Lawn Chair” and the iconic snapshot showing Walters airborne over San Pedro.