Category Archives: Boston

Old North Church: Lanterns, Legends, and a Cat Named Prince

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One if by Land and 2 if by sea the Steeple of the old North church proudly overlooks Bosotn Harbor

Old North Church: A Guided Tour by Prince, Feline of

Photo Credit Sherrie Kling

Distinction

Greetings, humans.
I am Prince, former resident, unofficial greeter, and rightful overseer of Old North Church in Boston. Yes, that Old North Church — the one with the lanterns, the Revolution, the teenagers ringing bells, and the crypt full of people who, frankly, should have picked warmer accommodations.

Please keep your hands and snacks inside the tour at all times.

 

First, the Lanterns (My Steeple, My Rules)

You may have heard the story:
“One if by land, two if by sea.”
Two lanterns hung in the steeple on April 18, 1775, signaling that the British were coming by water.

Very dramatic. Very historic.
Personally, I would have added a third lantern to indicate “bring treats,” but no one asked me.

Still, it’s a good story, and the humans seem proud of it, so I allow it.

The Crypt: 1,100 Humans, Zero Cats

Beneath the church lies a crypt with more than 1,100 burials. It’s dim, atmospheric, and full of history.

I used to stroll past the entrance, tail high, as visitors whispered things like:

“Do you feel that chill?”
“Yes, that’s me. I’m majestic.”

The crypt tours are fascinating — if you enjoy early American history, architecture, or the feeling that someone from 1772 might be judging your footwear.

Paul Revere: Bell‑Ringer, Horse Enthusiast, Not a Cat

Before he became the midnight‑riding icon of American lore, Paul Revere was a teenage bell ringer here. Imagine a young Revere hauling on ropes, sweating, learning rhythm, and absolutely not noticing the very handsome cat supervising from the balcony.

Humans love this detail.
I prefer to think of it as “the time Paul Revere worked for me.”

My Reign at Old North

I lived here in the 19th century, adored by parishioners, tourists, and anyone with a lap. I attended services, greeted guests, and patrolled the pews with the dignity of a creature who knows he is the most important thing in the room.

Some say I “acted like I owned the place.”
I say: acted?

Why You Should Visit (According to a Cat Who Knows Things)

Old North Church is one of those rare places where history feels alive — lanterns, crypts, bells, legends — all wrapped in the charm of a building that has seen centuries of stories.

And if you listen closely, you might still hear echoes of:

  • Revere’s bells
  • Footsteps in the crypt
  • And the faint, regal purr of a cat named Prince, supervising from somewhere just out of sight

Closing Thoughts from Your Feline Guide

Come visit. Explore the crypt. Climb the bell tower. Stand where the lanterns shone.
And when you do, remember:
I walked these halls first.

Boston Transit-First in the Nation, Last to Arrive

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Getting around Boston- the elevated orange line of Bostons' MBTA

Boston Transit: The System We Love to Hate

Proudly Delayed Since 1897

Let me tell you a story about a man named Charlie — yes, that Charlie, the poor soul doomed to ride the MTA forever because Boston raised the fare by a nickel. And honestly, if you’ve ever waited for a Green Line train that was “arriving now” for 14 straight minutes, you know Charlie’s still out there somewhere, circling the city like a transit ghost. But here’s the twist: long before Charlie got trapped in fare‑hike purgatory, Boston actually built the first subway in the entire United States. That’s right — we were pioneers. Visionaries. Transit trailblazers. And somehow, 127 years later, we’re still proudly delayed, occasionally on fire, and held together by tunnels older than most of our cemeteries.

Before the Subway: Boston’s First Commute (Bring a Rowboat)

Boston’s transit story actually begins way before subways, delays, and “signal issues.” It starts in 1631, when Thomas Williams launched the first chartered transit service in America — a ferry shuttling people into what was then a tiny peninsula. Walking from Chelsea took two days and at least one meltdown, so the ferry was a hit. Congratulations, Boston: we invented public transit and the first commuter complaint.

1700s: Walking, Carriages, and the First Stagecoach

By the 1700s, Boston had grown to a whopping 800 acres — basically the size of a modern Costco parking lot. Most people still walked everywhere, while the wealthy bounced around in horse‑drawn carriages, which were essentially Uber Black with worse suspension. In 1793, the first stagecoach line opened between Boston and Cambridge. Slow, uncomfortable, and probably smelling like wet wool, it was a perfect preview of the Red Line.

1800s: The Omnibus Era (Hold Onto Your Spine)

The 1800s brought the omnibus, a horse‑drawn bus that rattled over Boston’s cobblestones like a shopping cart with a grudge. Reliable? Sure. Comfortable? Absolutely not.

Relief arrived in 1856 with the first horsecar on rails, gliding from Central Square to Bowdoin Square and avoiding the potholes that made every other street feel like a chiropractic emergency.

But by the late 1800s, Boston was already drowning in traffic. Tremont Street was so jammed that locals joked you could get across town faster by walking across the roofs of stalled streetcars. Honestly? Still true.

1897: The First Subway in America (And We Still Use It)

Then came the big moment:
In 1897, Boston opened the Tremont Street Subway — the first subway in the United States.

And here’s the wild part: even after the Big Dig ripped the city open like a lobster tail, we’re still using some of those original tunnels under the Boston Common. If you’ve ever wondered why the Green Line feels like it’s traveling through history… it literally is.

Mid‑1900s: Politics, Campaign Songs, and Poor Charlie

By the mid‑1900s, politics had taken the wheel (hold on tight). Charlie’s famous song? It was actually a 1949 mayoral campaign jingle. Only in Boston would a political ad become a folk classic and a transit trauma.

From there, the T passed through more commissions, budgets, repairs, and “temporary fixes” than anyone can count. If you’ve ever waited 27 minutes for a train that was “2 minutes away,” you’ve felt the legacy.

Today: Still First, Still Trying, Still Delayed

Today, the MBTA serves over a million riders a day across subways, buses, ferries, and commuter rail. It is heroic, chaotic, historic, and occasionally held together by zip ties.

But hey — we were the first.
And we’re still moving… eventually… after this brief delay… due to a disabled train at Government Center… and a signal issue at Alewife… and a mysterious “track problem” they won’t explain.

For more details on the history of the first subway in the country, follow the link here.

Final Stop: Let’s Bring Charlie Home

So join me in this noble cause: let’s finally rescue Charlie. Check your pockets, check your CharlieCard balance, and if you see him on the Green Line, hand him a fare and set him free. Boston owes him that much.

 

Historic memoir bound in the skin of highwayman James Allen, displayed under glass at the Boston Athenæum

The Book That’s Literally Skin‑Deep

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Rare 1837 book bound in human skin at the Boston Athenæum, shown with its Latin‑inscribed cover inside a display case.”

Boston’s Most Macabre Treasure

Massachusetts has no shortage of historic firsts — the first lighthouse, the first subway, the first chocolate chip cookie, even the first telephone call. But tucked away on Beacon Street, inside the quiet, book‑scented halls of the Boston Athenæum, sits an artifact that makes all those milestones feel downright ordinary.

It’s a book.
Bound in human skin.
And yes, you can actually see it.

A Highwayman, a Deathbed Confession, and One Very Unusual Request

The story begins with James Allen, also known by several aliases, including George Walton — a 19th‑century highwayman who spent his life robbing travelers along the Boston Post Road. He wasn’t a glamorous outlaw; he was a gritty, stubborn one, constantly in and out of prison, and eventually mortally wounded during an escape attempt.

On his deathbed in 1837, Allen dictated his life story — a short memoir titled Narrative of the Life of James Allen. But he didn’t stop there. He made a final request that would cement his place in Massachusetts lore:

He wanted copies of the book bound in his own skin.

One copy was to be given to a man who had once fought him off during a robbery attempt — a man Allen respected for his bravery. Another copy went to the Boston Athenæum, where it remains today.

On the cover, stamped in gold, is the Latin inscription:

“Hic Liber Waltonis Cute Compactus Est.”
This book is bound in the skin of Walton.

Subtle? No.
Unforgettable? Absolutely.

Anthropodermic Bibliopegy: A Real (and Rare) Practice

As bizarre as it sounds, binding books in human skin — anthropodermic bibliopegy — was a real, if extremely uncommon, practice in the 18th and 19th centuries. Most examples come from:

  • Medical schools (anatomy students memorializing cadavers)
  • Criminal confessions
  • Personal mementos with a macabre twist

But Allen’s book stands out because it wasn’t done to him — it was done at his own request. A final act of control? A strange attempt at immortality? A criminal’s version of a legacy? Historians still debate it.

What’s certain is that the Athenæum’s copy is one of the most famous examples in the world.

Behind the Red Doors of the Boston Athenæum

The Athenæum itself is a treasure — one of the oldest independent libraries in the United States, founded in 1807. Its reading rooms feel like stepping into a different century: marble busts, oil portraits, polished wood, and the soft hush of serious book lovers.

The human‑skin book isn’t on open display. It’s kept in a secure, climate‑controlled room, brought out only for researchers or curious visitors by appointment. Staff are used to the request — it’s one of the most asked‑about items in their collection — but they treat it with the same respect as any rare artifact.

In recent years, scientific testing confirmed what the inscription claimed: the binding is, in fact, human skin.

Boston history is full of surprises, but this one still manages to raise eyebrows.

A Story That Sticks With You

What makes this such a compelling Massachusetts tale isn’t just the shock factor. It’s the layers:

  • A criminal who wanted his story preserved — literally.
  • A library that has safeguarded it for nearly two centuries.
  • A piece of history that blurs the line between the macabre and the meaningful.
  • A reminder that Boston’s past isn’t just revolutionary — it’s downright strange.

You can walk past the Athenæum’s iconic red doors a hundred times and never guess that one of the rarest, most unusual books in the world sits quietly inside.

But that’s Massachusetts for you.
Just when you think you’ve heard every story, it hands you one bound in human skin.

 

 

A Tale of Two Lighthouses

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Graves light takes a pounding from the sea at the entrance to Boston Harbor's deep water channel

Graves Light: Boston Harbor’s Outer Sentinel

Lighthouses have always been the quiet guardians of the coast — part warning, part welcome, standing where the sea turns unpredictable. In my last post, Boston Light played the role of the harbor’s warm lantern, guiding ships safely home. Just a few miles away, though, another tower tells a very different story. Graves Light, perched on a scatter of ledges at the edge of the deep‑water channel, wasn’t named for sailors’ graves at all, but for Rear Admiral Thomas Graves, an early Massachusetts figure. Its job has always been the opposite of Boston Light’s: not to beckon ships inward, but to warn them away from danger.

A Lighthouse Built for the Hard Work

Completed in 1905, Graves Light is the tallest lighthouse in Boston Harbor and by far the most exposed. Its granite blocks were quarried in Rockport and pinned into the ledge like a stone corkscrew — because anything less would have been torn apart by the Atlantic. This tower wasn’t built for charm. It was built to take a beating.

And it still does.

 

Still Active — Even in Private Hands

In 2013, Graves Light made headlines when it was sold at auction for $933,888, becoming one of the most expensive lighthouse sales in U.S. history. The new owners restored the tower itself — floors, windows, dock, solar power — but the light and fog signal remain federal property.

The U.S. Coast Guard still operates:

  • the modern beacon
  • the fog horn
  • the official charted signal: Fl (2) W 12s

So yes, Graves Light is still an active aid to navigation, even though the building is privately owned. The tower belongs to people; the warning still belongs to the sea.

Two Lights, Two Jobs

Graves Light and Boston Light sit on opposite sides of the deep‑water channel — only about 3.5 miles apart, but doing completely different work.

  • Graves Light stands on the outer edge, flashing its stern warning:
    “Danger here — avoid the ledges.”
  • Boston Light waits farther in, offering the softer message:
    “Safe water ahead — welcome to the harbor.”

Mariners once treated them as a sequence: clear the danger, then follow the welcome home.

Boston Light and Graves Light, two guardians of Boston harbor

The Zoo Ship Wreck of 1938

One of the strangest events tied to Graves Light came in 1938, when the steamer City of Salisbury ran aground near the ledges in thick fog. Its cargo?
A traveling zoo shipment — monkeys, parrots, pythons, cobras, and other exotic animals.

Most survived, and newspapers gleefully reported “snakes loose in Boston Harbor.” Graves Light has seen its share of storms, but that day it witnessed a circus.

A Hollywood Cameo

Graves Light even had a moment on the silver screen. It appears in the storm sequence of the 1948 film Portrait of Jennie, where the tower is cast as a brooding, windswept sentinel. Even if you’ve never seen the movie, it’s a fun bit of trivia — one of the few times this rugged lighthouse slipped into Hollywood’s imagination.

 

A Sentinel You Can Still See Today

If you take one of the harbor or lighthouse cruises, you’re almost guaranteed to see both Boston Light and Graves Light in a single sweep of the horizon. Coming out from the harbor, you first pass the civilized silhouette of Boston Light, with its keeper’s house and outbuildings tucked neatly on Little Brewster Island. And just beyond it, rising straight from the gray Atlantic, stands Graves Light — taller, starker, and far more ominous. One welcomes you in; the other warns you away. Seen together, they tell the whole story of Boston Harbor in two towers.

 

Boston Light: Still Standing, Still Shining

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Located on Little Brewster Island, Boston Light: America’s Oldest Lighthouse is Still on Duty

 

Oh What a Light

(A little wink to the 1960s classic “Oh, What a Night”)

Boston Light is like an old war hero — weathered, stubborn, and full of stories it never quite shares. It has guarded the entrance to Boston Harbor for more than three centuries, and those stones have seen everything from calm seas to cannon fire.

Built in 1716, Boston Light is the oldest continually used lighthouse in the United States. Its history reaches straight back to the Revolutionary War.

The first tower stood about 60 feet high and was made from rough island stones. Workers stacked unshaped rubblestone into a tapering tower and held it together with early mortar. It wasn’t fancy, but it worked.

That original lighthouse didn’t survive the war. In 1776, British forces retreated from Boston Harbor and set explosives that destroyed the tower. (Those darn Redcoats!)  Boston rebuilt quickly. By 1783, the Commonwealth raised a new lighthouse using the island’s rubblestone once again. This version had thick 7.5‑foot walls and reached 75 feet into the air.

In 1859, the tower needed more height to hold a massive 4,000‑pound Fresnel lens. Builders added another 14 feet, giving the lighthouse the profile we recognize today.

The Modern Boston Light

Boston Light glows bright while Graves Light keeps its quiet watch beyond

The lighthouse on Little Brewster Island blends the 1783 rebuild with the 1859 expansion. It rises 89 feet (102 feet above sea level) and still contains the old rubblestone core, now reinforced with brick. Only the bottom 9 to 14 feet include stones from the original 1716 tower, but that small section connects the modern beacon to its earliest days.

Not bad for a lighthouse that once relied on candlelight.

Today, Boston Light is a National Historic Landmark. By law, it remains permanently manned, even with modern automation. The island isn’t open to the public, but several harbor cruises pass close enough for great views.

At night, the beam reaches 27 miles into the Atlantic. After 300 years, it still calls sailors home.