On My Own

is something beautiful and sometimes delicious. My oldest daughter likes to propagate succulents, while I am on the national do not sell list for all Bonziye tree vendors thanks to my black thumb. But to make our gardens even more inviting, sometimes we hang wind chimes or place decorative fountain in the middle, something that's pleasing to the senses. But while back in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, another kind of garden garnish became popular, one that required a bit more

care and maintenance than a set of wind chimes. Dublin born Charles Hamilton was a man of Irish nobility and aristocracy. He went to the finest schools traveled Europe after graduation until finally becoming a member of Parliament in seventeen twenty seven. He eventually moved to England, where he spent much of his time, despite serving constituents back in Ireland. But in seventeen thirty seven Hamilton acquired a parcel of land at Haineshill in Cobbham, England, which he continued to grow to

over two hundred acres in size. His time touring Europe had left a lasting impression on him, and he hoped that one day he could recreate the sprawling natural gardens that he had seen during his travels. But he chose to abandon the standard gardening principles of the time, such as geometric patterns and rigid layouts. Hamilton instead embraced the landscape movement, which had begun in England a handful of

years early. This trend was more natural in practice, and it led to a lush and vibrant ecosystem of plants and animals cohabitating on the property. But there was something missing, something unique. Hamilton was one of a relative few who had the money to populate his garden with a different kind of creature. In short, he wanted a living recluse, a living, breathing human being to dwell within the confines

of his garden. His conditions were firm, but for the individual who could adhere to the fully, there was a hefty reward waiting for them. At the end, all a person had to do was live alone on Hamilton's Painsill estate for seven years. They had to remain silent and not speak to the servants bringing them their meals each day, not even a please or a thank you. They also had to wear a robe made of goat's hair and refrain from any kind of grooming such as haircuts, clipping

their nails, or trimming their beards. And they could not wear any shoes. But above all else they could not wander beyond the Painsill property line. If they were able to live this way for a period of sar seven years, they would earn a payout of anywhere from five hundred to seven hundred pounds, roughly the equivalent of ninety five

thousand to one hundred and thirty thousand dollars today. These people were known as ornamental hermits, and they were meant to live a life of introspection, a virtue held in high regard by the British elite. A man named Remington was the first to answer Hamilton's request, although despite the short list of rules given, they were apparently too much for him to bear. He was eventually disqualified after being

found at a nearby pub getting drunk. Some historians believe ornamental hermits represented the simple life, devoid of problems like day jobs, bills, and national politics faced by their rich benefactors. They might have been living reminders of what was truly important in life, the kinds of things property owners could not pursue for fear of losing their own fortunes. The homes of ornamental hermits varied in size and shape depending on the property they were constructed upon, and could be

anything from a treehouse to a ship. The first garden hermitage had been built by English antiquarian and physician William Stukeley in seventeen twenty seven. His version was small and humble, nested into the landscape, like, as he put it, a cell or grotto. Another hermitage, built for King George the Second's wife Caroline of Ansbach, was nothing more than a pile of stones arranged in an octagonal shape, with some

moss and bushes strewn about. The practice of hiring strangers to live on rich people's properties for years at a time died out in the early eighteen hundreds. What had started as a way to convey wealth and status dissolved as abolitionists learned of the questionable living conditions of these hermits. It became uncouth to pay someone to live in squalor in your garden. Today, though anyone with a little bit of money can't rent a cabin in the middle of

nowhere and commune with nature. The whole industry has been built around the concept. They just don't call you an ornamental hermit for partaking in it anymore. They call you an Airbnb customer. Life can seem overwhelming these days. The climate is changing, the world is constantly at war, and the politicians we elected to represent our best interests aren't

doing much to earn their votes. It's enough to make someone want to pack up and move away from civilization, but it's so much less feasible today, given our dependence on electronics and well indoor plumbing. But in the late eighteen thirties, one man found a way to live off the grid in one of the most beautiful places on Earth, a location that is both serene and a little bit dangerous. His name was Francis Abbott, and he had come to Niagara Falls, New York, from his home country of England

in June of eighteen twenty nine. Abbot was a worldly fellow, having been to a number of different countries, including Greece, Spain, and Asia, but he was also a bit of an eccentric. He didn't talk much. In fact, he carried with him a slate which he would write upon to convey his thoughts rather than verbalize them with others. He also had little to his name. When he arrived in New York. He was wearing a long brown robe and was carrying books that he borrowed from the library, along with the

flute and some blankets. He was gaunt in his appearance, looking in need of rest and perhaps a few decent meals, and he found those exact things in the home of a nearby family. They rented him a room, but he asked for several considerations beforehand. For one, no one else was to share the room with him, and second, only a portion of the food he consumed was to be made by his host family. He stayed for a week, during which time he purchased a violin. When his stay

was over, he returned his books to the library. But he wasn't ready to leave Niagara just yet. You see, he had fallen in love with the place he wanted to stay, but in a home of his own, so he asked the owner of nearby island if he could build a cabin for himself, but was quickly rejected. Instead, he inhabited a log cabin at the head of Goat Island with only his dog and his meager belongings. His

time there was simple. He would wander the island at night near an eight foot long piece of timber extending out over the falls. On some occasions he would crawl out to the edge of the limb and just sit there, his feet dangling over the churning waters. Other times he would hang from the timber like a leaf in the wind. Abbot lived on Goat Island in solitude for two years until he decided to build himself another cabin closer to civilization.

He was spending more time near the other villagers now, but he didn't interact with them much. He almost never spoke to any of them, but he wasn't rude either. He was rather affable, and once drawn into a conversation, he could be quite charming. One of the few people that he ever spoke to was George de Vaux, who he would get into debates and arguments with on all

kinds of topics, most often theology. Abbot would also regale him with tales of his travels over or play music he had composed himself, and if any tourists came to visit the falls, he would perform a balancing act on that pier to entertain them. He had ingratiated himself within the community, and he was known by almost all of his neighbors, who also had come to learn of his daily habits. For example, he was often seen scribbling away in various books in his possession, enough to fill a library.

In fact, he would also bathe in the river a little ways up from Horseshoe Falls. Now it's not clear exactly how it transpired, but on the afternoon of June tenth of eighteen thirty one, Abbot waded into the river, where he drowned. His body was recovered eleven days later by the townsfolk, who carried him back to the village to give him a proper burial among the trees and wildlife he loved so much. In his cabin they found his flute, his violin, pages of music scattered all over

the floor, and his dog. What they didn't find was his writing. Apparently he only ever wrote in Latin, and when he was finished, he would cast the pages into a fire to be destroyed. Francis Abbott, the Hermit of Niagara, didn't live there long, but he made a lasting impression on the locals, so much so that they named the cascade where he usually bathed Hermit's Cascade in his honor. Francis may have lived by himself, but he was certainly never alone. I hope you've enjoyed today's guided tour of

the Cabinet of Curiosities. Subscribe for free on Apple Podcasts, or learn more about the show by visiting Curiosities podcast dot com. The show was created by me Aaron Mankey in partnership with how Stuff Works. I make another award winning show called Lore, which is a podcast, book series, and television show, and you can learn all about it over at the Worldolore dot com. And until next time, stay curious.