The Dancing Plague of 1518 was a case of dancing mania that occurred in Strasbourg, France (then part of the Holy Roman Empire) in July 1518. Numerous people took to dancing for days without rest, and over the period of about one month, most of the people died from heart attack, stroke, or exhaustion. The authorities were convinced that the afflicted would only recover if they danced day and night. So town halls were set aside for them to dance in, musicians were hired to play pipes and drums to keep them moving, and professional dancers were paid to keep them on their feet. Within days those with weak hearts started to die. By the end of August 1518 about 400 people had experienced the madness.

Historical documents, including “physician notes, cathedral sermons, local and regional chronicles, and even notes issued by the Strasbourg city council” are clear that the victims danced. It is not known why these people danced to their deaths, nor is it clear that they were dancing willfully. As the dancing plague worsened, concerned nobles sought the advice of local physicians, who ruled out astrological and supernatural causes, instead announcing that the plague was a “natural disease” caused by “hot blood”.

During the initial outbreaks of the mania, religious ceremonies were held in an attempt to exorcise the demons thought to be causing the mania. People commonly prayed to St. Vitus for aid, and he soon became the patron saint of the dancers. At least seven other outbreaks of the dancing epidemic occurred in medieval Europe, mostly in the areas surrounding Strasbourg. In more recent history, a major outbreak occurred in Madagascar in the 1840′s, according to medical reports that described “people dancing wildly, in a state of trance, convinced that they were possessed by spirits.”

The Cause

Eugene Backman, author of the 1952 book “Religious Dances in the Christian Church and in Popular Medicine,” sought a biological or chemical origin for the dancing mania. Backman and other experts at the time believed the most likely explanation was ergot, a mold that grows on the stalks of damp rye. When consumed unknowingly in bread, the mold can trigger violent convulsion and delusions but not, Waller says, “coordinated movements that last for days.”

While at Australia’s James Cook University, sociologist Robert Bartholomew proposed a theory that the dancers were performing an ecstatic ritual of a heretical sect, but Waller counters, “there is no evidence that the dancers wanted to dance.” “On the contrary,” he added, “they expressed fear and desperation,” according to the written accounts. [Source]

Historian John Waller thinks that the dancing epidemic was caused by mass psychogenic illness (MPI), a manifestation of mass hysteria that is often preceded by extreme levels of psychological distress. Waller states that famine had been prevalent in the region for some time, caused by very cold winters, very hot summers, crop frosts, and violent hailstorms. Mass deaths followed from malnutrition, and those who survived were forced to kill their farm animals, take out loans, and perhaps even beg in the streets. In addition to food shortages, diseases such as smallpox, syphilis, leprosy, and “the English sweat” (a new disease) afflicted the populace. This series of events might have triggered the MPI.

Life in the Mansion

Although she would throw lavish parties with guest lists consisting of some of the most prominent people in the city, the manner in which Delphine LaLaurie tortured her slaves is probably the most widely known of the French Quarter’s macabre tales. In 1833, after several neighbors allegedly saw her cowhiding a young servant girl in the mansion’s courtyard, rumors began to spread around town that LaLaurie treated her servants viciously. According to one tale, a young slave girl was brushing LaLaurie’s hair in the upstairs bedroom when the comb hit a snag in her mistress’s hair, enraging LaLaurie.

LaLaurie whipped the 12-year-old slave girl, who tried to escape but fell to her death from a balcony overlooking the courtyard. The girl was quickly brought into the LaLaurie Mansion, but not before being observed by neighbors, who filed a complaint. The neighbors later asserted that the young girl was buried under a tree in the yard.

The legalities of the situation were handled by Judge Jean Francois Canonge, a friend of the LaLauries, who had visited the house on a previous occasion concerning the welfare of the LaLaurie servants. The LaLaurie slaves were confiscated and put up for auction, and the LaLauries were fined $500. Some of the LaLaurie relatives arranged to buy the slaves back and quickly returned them to her.

The Attrocities

On April 10, 1834, during another party, a fire broke out in the kitchen of the mansion. The kitchen — as was the norm in Spanish mansions — was separate from the home and located over the carriageway building across the courtyard. The firemen entered the building through the courtyard. To their surprise, there were two slaves chained to the stove in the kitchen. It appeared as though the slaves had set the fire themselves in order to attract attention. The fire itself was soon subdued. It was then that the real horror of what had happened in the mansion became apparent.

Published on 11 April, 1834, the New Orleans newspaper, The Bee, described how, ”Upon entering the apartments the most appalling spectacle met their eyes. Several slaves more or less horribly mutilated were seen suspended from the neck, with their limbs apparently stretched and torn from one extremity to the other . . . the slaves belonged to a woman cast as demon, and they had merely been kept alive to prolong their suffering.” It was said that slaves had had their bones broken and their bodies re-shaped, their lips sewn together, that women had been found nailed to the floor, that crude attempts at sex change operations had taken place, and that buckets full of body parts and gore had been found – a Grand Guignol Horror! Surviving slaves later described how they trembled with fear at the prospect of being taken to the attic, because no one ever re-emerged from the attic.

LaLaurie escaped by horse and carriage to Bayou St. John, where she allegedly paid the captain of a schooner to carry her across to Mandeville or Covington. Many claimed they escaped to Paris. Others say they remained on the outskirts of New Orleans. [Source]

Her Death

Several different accounts of the death of Delphine LaLaurie are given. One report said she was killed by a wild boar in a hunting accident in France. Another story, as reported in The Daily Picayune of March 1892, insisted she died among friends and family in Paris.

Lucky you. You just met the Emperor of the United States and the Protector of Mexico. Born Joshua Adam Norton (1819-1880), the man had a few bats in his belfry, but the Californian who dubbed himself the Emperor became a beloved character in 19th century San Francisco, a city that has never much minded if your screws were a tiny bit too loose.

When returning to San Francisco after a failed business venture in 1859, Norton issued an announcement in the local newspapers that he was now the Emperor of the United States of America ” at the peremptory request and desire of a large majority of the citizens of these United States.” He then called for a meeting at the local music hall so he could make “alterations in the existing laws of the Union ….”

Norton I was just as well-known for his proclamations as he was for his presence, and he issued them frequently. He called for the dissolution of the United States Congress, a gesture which was naturally ignored by the government, so the Emperor turned to more local matters. He once issued a royal proclamation banning the use of the word “Frisco,” saying guilty parties “shall pay into the Imperial Treasury as penalty the sum of twenty-five dollars.”

As Emperor, he always ate free in restaurants. On occasion, he even issued his own currency, and local shops usually treated it as real money. The census record of 1879 actually lists Joshua Norton’s occupation as “Emperor.” The uniform he wore was given to him by the United States Army.

So the question is: who was the idiot? Certainly not Norton. In this case of the Emperor having no clothes, the town chose not to see his shortcomings. If one person makes fake money, and another person takes it, who is the silly one?

Norton I, The United States’ first Emperor proved that anyone –but anyone– can lead a village of idiots. In his own way, he was a genius.