The Piltdown Fraud: Fundamentalists Favorite Fake Fossil

When you hear the word “creature,” what comes to mind? We think of an animal, perhaps, a “lower” form of life, since the word can bear a negative connotation when applied to human beings. If a person is seen as a creature, it may be because they are seen as a servile tool being used by another, their creature. If you play Dungeons and Dragons, maybe you think of it as any living thing, but do you think of it as a tacitly religious term, supporting the notion of Creationism, of the origin of organisms through an act of divine creation rather than through the natural process of evolution? If we look at the etymology, “creature” comes from the Latin verb for creation. We might interpret this only to mean that organisms are created through reproduction, but the word was long historically associated in Old French with the notion of all the world as God’s Creation. Thus a creature is part of Creation. It’s not surprising that ancient religious ideas about our origins remain woven into the very fabric of our language, even though science has helped us achieve a clearer understanding of the evolution of populations through natural selection. Throughout the 20th century, Creationism has lost its cultural cachet as a viable scientific idea. Those who would like to see divine creation taught as a coequal scientific theory have had to rebrand the idea as Creation Science and Intelligent Design, but offering no actual testable, reproducible, or falsifiable evidence, their claims cannot be considered science and to enforce their instruction in science classrooms would violate the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment separating church and state, as has been decided in numerous Supreme Court challenges, most recently in Kitzmiller v. Dover Area School District in 2005. Tellingly, in searching for some scientific proof for their religious belief, Creationists rely on outmoded thought.  A favorite “proof” of Intelligent Design is the metaphor of a watch in a field, and how if one found such a complex device, it is far more logical to reason that it was created by some intelligent inventor and left there rather than formed by natural forces. This pithy analogy actually was first used in 1802, by Anglican clergyman William Paley, and even at the time it was absolutely deconstructed and shown to be fallacious by Enlightenment scholar David Hume. But more than that, Charles Darwin, who had previously been convinced by Paley’s arguments, would eventually disprove them through his observations of gradual changes in populations, demonstrating how complex organic structures could take shape over generations as inherited features. Beyond long discredited ideas like that, Creationists also seize on the idea of a “Missing Link,” suggesting that proof of evolution requires proof of an intermediate state between lower and higher life forms, and they complain that such links are exactly that, missing from the fossil record. Of course, many a Creationist might dismiss the fossil record altogether as a kind of prank planted into the Earth to test the faith of Christians, as they have claimed about dinosaur bones in their insistence on the young age of the Earth. But this idea of a Missing Link also derives from outdated ideas. It partakes of the ancient philosophy of the Great Chain of Being, in which there is a hierarchy of lower and higher animals, each creature having been formed perfectly with all its distinctions by God. What Darwin and evolutionary science have shown is that there was not a linear chain of species, but rather a kind of tree of life branching in many directions from various roots. Thus, paleontologists prefer the term “intermediate” or “transitional form,” and though Creationists may claim that these “links” are missing, in fact they were even found in Darwin’s lifetime. In 1863, he learned of the discovery of Archaeopteryx, a fossil that shows feathers and other anatomical structures peculiar to birds as well as saurian features, demonstrating the evolution of dinosaurs into birds. Beyond that, the fossils of intermediate forms revealing the evolution of many other species, including mollusks, fish, whales, and horses, have been discovered. But Creationists cry out for the Missing Link connecting monkeys to human beings, often demonstrating a fundamental misunderstanding of evolutionary theory, which does not assert that Homo sapiens are descended from monkeys but rather that they both are descended from a common ancestor, which would be recognized as an entirely different species. And despite what preachers may tell their congregations from the pulpit, there is no shortage of these intermediate forms either. Paleontologists have pieced together the timeline of our evolution from the earliest apes in the Miocene epoch between 23 and 5 million years ago, with the first evidence of bipedal movement occurring after the last of our common ancestors with gorillas and chimps, as evidenced in Sahelanthropus tchadensis. In the Pliocene, we see the development of our Hominin ancestors and the early use of stone tools, with the transitional species Ardipithecus and Australopithecus, like the fossil named “Lucy,” who was bipedal but had a small skull. From the Pleistocene epoch, paleontologists have pieced together some 20 or so transitional hominin forms, some our own ancestors and some from other branches of the tree of life: Heidelberg Man and Java Man—both examples of Homo erectus—the Old Man of La Chapelle, a Neanderthal; The Taung Child, Peking Man, the Little Lady of Flores. The list goes on and on, even up to 2008, when the 9-year-old son of a paleontologist in South Africa found a new and distinct subspecies of Australopithecus named sediba. When pressed on the fossil evidence, though, Creationists are likely to just dismiss all of it as untrustworthy, casting doubt based on the fact that there have, in the past, been fake fossils. In this, they are cherry picking, placing undue emphasis on one notorious hoax that eventually was exposed by scientists themselves. This is Historical Blindness. I’m Nathaniel Lloyd, and here I need to tread carefully, gently brushing the dust away to reveal a fascinating and extremely significant hoax while also recording its context in order to refute Creationists who tout it as evidence that evolutionary theory generally cannot be believed. Thank you for joining me as I discuss The Piltdown Fraud: Misuse of a False Fossil.  

After the last blog post on the crystal skull forgeries, it made sense for me to move from one archaeological fraud to the story of this paleontological fraud, which I have long wanted to discuss. However, as I indicated, I am very conscious of how topics on this blog can actually be taken out of context to support misinformation. For example, I had a podcast listener write me last summer to tell me that my episode on MK-Ultra led them to give more credence to other conspiracy theories involving the CIA, including their involvement in the JFK assassination. While I can absolutely understand the story of MK-Ultra leading one to healthy sense of mistrust when it comes to the U.S. intelligence apparatus, my discussion of their publicly exposed efforts to develop mind control technology in no way stands as evidence in support of any other conspiracy claims. Likewise, recently, I noticed someone using promotional materials for my podcast to promote the Tartaria conspiracy theory. Though I was recently kicked off of TikTok when I was posting about my episodes on the death of Hitler and the Hitler’s diaries hoax—I believe because of one disgruntled admirer of Hitler who defaced my posts with pro-Hitler sentiments and who I believe may have wrongfully reported me as spreading hate speech (when in fact he was)—I have still been able to search TikTok on my desktop browser. While researching the last patron exclusive minisode, which went into the republic of the Russian Federation sometimes called Tataria, I did an image search to find a map, and I discovered that numerous promoters of the ridiculous Tartaria fraud are using the title card I created for my episode as the background for their little talking head videos. It’s a historic image of some brick layers working in the foreground with the Renaissance-style Iowa State Capitol looming in the background, and I added the title “The Lost Empire of Tartaria.” It was part of my ruse as an April Fool’s joke to act like there was something to this baseless conspiracy delusion in the episode’s cold open, but now I’m kicking myself, because the image is being widely used to promote those false claims. If only I’d been clear from the start and called it “The Myth of the Lost Empire of Tartaria,” or something, then they couldn’t use it or would have to put in more effort to make their own image. So I’ve decided that, from now on, my titles will make it abundantly clear when a topic I’m tackling is total bunk, and I will be doing all I can, at the beginning of episodes and and these accompanying blog posts, to clarify the truth, to debunk from the outset rather than playing it coy and building up to the reality of things. Because of that, at the beginning of this post, I want to talk a bit more about the flaws in Creationist arguments before I really dig into the one example of a fossil hoax they’re so fond of touting.

A diagram demonstrating the similarity of hominoid skeletal structure.

Proponents of Intelligent Design as a scientific theory will delve into very specific biological minutiae in order to argue that evolution cannot be true. They will say that there is no way eyes could have evolved because they are too complex, or that the propeller-like flagellum of bacteria are too complicated and must have been engineered. Actually, these are just the old “watch in a field” argument wearing different clothes, and in reality, biologists have observed more primitive versions of light-sensing organs and simpler flagellae, demonstrating the fact that these structures too developed slowly over time. And it’s funny that Creationists would point to bacteria to prove their views, since on a microevolutionary level, we see evolution today in the form of bacteria adapting to resist antibiotics. The fact is that almost all Creationists believe in evolutionary theory at the microevolutionary level, since few can reasonably deny the truth of viruses evolving resistant variants or insects evolving resistance to pesticide, and the common practices of plant and animal breeding show clearly how traits are inherited and change populations in sometimes dramatic ways. It’s usually only the implications of macroevolution, which involves speciation, that they reject. Perhaps the most common objection that Creationists rely on is that evolution is “just a theory,” and theories aren’t proven fact or necessarily true, and they will try to suggest that intelligent design is equally a theory by the dictionary definition, in that it too is an idea to explain something. But this relies on a grammar school understanding of the scientific process. The scientific community uses the term “theory” to denote an explanation that is substantiated with evidence. In reality, evolution meets the criteria of being considered a fact, as according to the National Academy of Sciences, a fact is “an observation that has been repeatedly confirmed and for all practical purposes is accepted as ‘true.’” Therefore, I will mostly try to refer to evolutionary science, rather than evolutionary theory, in order to avoid any hairsplitting over terminology. Creationists will claim that there is no scientific consensus, cherry-picking an outlier academic here or there that seems to be anti-evolution. This is just false, though, as was shown in numerous independent surveys of academic literature since the 1990s, conducted in efforts to determine the prominence of Intelligent Design views in academia, which found that no scientific studies supporting the claims of so-called “Creation Science” are published at all. The closest thing to it are papers by anti-evolution authors that do little more than highlight areas of uncertainty that the scientific community does not dispute. And any claims that academic publishers censor them and refuse to publish the findings of “Creation Science” are also refuted by the statements of major scholarly journal editors that few such manuscripts are even submitted for their consideration. The fact is that evolution science is consensus among experts because it has never been falsified by evidence. In other words, all study has helped to prove it’s true. Yes, evolutionary biologists disagree with each other on particulars, but not on the principles of evolutionary biology generally. This disagreement is part of the scientific process, and it’s why frauds like Piltdown Man are inevitably exposed.

In the autumn of 1812, rumors in the British press had begun to circulate that there had been an important paleontological find in Sussex, at Piltdown in Southern England. At a momentous meeting of the Geological Society of London, in December of that year, this find was finally revealed. Arthur Smith Woodward, a geologist with the British Museum, revealed that earlier that year, his friend Charles Dawson, a solicitor and amateur antiquarian, had written to him about a curious gravel pit near Barkham Manor, a Georgian mansion dating to the 18th century. Dawson told him that he had been curious of the brown flintstones in the gravel, as stone of that sort was known to have been used for crafting tools in the Stone Age. Dawson had asked the workers in the pit to keep an eye out for anything interesting, and on a return visit, one of them handed him a piece of an unusually thick skull. After finding yet another piece of what appeared to be the same skull in the gravel bed on a subsequent visit, Dawson had reached out to Woodward, and the two had undertaken a careful excavation of the pit throughout that summer. At first, they kept their efforts secret, bringing in only the French Jesuit prehistorian Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. They discovered seven fragments of the same skull, as well as half of a jaw with two intact molars, and in the same context, they discovered various Paleolithic stone tools and the fossilized bones of horses, deer, hippopotomi, elephants, and mastodon, which appeared to confirm the great age of the fossilized human remains. By summer the following year, Woodward had completed a reconstruction of the skull and presented it to anatomists at the International Congress of Medicine, and the importance of the find became even clearer. While Piltdown Man appeared to have an apelike jaw and thick skull, it had a braincase that would accommodate a fully-developed modern human brain. There were definite features of both ape and man present in the reconstruction, even in just the jaw fragment alone, which showed apelike morphology and yet had deep-rooted molars like those of a human. So it appeared that the much sought after “Missing Link” had been discovered, right there in England, just 44 miles from London, a hub of modern scholarship in paleontology. And more than that, this new find appeared to confirm what most British paleontologists and evolutionary biologists theorized at the time. And perhaps more importantly, it also appealed to everyday English men and women everywhere, stoking nationalism and inflating racial pride.

The Piltdown skull reconstruction

At the beginning of the 20th century, a notion had arisen among the paleo-intelligentsia that the large brain of Homo sapiens must have developed first, perhaps at the end of the Pliocene and beginning of the Pleistocene, before the loss of other apelike features in hominins. Previous candidates for the Missing Link had been the various Neanderthal fossils found in Germany and France, or Homo erectus, as observed in the Java Man fossil discovered in the 1890s. Those were at the time rejected as early human fossils because of their small braincases. In fact, Neanderthals had larger braincases but seemed smaller because it was more elongated. Regardless, Arthur Smith Woodward’s reconstruction of the Piltdown skull was seized on as an example of a seemingly transitional form between ape and man that showed early development of a large brain. It must be remembered that during this time, the old pseudoscience of craniometry, which attributed intelligence and personality traits to cranial measurements, was still clinging to life in academia. But Piltdown was also seized on for less academic reasons. Almost all major early human fossils to date had been discovered elsewhere in Europe. The Old Man of La Chappelle was discovered in France, the Engis skull in Belgium, and most galling to the English during the years preceding the Great War, several important fossils had been discovered in Germany, including the Feldhofer skull found in a valley from which Neanderthals take their name, and more recently, Homo heidelbergensis, found in Heidelberg. The British were desperate for some fossil man of their own, and this yearning can be discerned even in the first letter Dawson wrote to Woodward, in which he suggested his find “will rival H. heidelbergensis.” Not only would a British fossil allow British paleontologists an opportunity to study an important site without having to travel abroad, and not only would it allow them some bragging rights against their German rivals, but there was also the sense that finding the Missing Link in one’s country indicated that your country must have been the cradle of humanity and therefore of civilization. British paleontologists were eager to accept the Piltdown Man fraud because they wanted to believe in it. It meant they were right about the development of braincases, but it also meant that, though this might have gone without saying, maybe, just maybe, the first human being was English. And as if to emphasize this idea, the following year at the Piltdown site, a new tool was discovered, this one carved from an elephant bone—the earliest known bone tool—and it was shaped much like a cricket bat. It seemed the first man not only an Englishman but also a cricket player!

To be fair, paleontologists had some valid reasons for giving weight to the discovery as well. The specimens were seen by Smith Woodward, a respected expert, being picked up from a gravel bed in which had also been found paleolithic tools and extinct animal fossils. The context of the find alone appeared to confirm the legitimacy of the find, and this field site was widely photographed and visited by scientists who gave credence to the claim and lent it further legitimacy. As one might expect from a putative Missing Link, Piltdown Man very quickly became arguably the most famous fossil in the world. Even during the initial excavation of the gravel bed in Sussex it drew the attention of the aristocratic tenants living in area manor houses like the nearby Barkham Manor. Those who’ve watched Downton Abbey might imagine it vividly: “Some workmen are digging near the road causing quite the disturbance, and they say they’ve found some old bones there. How exciting!” During 1913, the Piltdown excavation became a popular day trip for Edwardian ladies and gentlemen, dressed in their finest picnicking clothes and driving out to have a look at the place where the Missing Link had been found. The number of photographs taken of the site and of the reconstruction of the Piltdown skull further propagated the hoax even among those who would never examine the actual fossils themselves. They were displayed in museums and used in education. One Belgian museum conservator even created a reconstruction of a living Piltdown Man from the waist up, a kind of noble looking humanlike ape, and this work of art was mass produced as a stereoscope card with the caption “Early Man.” Before long it was not only scholars who had staked their reputations on Piltdown, it was museums and media companies, and they were not just intellectually invested but also financially. This investment resulted in Piltdown being peddled as the end-all find of paleontology, to the detriment of legitimate new finds. For example, in 1925, more than a decade into the life of the Piltdown hoax, it was still going so strong that when the Taung Child, an almost 3 million year old fossil, was discovered in South Africa and showed a small braincase with more human features—exactly the opposite of what Piltdown showed—it was dismissed as a baby chimp. Piltdown not only fooled the scientific community, it also perpetuated a false notion about the evolution of human traits, as now it is more widely accepted that our large human brains were not among the first of our traits to develop.

A portrait of the scientists who examined the Piltdown fossil. Charles Dawson and Arthur Smith Woodward are pictured in the back right.

It should be said, however, that acceptance of the Piltdown fossils was not universal and wholehearted. Of course, even then the fundamentalists cast doubt on the find, as they would on any transitional fossil that appeared to confirm Darwinian evolution. Most famously, the lawyer William Jennings Bryan, who had been a progressive reformer in the Democratic Party and later in his career turned his attention to religious fundamentalist causes, acting as the prosecutor in the Scopes Monkey Trial, said of the Piltdown fossil, “The evolutionists have attempted to prove by circumstantial evidence (resemblances)that man is descended from the brute…. If they find a stray tooth in a gravel pit, they hold a conclave and fashion a creature such as they suppose the possessor of the tooth to have been, and then they shout derisively at Moses.” All bluster aside, in this instance, fundamentalist mistrust would be proven justified. But the fact is that there were scientists who also doubted Piltdown from the beginning. There was Arthur Keith, a museum conservator associated with the Royal College of Surgeons, who suggested that Woodward’s reconstruction of the skull was manifestly inaccurate. There was David Waterston, an anatomist with King’s College, who said the apelike jaw could not possibly have been from the same creature as the humanlike skull, despite the humanlike rooting of its molars, arguing they were two entirely different fossils. Across the Atlantic, in America, there were further grumblings by Gerrit Miller of the U.S. National Museum, who likewise believed the skull and jaw fragments were from two distinct fossil creatures. Eventually these holdouts were converted by further discoveries. In 1913, after some reservations were expressed about the suspicious fact that no eyetooth, or canine, had been found, as a canine tooth would certainly help to determine how apelike the Piltdown creature had been, suddenly an eyetooth was discovered in the gravel pit by the Jesuit, De Chardin, and it matched perfectly with Woodward’s reconstruction of what the half-ape and half-human canine might look like. And in 1915, finally laying to rest all doubts that the two fossils had been from different creatures, Dawson just happened to discover an entirely different set of fossil remains two miles distant from the first site, complete with very similar skull fragments and another human-like molar, along with a Pleistocene-era rhinoceros tooth to provide some sense of its age. This finally quieted most critics, although some continued to doubt. Decades later, their doubts would be vindicated, as scientific testing proved that, not only were the skull and jaw fragments from different creatures, as long suspected by some, but also that the whole thing had been a carefully crafted fraud.

In the 1940s, as misgivings and suspicions about Piltdown had steadily resurged, a way to test the fossils was discovered. The fragments that comprise the Java Man fossil had recently been proven to have come from a single individual through fluorine testing. Throughout a creature’s lifetime, its bones absorb the same amount of fluorine from the water it drinks, so a test of fossilized remains could determine whether fragments were all from the same creature by determining if they all contained the same amount of fluorine. When the tests were conducted in 1948, sure enough, the jaw and skull contained differing levels of fluorine, proving that despite their being found close together and being the exact same brownish color, they were not from a single creature. Since this initial debunking, further chemical tests were able to prove that the remains are far younger than originally believed, despite having been found with animal remains from the Pleistocene, suggesting they may have been planted there. And any further doubts about whether it had been a deliberate hoax evaporated when powerful modern microscopes revealed that the fossils had been doctored. As long suspected by many, the skull fragments were human, unusually thick but within normal human ranges, and the mandible and teeth were from a young orangutan. The hoaxer or hoaxers knew what they were doing. They had filed down teeth in an orangutan jaw to make them appear more human, and they had even gone so far as to drill into the mandible to widen the root holes and make the molars appear more deeply rooted in the human fashion, filling in the roots with gravel and putty. And they had artificially aged all of the fragments with an iron solution to give them all the exact same brown hue. Since these discoveries, the central mystery surrounding Piltdown has been the identity of the hoaxer. Was it a single person or a conspiracy? There have been many suspects. The most outrageous is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes, who lived nearby and regularly golfed near the Piltdown site and was known to collect fossils and enjoy a good practical joke. It has been suggested that Doyle, a believer in spiritualism, might have been motivated to make the scientific community and their focus on materialism look foolish in retaliation for their scorn for spiritualism. Another suspect was a young member of the Natural History Museum staff, Martin Hinton. In 1970, a trunk of his was discovered that contained bones that had been filed and stained in the same manner as the Piltdown fragments. According to this theory, Hinton had some personal and intellectual differences with Arthur Smith Woodward and wanted to make him look the fool. The major problem with these theories, as I see it, is that both men went to their deaths without ever revealing that they had played the prank, the whole point of which would have been that it is revealed to be a fraud and thus make those who believed it look foolish.

Charles Dawson, the prime suspect in the forgery.

The most likely scenario involves one or all of the three men who initially undertook the excavation of Piltdown in secrecy, Arthur Smith Woodward, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, and Charles Dawson. Indeed, those who believe in a conspiracy to perpetrate the hoax typically focus on these three. De Chardin is interesting as a suspect because he personally found the eyetooth, but he was a serious scientist who would later help to discover the authentic fossil remains of Peking Man in China. The theory put forward of why he would be involved is also rather flimsy, suggesting that as a Frenchman he just wanted to make British paleontologists look foolish. According to those who knew him best, this was not in his character. As for Arthur Smith Woodward, I think it is safe to exclude him from any such conspiracy altogether. We have the evidence of the letters from Dawson to Woodward showing that he had been drawn to the Piltdown site after fragments were already discovered there, and the fact is that, after Charles Dawson died in 1916, Woodward continued to search for more fossils at Piltdown for nearly 30 years, never finding anything else. Indeed the very fact that Dawson was present at the discovery of or personally dug up every Piltdown find and that nothing else was ever found after his passing seems to implicate him the most. And there are further indications of his guilt as well. Though he was an amateur, he had long sought recognition among the scholarly community. He had a long-standing certificate of candidacy for the Royal Society that he renewed every year until his death, though he was never accepted. And he may not have shrunk from unethical efforts to receive that recognition. Before the Piltdown affair, he had written two volumes of a history of Hastings Castle and was afterward accused of plagiarizing most of it. One early version of the story he told about discovering the first skull fragment actually said that the worker who handed it to him said they thought it was a coconut, and this is actually identical to the story of the discovery of Java Man, indicating he may have even plagiarized his claims about finding the Piltdown fossil. And according to the most recent scientific investigations into the Piltdown hoax, published by Dawson’s beloved Royal Society, the inexpert forgery of the skull, which appears to have resulted in cracks and damage that had to be mended and covered up with putty, show that the forger was an amateur like Dawson, not a trained paleontologist like Woodward or De Chardin, or even a museum conservator like Martin Hinton. Furthermore, the techniques used by the forger are so consistent that they act as a signature, indicating one forger. In fact, in 2003, an archaeologist examined his antiquarian collection and found several fake artifacts, some showing the same telltale filing of teeth. Add to this the fact that bringing in an accomplice would have introduced a far greater likelihood of exposure, and all signs point to Charles Dawson alone fabricating the Piltdown fragments and either pretending to find them in the Piltdown gravel or planting them where he knew his dupes would see them.

As a means of casting doubt on the consensus of the scientific community, the Piltdown fraud is perfect ammunition for Creationists. It does show that academics are prone to error, like any human beings, and that they seek to preserve and support their own pet theories, their prejudices. It also shows how peer pressure does exist, and casting doubt on accepted views can be discouraged. But it also shows how science inevitably corrects itself because of the power of evidence and falsifiability. The scientific process wins out in the end, and the fact is that, with the development of sophisticated tests such as have been used to reveal Piltdown, a hoax of such a massive scale could not happen again. No, scientists are not infallible, but they may be more likely to examine their preconceptions than theologians, as their entire worldview is based on the correction of false ideas and the empirical building of knowledge. This is not to say that scientists know everything about our origins either. It’s true that we do not yet know with any certainty how life originated, although biochemists have a strong idea of how it may have begun from basic building blocks, and astrochemists have provided some further idea of how comets may have brought those building blocks to Earth. But the thing is, we don’t have to know how life first appeared to acknowledge the fact of how it has evolved. And there are many, many people of strong religious faith who accept this. Some of the keenest minds in Christianity don’t reject science but rather reconcile their faith with the fact of evolution. Darwin himself had been on the path of becoming a clergyman before taking an interest in natural history, and he said himself that he had “never been an atheist in the sense of denying the existence of a God.” The Jesuit Pierre Teilhard de Chardin had reconciled his Christian faith with the principles of evolution, as had Raymond Dart, the discoverer of the Taung Child. Famous novelist and Christian apologist C.S. Lewis reconciled the two with this elegant and concise turn of phrase: “For long centuries God perfected the animal form which was to become the vehicle of humanity and the image of Himself.” And the influential evangelist Billy Graham admitted “The bible is not a book of science” and reconciled his faith with biological evolution by stating, “I believe that God created man, …whether it came by an evolutionary process…or not.” Even the last two Popes have reconciled with science, with Benedict XVI calling them “complementary—rather than mutually exclusive—realities” and Francis asserting that “[t]he evolution of nature does not contrast with the notion of creation.” I think fundamentalists can learn a thing or two from these figures. If one feels their faith is threatened by science, then their faith is simply not very strong, because the fact is that faith and science are neither compatible nor in conflict. They are entirely unrelated realms of human thought…that were clearly developed following the evolution of larger brains.

Until next time, remember, When the latest scientific discovery is trumpeted in the press, give it a few years before you start placing too much weight on it.

 Further Reading

Black, Riley. “What’s a ‘Missing Link’?” Smithsonian, 6 March 2018, www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/whats-missing-link-180968327/.

De Groote, Isabelle, et al. “New genetic and morphological evidence suggests a single hoaxer created ‘Piltdown man.’” Royal Society Open Science, 1 Aug. 2016, doi.org/10.1098/rsos.160328.

Kramer, Brad. “Famous Christians Who Believed Evolution is Compatible with Christian Faith.” BioLogos, 8 Aug. 2018, biologos.org/articles/famous-christians-who-believed-evolution-is-compatible-with-christian-faith?gad=1&gclid=Cj0KCQjwldKmBhCCARIsAP-0rfziunqkYPe1whthvBLbHKBKcNaeqiGV-WOGIWIphFPx2ltaDLI7j90aAgOsEALw_wcB.

Price, Michael. “Study reveals culprit behind Piltdown Man, one of science's most famous hoaxes.” Science, 9 Aug. 2016, www.science.org/content/article/study-reveals-culprit-behind-piltdown-man-one-science-s-most-famous-hoaxes.

Pyne, Lydia. Seven Skeletons: The Evolution of the World’s Most Famous Human Fossils. Viking, 2016.

Rennie, John. “15 Answers to Creationist Nonsense.” Scientific American, 1 July 2002, www.scientificamerican.com/article/15-answers-to-creationist/.

“What Is the Evidence for Evolution?” BioLogos, 4 Nov. 2022, biologos.org/common-questions/what-is-the-evidence-for-evolution?gad=1&gclid=Cj0KCQjwldKmBhCCARIsAP-0rfyUG_nCH4_0o0BRikNSP-5JtaRjCLjY2PfAvqwuQfKirToWTc8uDHIaAhu4EALw_wcB.

The Forging of the Crystal Skulls

There is no denying that the use of crystals to ensure health and wellness is ancient, as the modern purveyors of crystal healing will surely tell you. What they won’t tell you is that their use today differs fundamentally from their use in the past. Yes, crystals were used, as were almost every other precious stone, in the form of amulets worn for protection and good fortune in ancient Greece and Egypt. Different minerals were believed to have different uses or affect us in different ways, and as we have seen with all lore associated with magic and alchemy, these beliefs persisted, crossed cultural barriers, and evolved through the years into the Middle Ages, when the medicinal and magical properties of crystals and other minerals were catalogued in medical papyri and grimoires. But the use of crystals by New Age gurus today really is not based on historical practices, which fell out of favor in the 17th century as the medicinal powers attributed to crystals began to be attributed instead to the Christian God and his angels. New Age crystal healing really was invented in the 1980s, mostly attributed to the work of Katrina Raphaell, who took what had always been a folk tradition that relied on the placebo effect and transformed it into a modern pseudoscience with an elaborate mythos behind it. According to her, the “science” of crystal healing originated in Atlantis, which as so many have claimed through the ages, was a technologically advanced civilization that, according to Raphaell and the New Age movement, used crystals for telepathic purposes. She claims to possess and teach the supposedly Atlantean art of arranging crystals on the body in such a way that they activate the chakras, allowing one to access deeper levels of consciousness that enable self-healing. And of course, she sells the crystals that are needed. Crystals have become a billion dollar industry since the advent of the New Age movement, and the price can really be hiked if the crystal is claimed to be from Atlantis. Considering this phenomenon and subculture, it is perhaps unsurprising that the most famous and fabled of all crystal artifacts, the crystal skulls that appeared in the possession the Mesoamerican antiquities dealers between the 1870s and the 1930s, would eventually be claimed to have come from Atlantis and have the ability to heal or to kill, to reveal the past or the future. But even dismissing these claims out of hand, the simple claim that these crystal skulls are genuine Pre-Columbian Mesoamerican artifacts cannot be credited. Thus these hoax objects have a false history that has since been encircled by further false claims and pseudohistory, making them a perfect topic for this blog.

This is another of my posts exploring on the lore of the MacGuffins featured in Indiana Jones films, as obviously the fourth film, The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, featured a crystal skull as its main MacGuffin. Unlike some of the preceding films, which actually seemed well-read in the lore they explored, this one just mentions that Indy was “obsessed with the Mitchell-Hedges skull” in college… and that’s about it. The crystal skull in the film is not claimed to be one of the known crystal skulls and is shaped differently to look like an elongated skull, thus to connect with Peruvian skull modification and then, of course, to aliens. It might at first seem unrealistic to suggest that an archaeology student would be obsessed with the crystal skull, knowing as we do today that all of them were fakes, but that’s not really accurate. When the aforementioned Mitchell-Hedges skull came to the attention of the scholarly community in the 1930s, since it corresponded with another crystal skull in the possession of the British Museum, it actually did generate some interest. The timeline does not really work, though, since the watershed moment, a major article in the anthropology journal Man, did not come until 1936, at which time Indy was already a professor and international relic-hunter, not a student at University of Chicago. But it’s close enough for jazz, and indeed, the crystal skulls did interest some in the scholarly community at first, as they were at the time preoccupied with craniometry, but more so they interested the general public, especially in France, where these crystal skulls seem to have first appeared. In mid- to late-19th century Europe, there was a real market for trinkets symbolic of death, sold as mementos mori, kept to remind one of the inevitability of death. And in France in particular, a burgeoning industry of macabre art was booming. Stereoscopic cards were becoming more and more popular at the time. These were pairs of nearly identical photographs or prints that appeared three dimensional when viewed in a stereoscope. Think of the viewfinder toys of your youth, if you grew up in the eighties. Increasingly popular in France was a style of stereoscope card called Diableries, in which sculptures or devils and skeletons, often making satirical commentary on the corruption of Napoleon III and his court, came to life, with special effects like a red glow in the eyes of skulls when the lighting was right. Amplifying this was the French interest in Mexican culture, occasioned by Louis Napoleon’s invasion of the country and installment of Austrian archduke Maximilian von Hapsburg as its emperor. Anyone boasting even a passing familiarity with Mesoamerican cultures must be aware of the depiction of skeletons and skulls in their art going all the way back to the Aztecs. The Spanish tried to suppress skull art as pagan, but it remains common in the culture today, in syncretistic coexistence with Catholic traditions. When crystal skulls began to be sold in France in the latter half of the 19th-century, claimed to be Mesoamerican artifacts, they appealed to the European taste for the macabre as well as for the exotic.

A “Diablery,” image courtesy The London Stereoscopic Company.

These first crystal skulls were quite small, perhaps an inch high, and they each had a hole drilled vertically through them from the top of the skull downward, such that they could be worn like a bead. According to my principal source, the extensive work of Jane MacLaren Walsh on this subject, cited below, one of the first such crystal skulls was acquired in Mexico by a British banker sometime in the 1850s, and then two more were displayed at the Exposition Universelle in Paris in 1867. A fourth was purchased in 1874 by the national museum, and a fifth in 1880. The Smithsonian purchased one from Mexico in 1886. There should have been more caution about the provenance and authenticity of these small crystal skull beads from the start, however, because there was nothing else like them in Mesoamerican art. As it turns out, it was exceedingly rare to find quartz artifacts, at least in controlled archaeological digs, whose finds can be trusted to be genuine. In fact, the sole piece of carved crystal known to have ever been discovered in a pre-Columbian Mesoamerican dig, at Monte Albán in southern Mexico, was a crystal goblet whose rough tool marks indicate the inability of Mesoamerican artists working with stone tools to achieve the kinds of workmanship we see in pretty much all crystal skulls. Any other Mesoamerican artifacts made of crystal are simply small ornaments, like beads. In fact, the Smithsonian’s crystal skull bead was determined in the 1950s to have been carved using a modern lapidary wheel, making it a definite fake, though the hole drilled through it may have been accomplished using more rudimentary tools. This raised the possibility that these small crystal skulls were genuine Mesoamerican crystal beads that had been altered using modern tools in order to make them appeal to European buyers. Indeed, an 18th century South American painting of Saint Teresa of Ávila depicts her wearing just such a skull charm on her rosary. It has been suggested that these skull beads, like the crucifix, may have represented a reminder of Christ’s Passion, which occurred on Golgotha, the hill on which he was crucified, whose name meant “place of the Skull.” This would suggest yet another, older market for such an artifact, giving further reason for their manufacture. But if these first crystal skulls were manufactured in the 19th century, or if they were perhaps simply 18th-century Spanish religious baubles misrepresented as ancient Mesoamerican artifacts, who was responsible for them? As it turns out, one man can be connected, at least circumstantially, to all of them. The two skulls exhibited in Paris at the Exhibition Universelle in 1867 were both from the collection of a French antiquities dealer who served as the official archaeologist of Emperor Maximilian in Mexico, where all the rest of the similar crystal skull beads had been sold to collectors. And this man, Eugène Boban, would later be tied to the emergence of the first life-size crystal skulls.

Boban had left Paris for the Americas at 19 years old, hoping to avoid Napoleon III’s draft and to strike gold in California. Unsuccessful in the gold fields, he came to Mexico City in 1857 and found a new way to strike it rich. After learning Spanish and the indigenous language of Nahuatl, he reinvented himself as an antiquities trader, doing a brisk business selling Aztec artifacts to tourists. About 20 years later, a Smithsonian archaeologist who visited the city warned his fellow scholars about the shops on every corner selling fake artifacts. It was this burgeoning trade in spurious antiquities that Boban helped to spearhead. When, after civil war, the Zapotec native Benito Juarez became president and began dismantling the Catholic churches that had been built on top of Aztec temples, Boban benefitted by acquiring a great deal of Spanish artifacts and art. Then, when Louis Napoleon invaded and established Maximilian as the Mexican Emperor, he benefited again, becoming the “antiquarian to the Emperor,” and amassing a large collection of pagan artifacts. It was Napoleon III’s Commission Scientifique that sent his collection to Paris to be exhibited in 1867, and two years later, Boban went there himself, hoping to sell his collection and finally get rich. He opened a curio shop called Antiquites Mexicaines. During his time there, he became a source for real skulls, which he sold and donated to anthropologists and anatomists. Perhaps having already observed the interest in small crystal skull baubles, and knowing the market for life-size skulls, he seems to have put the two together when he began exhibiting and offering for sale ever larger crystal skulls. In 1878, he sold a collection of small crystal skulls and one grapefruit-sized skull, which also had a hole drilled through it like all the others. Then in 1881, he began to display a life-size crystal skull with no hole drilled through it. These skulls came into his possession while he was in France, so either he had a pipeline direct from Mexico, where artifacts unlike any others ever seen before were promptly shipped to his antiquities shop, or he somehow found and purchased these artifacts from another dealer or a forger whose name he never revealed, or he simply made them himself. Even at the time there was suspicion about them. When his larger crystal skulls were exhibited publicly in Paris, they were displayed with the caveat that “the authenticity appears doubtful.” Unable to sell his life-size crystal skull, Boban returned with it to Mexico and began asserting it was a genuine Aztec artifact that had been discovered in a dig at Veracruz and attempting to sell it to the National Museum of Mexico. When the provenance and authenticity of the skull was challenged before its sale to the museum, and Boban accused of fraud, he hastily took his collection and fled to New York, where he thereafter managed to sell his crystal skull to Tiffany & Co. for an exorbitant price. About ten years later, Tiffany’s sold it to the British Museum, where for a long time it was displayed alongside genuine Pre-Columbian Mesoamerican artifacts as if it were authentic.

Eugène Boban with his collection of Mexican antiquities.

Cut to about 50 years later, in 1943, when a man named Frederick Mitchell-Hedges bid £400 in a Sotheby’s auction to acquire another crystal skull. This one was different from Boban’s skull in that it was more finely polished, more anatomically realistic, and the jaw was of a separate piece, removable from the rest of the skull. Otherwise, though, it was of almost the same exact shape, which fact had garnered interest in the object years earlier, when the anthropological journal Man published a 1936 article consisting of a morphological comparison of the Boban skull in the British Museum and this new skull, which the article indicated was in the possession of one Sydney Burney. After Mitchell-Hedges obtained the skull, he immediately began making unsupported claims about its age and the method by which it was made, saying in a letter to his brother that “scientists put the date at pre-1800 B.C., and they estimate it took five generations passing from Father to son, to complete.” Mitchell-Hedges kept this crystal skull in his possession for the next 16 years, until his death in 1959, and thereafter, it passed into the possession of his adopted daughter Anna Mitchell-Hedges. Since her death in 2007, it has been in the care of her widower, Bill Homann. The story of the Mitchell-Hedges skull is not one of dubious provenance. We know very little about where it came from. It apparently came into Sydney Burney’s possession in 1933 from an undisclosed source. Burney was a London art dealer. It makes sense that he would buy the object and then approach museums with his find in order to ascertain its potential worth, afterward putting it up for auction to the highest bidder. We have no reason to think he forged the item himself, but we do have good reason to suspect that it may have come from the same source as Boban’s skull, since analysis indicates they were carved according to the exact dimensions of the same skull. Whether Boban fabricated both of them or both were carved by some unknown forger, or the latter was copied from the former somehow, we may never know. The story of the Mitchell-Hedges skull is rather more interesting in the way that it gathered myth and legend through the years, like a snowball growing as it tumbles down a snowy slope, false claims accreting as it passed through the decades and through the hands of those who sought to profit from it. And it all began with Mitchell-Hedges himself, whose life story should have demonstrated his lack of credibility from the start.

Frederick Mitchell-Hedges loved a big fish story…literally. He was a wealthy man who spent his time pursuing the hobby of deep-sea fishing, and capitalizing on his hobby by selling stories about his supposed adventures. The fish that got away in his stories, which he published in articles and books, were always giant, man-eating monsters, and Hearst newspapers paid him to spin his yarns. Soon his tales turned to fantastical pseudo-archaeological claims. He claimed to have discovered tribes uncontacted by civilization, to have found unknown continents, and to have been the first to explore the ruins of amazing lost civilizations. In 1927, he claimed to have been assaulted and robbed of some important anthropological artifacts, including papers and shrunken heads, but the Daily Express newspaper exposed this claim as a hoax. Mitchell-Hedges then tried to sue the newspaper for libel the next year, but he lost the suit and under cross-examination was revealed to be something of an imposter when it came to his claims as an explorer. In his 1931 book, Land of Wonder and Fear, he capitalized on these dubious claims, such as having discovered the Mayan city of Lubaantún in British Honduras, though archaeologists and European residents of the area protested that the ruins he had visited, by motor car, had been well-known for a long time. A few years after buying the Burney crystal skull in 1943, and immediately mythologizing it with claims that it was 2000 years old—far older than Boban had ever claimed his “Aztec” skull to be—he had changed his story and begun claiming that he had discovered it himself in the 1930s. Within another five years, he published a new book, Danger My Ally, in which he embellished the story of his crystal skull even further, claiming that it was 3,600 years old, and that somehow he knew it had been used by a Mayan High Priest for some occult ritual. “When the High Priest willed death,” he wrote, “with the help of the skull, death inevitably followed. It has been described as the embodiment of evil.” Thus the Mitchell-Hedges skull came to be called the Skull of Doom, which of course would have been a better name for an Indiana Jones film, if they hadn’t already made Temple of Doom. It seems possible that Mitchell-Hedges’s fictionalizing of the crystal skull’s paranormal powers was inspired by a piece of short fiction published in 1936 called The Crystal Skull. In this story, the author Jack McLaren tells the story of a stolen crystal skull that gives its wielder some kind of psychic powers. Whether Mitchell-Hedges read that story or dreamed up his tall tales on his own, this was just the beginning of the claims of supernatural or occult powers that would eventually surround the Mitchell-Hedges skull.

Mitchell-Hedges (left), as pictured on the cover of one of his books. Image courtesy Archaeology magazine.

The majority of the paranormal claims made about the Mitchell-Hedges skull and crystal skulls generally, were made after Anna Mitchell-Hedges had inherited the object. Like her adopted father before her, she changed the story of where the skull had come from, likely in an effort to provide some more credible provenance. Now she claimed that it was not Frederick Mitchell-Hedges who found it, but rather that she had found it herself when she accompanied him on a certain expedition to the lost Mayan city of Lubaantún. And in order to account for the well-documented fact that her adopted father had bought the crystal skull from London art dealer Sydney Burney, she later claimed that he had borrowed money from Burney and left the skull as security, that he’d merely put the skull in hock until he could redeem it. But of course, it had been auctioned at Sotheby’s, not bought directly back from Burney, and a letter about the skull from Burney to the American Museum of Natural History indicates that it had been in Burney’s possession for a full decade before it was sold at Sotheby’s. More than this, Anna Mitchell-Hedges’s story about finding the skull continually changed. She found it in 1924, or was it 1926 or ’27 or ’28? She remembered being lowered down into a cave, or was it the interior of a pyramid? Or rather, she had climbed to the top of the pyramid and found it under the stones of a fallen altar. And after all, eventually, she recalled that it had been her birthday when she discovered it. Odd that this would slip her mind for so long. Since other archaeologists who were at the Lubaantún site in 1927 and 1928 and asserted that neither Frederick nor Anna Mitchell-Hedges were there at the time, she eventually decided it must have been 1924, making her only 17 years old. The further problem here is that Frederick Mitchell-Hedges wrote extensively about his expeditions, and he did not mention bringing a 17-year-old daughter with him. He wrote about other women he brought, though. For example, he writes about his companion and the bankroller of his expeditions, Lady Richmond Brown, and he even mentions that his secretary, Jane, traveled with him. He even goes into great detail about bringing a pet monkey named Michael along, who became ill on the expedition and whom he had to shoot to put out of his misery, burying him with all the ceremony of a loved one. As scholar Jane MacLaren Walsh points out, it is certainly strange that he would devote more time to his secretary and his pet monkey than to his own teenage daughter in recording the events of the expedition, especially if it were she who had discovered a life-size crystal skull on her birthday. That, it seems, would certainly have made it into the book. Instead, in Danger My Ally, Frederick Mitchell-Hedges is coy about where and when he supposedly found the skull, saying only, “How it came into my possession, I have reason for not revealing.”

Once Anna had acquired the coveted Mitchell-Hedges skull, it wasn’t long before some former associates of her father came around to encourage her to profit from it. Specifically, Frank Dorland, an art dealer from San Francsico, convinced her that he could “launch a programme about the skull” that would raise its worth and drive up its potential price. Dorland had done this before for Anna father. In 1953, six years before his death, Frederick Mitchell-Hedges had purchased a religious icon that was likely one of many copies of a famed icon, the Black Virgin of Kazan. With Dorland’s help, though, Mitchell-Hedges had been able to promote his icon as the original Kazan icon, lost in 1904. Failing that, he asserted that it was at least a certain 16th-century copy of the original, the “Fátima image,” which was lost in 1917 and was just as sought after. Dorland continued his promotion of the Mitchell-Hedges icon for years after Frederick’s death, managing to get it exhibited in New York’s World Trade Fair in 1964. By that time, he had also contracted with Anna Mitchell-Hedges to promote the crystal skull, and he did so by amplifying the idea that it was a supernatural object. He took to calling it “The Skull of Divine Mystery,” “The Skull of Knowledge,” and “The Godshead Skull.” In documents sent to the director of the Museum of the American Indian, it was claimed that the skull could protect against the evil eye, that it “carries protection from heaven” and “defeats all evils of witchcraft,” claiming that it wielded “benevolent divine magic dealing with heaven and angelic forces.” The fingerprints of Dorland’s marketing of the skull seem apparent here, and after this, his “programme” seemed focused on getting books published that further mythologized the crystal skull as a talisman of occult power. In 1970, a book appeared called Phrenology, about the pseudoscience of studying the bumps on people’s skulls in order to determine their personality traits. But the book was more than a simple phrenology manual. It was written by Sybil Leek, a self-proclaimed psychic medium and probably the best-known representative of witchcraft in England. She wrote some 60 books in her lifetime, on astrology, numerology, faith healing, reincarnation, et cetera, and the cover of her book on phrenology pictured the Mitchell-Hedges skull. In it, she made strange claims that the skull was not actually Mesoamerican but had been carried to the New World by… and maybe you can guess who… that’s right, the Knights Templar. After this book’s publication, Anna Mitchell-Hedges was upset with Dorland, not so much about the claims Leek made in it, but rather that the English witch said the skull belonged to Frank Dorland. In order to pacify her, Dorland arranged for another book to be published by a novelist named Richard Garvin. This 1973 book, with the kind of eye-catching occult cover art that grabbed readers’ attention in those years, was called The Crystal Skull, and in it, it was suggested that the skull originated in Atlantis, that it was evil, that it brought death to those who would not revere it and could be used as a terrible weapon in the wrong hands.

The beguiling cover of the 1974 book that helped popularize the Crystal Skull legend. Image used under Fair Use.

So we see that the mythologizing of crystal skulls as objects of occult power started with the yarn-spinner Frederick Mitchell-Hedges, and continued after his death with his adopted daughter and with Frank Dorland, his old partner in marketing dubious artifacts. From the 1970s onward, it is possible to trace all outlandish paranormal claims about crystal skulls, including their ability to hypnotize and impart knowledge when one looks into their eyes, as depicted in the Indiana Jones film, back to these efforts at marketing an artifact that previously had only been viewed as a ritual object, if not as a fraud. In the book that Frank Dorland commissioned, the author insinuated that archaeologists dismissed it and scientists refused to study it “because they cannot come to grips with the fact that there may be a knowledge demonstrated here which is beyond our civilized comprehension.” And this, as usual, is the ultimate joke. As I have argued before, such claims just show a fundamental lack of understanding of the scholarly community and academic study and publishing, as a scientifically verifiable discovery of something seemingly supernatural would be sought after. It would mean fame, which would mean funding. And in fact, my principal source for this episode, the anthropologist Jane MacLaren Walsh, a Smithsonian archivist, has done more than dig up all the history of the crystal skulls, from Boban to Mitchell-Hedges. She has also subjected the Mitchell-Hedges skull to the scientific testing that it was long claimed scientists refused to conduct. What she found was that, indeed, the Mitchell-Hedges skull appeared to be an exact copy of the Boban skull in its dimensions, but that the anatomical details of its eye sockets, nasal cavity, teeth and jaw were more correct, which leads to the conclusion that a later forger was attempting to capitalize on the Boban skull while also improving on its workmanship. Using ultraviolent light, computerized tomography, and scanning electron microscopy, Walsh confirmed that the Mitchell-Hedges skull showed signs of having been carved with high-speed wheeled rotary carving using diamond-coated, hard metal tools that have only been available in modern times. Thus, the Mitchell-Hedges skull was likely forged sometime in the 1930s, before it came into Sydney Burney’s possession. Likewise, similar testing was conducted on the Boban skull that demonstrated it too had been carved using wheeled rotary technology that would have been in use in the 19th century. Considering this evidence, it is safe to dismiss all the crystal skulls as forged artifacts, and all the claims made about their provenance and paranormal powers as nothing but hoaxes.

At first blush, one might think that these hoax artifacts are a ridiculous MacGuffin for Indiana Jones to quest after, since as an archaeologist in the 1950s, when that film was set, he likely would not have given much credence to the stories of crystal skulls. But of course, if we were to judge his character based on the real-life authenticity of the objects he searches for, then the notion that he and his father believed the Holy Grail was a real object makes them seem just as ridiculous. Based on the idea that he thought the literary invention of the Holy Grail might have been real, and that he was obsessed with the Mitchell-Hedges skull, we might begin to view Indy as a credulous dupe and a pseudo-archaeologist. But we must remember that these are action-adventure films with science-fiction/fantasy elements, and for such a story, the crystal skulls are kind of perfect MacGuffins to weave into a story about the search for a lost city of gold founded by ancient aliens. Even though the execution wasn’t great, I suppose I see what they were going for and can’t fault them for trying. Interestingly, there is one more connection between the story of the crystal skulls and the Indiana Jones films. The golden idol that Indy snatches from a booby-trapped ruin in South America in Raiders of the Lost Ark is apparently modeled after a statuette of the goddess Tlazolteotl on display at the Dumbarton Oaks museum in Washington, D.C. The provenance of this statuette was questionable, and because images of this deity do not typically depict her in a squatting position giving birth, as is the case with this piece, some suggestions of its inauthenticity have arisen. As it turns out, Eugène Boban played a significant part in the original acquisition of this piece, and when Jane MacLaren Walsh, who was piecing together Boban’s frauds more than a hundred years later, analyzed the statuette, she again discovered evidence of modern rotary lapidary tools. Thus it seems more than one hoax artifact cooked up by the swindler Eugène Boban may have ended up inspiring the MacGuffins that famous archaeologist Indiana Jones risks his very life seeking out.

The Mitchell-Hedges skull. Image courtesy Archaeology magazine.

Until next time, when next you visit a museum, remember, even the objects displayed there and asserted to be of a certain age and origin, aren’t always as authentic as is claimed.

Further Reading

May, Brian. “Diableries: French Devil Tissue Stereos.” The London Stereoscopic Company, www.londonstereo.com/diableries/index.html.

Morant, G. M. “142. A Morphological Comparison of Two Crystal Skulls.” Man, vol. 36, 1936, pp. 105–07. JSTOR, doi.org/10.2307/2789341. Accessed 26 July 2023.

Walsh, Jane MacLaren, and David R Hunt. “The Fourth Skull: A Tale of Authenticity and Fraud.” The Appendix, vol. 1, no. 2, April 2013, theappendix.net/issues/2013/4/the-fourth-skull-a-tale-of-authenticity-and-fraud.

Walsh, Jane MacLaren. “The Dumbarton Oaks Tlazolteotl: Looking Beneath the Surface.” Journal de la Société des Américanistes, vol. 94, no. 1, 2008, pp. 7-43. OpenEdition Journals, journals.openedition.org/jsa/8623.

Walsh, Jane MacLaren. “Legend of the Crystal Skulls.” Archaeology, vol. 61, no. 3, 2008, pp. 36–41. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/41780363. Accessed 26 July 2023.

Walsh, Jan Maclaren. “The Skull of Doom.” Archaeology, 27 May 2010, archive.archaeology.org/online/features/mitchell_hedges/.  

The Source of the Fountain of Youth Myth

The existence of Amazon warrior women was a mainstay of Western mythology. These women who fight on horseback and, it was sometimes said, had one of their breasts removed so as to better operate a bow, fought in the Trojan War according to Homer’s Iliad, one of the oldest surviving literary works of Europe, likely dating to the 8th century BCE. They did not cross over from myth to what might be considered history by some until around 450 BCE, when Greek historian Herodotus made reference to them as if they were real. When he encountered in Lycia a society that valued maternalism and traced kinship through matrilineal descent, he thought without evidence that they must be descended from the famous Amazons. And in describing the forerunners of the Sarmatian people, a matriarchal and equestrian culture, Herodotus writes “the story is as follows” and seemingly repeats an unsupported claim that their people were produced by some shipwrecked Amazons who procreated with Scythian men. While evidence has arisen to suggest real Eurasian warrior women inspired these tales, they fall squarely in the realm of myth, and evolved as they were embraced by other cultures. In Arabian legend, Alexander the Great was said to have married the Queen of the Amazons, and it was claimed that the homeland of the warrior women was on an island in the Indian Ocean, but in the Middle Ages, Arab cartographer Muhammad al-Idrisi located this mythical island in the Atlantic Ocean, and here we start to see hints of the modern day legends that inspired Wonder Woman. Unsurprisingly, in the 15th and 16th centuries, when explorers believed that they might encounter any number of such mythical isles across the great sea, such as Antillia or the Fortunate Isles, the notion that any island they might happen upon could be the isle of the Amazons loomed in imaginations. As a result, when explorers did make landfall, they looked for indications of a matriarchal culture as evidence of such a discovery. Christopher Columbus wrote in the log of his first voyage that some natives told him, no doubt in response to some leading and poorly translated questions, that some nearby island was inhabited only by women, and that they received male visitation only during certain times of the year for reproductive purposes. Columbus was actually well-versed in such myths and in Greek and Arab classic literature generally. He latched onto such indications with alacrity, quick to twist any native tales, whether poorly understood or even fabricated in an effort to please him, as proof of the existence of such mythological locations. In reality, it seems, the natives he was questioning were actually referring to an island on which they kept female prisoners for forced breeding. But this would not be the last time that Columbus or other explorers mistakenly believed they had discovered a mythical site. Another such myth, that of the Fountain of Youth, the spring that originated in paradise and rejuvenated those who bathed in or drank from it, was also sometimes prominent in the thoughts of New World explorers, though we find when we look further into this myth that it has become even more a myth, a historical myth, falsely claimed to have been a legend among native tribes and inaccurately asserted to have been the obsession and sole objective of the conquistador Juan Ponce de León’s expedition to Florida.

While the story of Ponce de León and his discovery of Florida during the course of his obsessive search for the Fountain of Youth has made him a rather famous and romantic historical figure, some may be surprised to learn that previous to the 20th century there was little interest in him and his expedition in search of the mysterious island called sometimes Bimini and other times Beniny. In 1913, to commemorate the 400th anniversary of the supposed discovery of Florida, a variety of historians wrote more on the 1513 voyage of Ponce de León than had been written about him since the beginning of the 17th century. What they found was certainly a figure of interest who had fallen between the cracks of historiography and deserved to be more widely known. Juan Ponce de León, a youth of 19 years from an influential family, is said to have served as a page and squire and perhaps to have fought Muslims in the Granada War before joining the crew of Columbus’s second voyage to the Americas, where he was present at the discovery of Puerto Rico. Lest anyone suspect that I glorify the memory of this man, it should be established that he was a conquistador at heart from the beginning. He was a nobody before 1504, and he won respect as well as a grant of land and native slaves for the large part he played in suppressing a Taíno rebellion on Higüey, a massacre described in nauseating detail by Bartolomé de las Casas. Four years later, after expanding Spanish colonization in the area, he was tasked by King Ferdinand with forcing all the remaining Taíno into servitude, mining gold for the Spanish coffers. And chasing gold, he then set out to explore and settle Puerto Rico, then called San Juan, and eventually would become the governor of the island. In 1513, however, having lost his governorship for reasons I will explain later, de León obtained a royal contract to seek out the rumored “islands of Beniny” northwest of Hispaniola, on the understanding that he would serve as their governor once settled. There are numerous myths associated with this journey that 20th century historians repeated based on 16th-century accounts, causing Ponce de León’s journey to be so thoroughly mythologized. One was that he landed at St. Augustine, the place where today in Florida an “Archaeological Park” daily attracts tourists as the site of his first landing. This land was purchased in 1868 by someone hoping to turn it into a tourist attraction, and lo and behold, within a few years of creating the park, one of his employees claimed to find a stone cross buried on the property, supposedly left by Ponce de León as a marker. As early as 1935, a historian riding the new popularity of stories about de León, T. Frederick Davis, tried to provide this claim with a veneer of scholarly respectability, claiming that navigational data showed his course would have taken him to St. Augustine. This interpretation of the data proved erroneous. In the 1950s, another historian, Edward Lawson,  argued that testimonies and other archaeological evidence indicating the existence of a populous native village at the site proved it was where de León landed, when in fact he would likely have avoided such a landing site where natives might have repelled their boats. In fact, Ponce de León’s log indicates he looked for a landing site in this area but found no amenable inlet or harbor and thus moved on. Another big myth perpetuated by 20th-century historians actively renewing interest in Ponce de León’s voyage was that he had discovered Florida. The land of Florida, or it was called back then, the islands of Beimini or Beniny, had already been systematically raided by Europeans in slaving expeditions. This was how King Ferdinand and Ponce de León even knew to sail north of San Juan Bautista to find the land. His real legacy, his actual discovery, the Gulf Stream, that ocean current that would become so important as a marine highway, was largely overlooked by historians for a long time, overshadowed by the misconception that he had discovered Florida and by the myth that the whole purpose of his venture was to find the fabled Fountain of Youth.

Depiction of Spanish massacre of natives, courtesy John Carter Brown Library (CC BY-SA 4.0)

To give a sense of how widespread and accepted the idea was, in 1985, the historian Robert Weddle wrote, “That the Fountain of Youth legend influenced Ponce de León’s discovery of Florida has long been accepted as fact,” and though it did not prove the truth of it, the statement that it was accepted was surely accurate. The aforementioned work of T. Frederick Davis in 1935 explicitly claimed the search for a “spring” that was capable of “restoring youth to the aged” as the “Purpose of the Voyage,” and he claimed that Ponce de León was drawn on this quest because there existed an “Indian legend” that this spring could be found on “an island called Bimini (supposed by the Spaniards to be one of the Lucayos, or as we call them now, the Bahamas).” To give a sense of the inaccuracies in this 20th-century historiography, the island of Beniny or Beimini for which de León searched was not in the Bahamas, though this confusion may have eventually led to those islands being called the Bahamas. To illustrate this fact, Ponce de León put ashore at the northernmost of the Bahama islands, Guanahani, for ten days to prepare for his northwestward voyage across the open sea in his effort to reach the island of Beniny (actually the mainland of North America) that he knew lay somewhere in that direction. But this error was repeated by numerous historians, as was the insistence that de León was in search of the Fountain of Youth, to the point that the inaccuracies appeared in editions of Collier’s Encyclopedia, Encyclopedia Americana, and Encyclopedia Britannica, thereafter resulting in both myths being printed in school textbooks. The popularity in 20th-century historiography of the myth that Ponce de León was obsessed with finding the Fountain of Youth is sometimes blamed on the mythmaking of 19th-century American writer Washington Irving. Much as we saw Irving was largely responsible for myths surrounding Christopher Columbus, he also embellished the story of Ponce de León in some chapters of his 1831 work Voyages and Discoveries of the Companions of Columbus. This work was produced just a little more than a decade after Spain renounced all claim to Florida to the U.S. in 1819, and we might consider this the first instance of a resurgence in interest in the voyage of Ponce de León, written with something of an axe to grind, as Irving depicts de León as vain and credulous. Even Irving acknowledges how far-fetched the idea seems that this conquistador would credit the tales he supposedly heard from natives about a river that restored youth when one bathed in it, writing: “It may seem incredible, at the present day, that a man of years and experience could yield any faith to a story which resembles the wild fiction of an Arabian tale; but the wonders and novelties breaking upon the world in that age of discovery almost realized the illusions of fable, and the imaginations of the Spanish voyagers had become so heated that they were capable of any stretch of credulity.” Whether or not Juan Ponce de León really was this credulous and truly had been searching for the Fountain of Youth will be further examined, but first let us examine the existence of the myth itself. Irving’s statement is at least true in this regard. As we have seen, the Spanish certainly chased after myths, and certainly transplanted their myths onto New World soil. And one of these transplanted myths certainly was that of the Fountain of Youth.

In my episode on Christopher Columbus, I explained how the idea of Earth’s roundness was not a novel idea Columbus had, as Washington Irving had suggested, but in truth, Columbus didn’t even believe the world was round. He had a notion that it was more pear-shaped, with a kind of nipple atop it, and atop this nipple, he believed, was the Garden of Eden at the point closest to heaven. While I call it a myth that Ponce de León was searching for the Fountain of Youth, it does seem clear that Columbus was searching for this Terrestrial Paradise. Columbus carried a book by Cardinal Pierre d’Ailly, which claimed that the earthly paradise must exist on some phantom island in the Atlantic, such as the Fortunate Isles, and Columbus treated the text like the authoritative source on global geography. He believed that in the Garden of Eden, from the Tree of Life, sprang a great fountain that served as the source of all the great rivers of the world. Indeed, when he reached the mouth of the Orinoco near Trinidad on his third journey, he wrote back to his royal patrons that he must have found that font of life springing from Paradise, for he had never dreamed of such a massive freshwater river. Columbus’s ideas about a fountain of life springing from the Terrestrial Paradise did not come from actual scriptures but rather from medieval legend, which had been grafted onto scriptural accounts of the Garden of Eden. Some claim that the origin of the Fountain of Youth myth, like the Amazonian myth, can be traced back to Herodotus, who once wrote of a long-lived people he called the Icthyophagi, or fish eaters, whose longevity owed to the peculiar quality of a fountain in whose oily waters they bathed. The myth of the Fountain of Youth as we know it today, though, and as the Spanish knew it in the 16th century, first seems to have arisen in the Alexander Romance, which was first composed in the 4th-century CE in Greek and was through the centuries translated into numerous languages in the Middle East before being printed in European vernacular languages in the 13th century. It spoke of Alexander finding a land of flowers where they stumbled across a golden fountain, inset with crystal and surrounded by marble pillars, into which four times a day flowed magical waters from a statue of a golden lion, and when his men bathed in it, their health and vigor were renewed, such that they were younger and could hardly be recognized. The 12th-century letter of Prester John, that anonymous hoax that I devoted a whole episode to discussing a few years ago, also brought this legend to European imaginations. The writer of that fictional account of a Christian king in a magical land far to the East indicates that there is a spring, flowing out of Paradise into a grove at the foot of Mount Olympus, and if one drank from it, they would “suffer no infirmity from that day on” and would forever be exactly thirty-two years old. Then the fountain appeared again in another dubious and anonymous work I’ve mentioned before, The Travels of Sir John Mandeville written in the 14th century and attributed to an English knight who seems to have not existed. In this work, it is called the well of youth, is said to flow out of Paradise, prevent illness, and keep people young, and is placed in an imaginary Eastern city called Palombe. Given Columbus’s mistaken belief that he was sailing westward to reach the East, it was reasonable for him to think he might find such places as were described in these classical and medieval fantasies. But even other explorers and Spanish historians, after finally coming to the understanding that this was not the East they had set out to reach but rather a New World, a new continent to them, the rumors persisted, encouraged, it seems, but the myths of natives that seemed to indicate the fountain’s existence.

16th century depiction of the Fountain of Youth.

In 1516, in a letter to Pope Leo X, the Italian historian chronicling New World discoveries for Spain, Peter Martyr d’Anghiera, mentioned a “notable fountain” on an island he called Boyuca, whose waters rejuvenated the old who drank them. In one of his later histories he also shared the story of a native who had been made a slave and baptized a Christian that his father had bathed in a magical fountain in Florida and been made young again. Some historians cite these early claims as evidence that the Fountain of Youth was a legend among natives and was the object of Ponce de León’s voyage, even though Martyr, who would have spoken with Ponce de León in his research, never claimed this. In fact, the story told to him by the captive native can easily be dismissed as unreliable, and also of a later origin. As for the original claim in the 1516 letter, some historians have, without evidence, suggested that Boyuca was actually Bimini, but in fact, this rumor Martyr was sharing was one heard on the expedition of Juan Díaz de Solís, and the description of where this isle of Boyuca supposedly resided seems to place it closer to the Bay of Honduras. Moreover, any and all claims made by the Spanish that the natives they encountered had their own myths of a Fountain of Youth are hard to credit. Bartolomé de Las Casas as well as Spanish friar Ramón Pané and others, after living with Caribbean natives and learning their languages, wrote numerous works detailing the nature of the customs and religion of the indigenous peoples of the West Indies, including accounts of their folktales and myths, and none mention anything resembling a Fountain of Youth. Each supposed rumor of a Fountain of Youth in the Caribbean, coaxed out of natives through poorly translated interrogation, rather tellingly placed the mythical spring in a different place. Thus we might presume that all such “rumors” were actually just natives, failing to entirely understand the meaning of the question, pointing the Spanish toward various ordinary sources of water.

But if the myth of the Fountain of Youth was real, and if some Spanish were questioning natives and looking for it in the New World, why shouldn’t we credit the idea that this was the object of Ponce de León’s voyage, as Washington Irving and so many 20th century historians claimed? This is a valid question, and it can be answered by looking at the sources relied on by those historians. The most cited of all sources that claim Juan Ponce de León was searching for the Fountain of Youth is the work of Antonio de Herrera, whose history of Ponce de León’s voyage, published in 1601, relied on the conquistador’s own log as primary source material. This very fact that it relied on Ponce de León’s log, as well as the fact that de Herrera was the official historiographer of Spain at the time, seems to lend his work credence, even though it was written some 80 years after the voyage. The problem is that nothing in Ponce de León’s log refers to the Fountain of Youth legend at all, and the only mentions of the myth appear in statements that de Herrera inserted, not based on the log at all. He never claims that the log reflects de León’s search for the fountain, or that any native guides were leading him to any rejuvenating spring. Once, he mentions the work of another author, Don d’Escalante Fontaneda, whose late 16th-century memoir claimed Ponce de León had been searching for the Fountain of Youth at a river in Florida called Jordan. And then at the end of his work, de Herrera simply says that Ponce de León never found that Fountain. This memoir by Fontaneda that de Herrera seems to have relied on for evidence of de León’s motivation is manifestly unreliable. Fontaneda was a colorful figure. He came from a noble family and like Ponce de León went into service at a young age, at just 13 years old. In 1549, he was shipwrecked in the Florida Keys, and while the natives there killed his shipmates, perhaps because of his youth they spared him, and he lived among these indigenous islanders for 17 years. Ten years after his rescue, he wrote his memoirs, and there is no reason to consider him an authority on the voyage of Ponce de León or much of anything beyond the culture of the particular natives he lived among on the Keys. Indeed, there is no River Jordan in Florida, and this appears to have been a kind of scriptural allusion to the river in which John the Baptist conducted the ritual of baptizing, which represents a kind of rebirth like the Fountain of Youth is said to provide, making the whole account more literary than historical.

17th century engraving of Juan Ponc e de León

There was, however, one principal, original source from which Fontaneda likely derived his account of Ponce de León’s search for the Fountain of Youth, written in 1535 by Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo. Indeed, the fact that de Oviedo was his predecessor as Spain’s official historiographer likely compelled de Herrera to make sure his later account of Ponce de León’s voyage fell in line with the earlier one. De Oviedo speaks explicitly and derisively of de León as a vain and avaricious egotist and claims that searching for the Fountain of Youth was the sole purpose of his voyage, specifically because Ponce de León hoped that the fabled spring might cure his enflaquecimiento del sexo, literally his “emaciation of sex,” meaning his impotence. The fact that the myth of Ponce de León’s search for the Fountain of Youth originated with this claim, made 14 years after the conquistador had died and thus after he could protest, is ridiculous. It is libel, pure and simple, and there is evidence that it was false. Ponce de León was a portrait of machismo, just like his father, who sired dozens of illegitimate offspring. Having a philandering father and acting macho is surely no certain sign of virility, but Ponce de León fathered four children of his own with his wife, and it is known that he insisted on taking his mistress with him on his voyage. Some historians, seeking to bolster de Oviedo’s credibility, claimed that de León must have been older by the time of his voyage, thus suggesting his obvious virility must have been waning, but other historians have proven he was only 39 at the time. Then again, historians partial to de Oviedo’s myth about his search for the Fountain have suggested that it was not his own impotence he sought to cure with the waters of the Fountain, but that of King Ferdinand, who was older and had married a younger woman. But this is pure speculation, and there is no evidence of it. In fact, just as Ponce de León’s log makes absolutely no mention of the Fountain of Youth, so too his royal charter, the official patent issued by King Ferdinand, mentions nothing about searching for the Fountain of Youth. Rather, it indicates, in precise details, that the purpose and goal of his expedition was to explore and settle the large island of Beniny, which was actually not an island but the continental mainland, and which Ponce de León named Florida after his landing because of the flowers he admired there. In truth, as we know today, Ponce de León’s voyage was intended not to find a mythical fountain but to find gold and to expand the Spanish Empire, and on a more personal level, Ponce de León was seeking to reestablish his own power, which had recently been taken from him in a political struggle with Diego Colón, the son of Christopher Columbus. Unprecedented rights had previously been granted to Columbus for his discoveries, and his son came to the New World to seize power, taking the position of Viceroy as his birthright and forcing Ponce de León out of power in Puerto Rico. King Ferdinand, who viewed Ponce de León as a faithful servant and resented the Columbus family’s growing power, encouraged de León to establish himself in Florida as both a reward and to ensure he still had loyal governors in the region. Though it is admittedly speculation, the fact that Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo wrote with such admiration about Christopher Columbus and was personally acquainted with Columbus’s son, Diego Colón, suggests that perhaps his blatant slander of Ponce de León was simply a matter of personal bias against a man he had only heard about from friends who maligned his memory.

It is astonishing and disconcerting that one nasty statement by a biased historian almost 500 years ago could result in a falsehood being perpetuated even today. We see in this story how one unsupported statement is repeated by other historians through the ages, relying only on the views of historians who came before them rather than on primary source material, none of which actually support the claim that Florida was discovered in an effort to find a magical spring that grants eternal youth. In my principal source, “Anatomy of an Historical Fantasy: The Ponce de León-Fountain of Youth Legend,” published in Revista de Historia de Americá in 1998, Douglas Peck details each step of the way how this myth migrated from its Eurasian roots to the New World, how Oviedo maliciously made an unfounded claim about Ponce de León’s vain preoccupation with it, and how this lie was carried through the centuries and embellished even by otherwise conscientious historians until it entered encyclopedias and textbooks. It took more than 450 years to set the record straight, and with the myth now firmly rooted as common knowledge in the minds of most Americans, who knows how long it will take to replace the myth in the public imagination. After all, the false version has become a foundational story in Florida. Starting in 1900 with a new owner, the St. Augustine Archaeological Park was aggressively marketed as the actual Fountain of Youth, where tourists can pay the price of admission and drink some sulphury-smelling spring water that they’re told was the object of Juan Ponce de León’s 16th-century expedition. Indeed, this has become something of a tourist industry, with numerous mineral springs laying claim to the title of the real Fountain of Youth. We might even see this as a theme in Florida’s culture generally, with elderly retirees from all over the country moving there to find a new lease on life, and adults all over the world flying there to visit Disney World and feel young again. We could even see a parallel in the current political culture of Florida under their governor, who is determined to take his state, and the country if he ever manages to win higher office, backward rather than forward. And the idea of our national political culture reverting to a juvenile or infantile state should really scare all of us. Today the concept of the Fountain of Youth survives mostly as a metaphor. Just as the Holy Grail and El Dorado have become metaphors for an ideal or perfect thing that we may pursue, so too the Fountain of Youth has come to represent anything that we may use or do or seek out that makes us healthy or young at heart. The term is used heavily in marketing health and wellness products, as well as aphrodisiacs. Though the products have changed, we find that the myth has long been used by snake-oil salesmen to hawk whatever frauds they have on hand, and looking at the history of this myth, we find that maybe it was always used as a kind of deceptive marketing scam, to sell tickets to theme parks, to sell the idea of Florida, to sell a romantic version of European colonialism, and to sell a version of history tainted by myth.

An old postcard for the “Fountain of Youth Archaeological Park” in St. Augustine, Florida

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Until next time, remember, even otherwise trustworthy and scrupulous historians are not immune to the spread of historical myths, but in due course, it seems, eventually, they do get revealed. 

Further Reading

Fuson, Robert H. Juan Ponce de Leon and the Spanish Discovery of Puerto Rico and Florida. University of Nebraska Press, 1999.

Peck, Douglas T. “Anatomy of an Historical Fantasy: The Ponce de León-Fountain of Youth Legend.” Revista de Historia de América, no. 123, 1998, pp. 63–87. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/20139991.




The Search for Cities of Gold

If I were to say the phrase “Gold Rush,” one undoubtedly will think of the doctrine of Manifest Destiny and westward expansion and, of course, the California Gold Rush, a 19th-century migration boom animated by gold fever. In fact there were numerous gold rushes in the 19th century in numerous regions of North America. But few, upon hearing someone talk of an American Gold Rush would think of the 16th-century Age of Exploration and Spanish conquests, even though, really, this was the first gold rush in the Americas. From the beginning, European exploration of the Americas was animated by a lust for riches and a search for wealthy civilizations that could be sacked and pillaged for their gold, their silver, and their pearls. Christopher Columbus, who sought a sea passage to the East as an alternative to Marco Polo’s overland route, dreamed of finding fabulous cities rich in minerals and precious stones. In particular, he hoped to find the island that Marco Polo had called Cipangu, which legend said was “covered in gold.” In reality, Cipangu was only the Chinese word for Japan, which was not exactly a mythical city of gold, and which Columbus would never reach. Landing in the Caribbean, Columbus focused on the riches of the inhabitants they encountered on each island, always asking about the source of the gold he observed native peoples wearing as ornaments. When his ship the Santa Maria ran aground at the island he would name Hispaniola and the natives greeted them with offers to trade gold items for brass bells, Columbus believed he had found it. He returned to Europe with exaggerated tales of the gold mines of Santo Domingo, and he returned there in 1493, forcing the native Taíno people to gather gold for him. Within thirty years, because of this forced labor as well as the diseases spread by the Europeans, almost the entirety of the Taíno population had died. Recently I had a listener of Taíno descent message me about my episode on Columbus and point out that the Taíno did not die out, and indeed there are descendant communities today, so on that listener’s request, I want to make that correction, but the fact of the survival of the Taíno in no way diminishes the fact that Columbus’s lust for gold drove him to nearly wipe out an entire culture. Meanwhile, his letter to the king and queen of Spain describing the gold of the New World was published in numerous languages, galvanizing conquistadors for the next century. Driving all of them, in some way, was the dream of gold. When it was clear that the Americas were not Asia, the dream came to be of the riches that might be earned with the discovery of an easier passage to the Pacific than the fearsome strait sailed by Magellan, or it came to be a dream of the riches that could be accumulated through the settlement of land on which they might cultivate a profitable crop, but preferable to all these prizes was the discovery of the source of native gold, the rich gold mine that Columbus failed to find on Hispaniola. When in 1519 Hernán Cortés landed in Mexico and discovered the wealthy Aztec civilization, this original American gold rush changed. When Cortés marched on the Aztec capital, imprisoned their King Moctezuma, and seized all the gold in their treasury, the dreams of conquistadors turned principally to the discovery of hidden civilizations rich in gold that could be looted, melted down, and coined. Unsurprisingly, then, numerous rumors and legends began to arise among conquistadors and their armies about secret cities of gold in both South and North America, waiting to be discovered and plundered.

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In this piece, I am once again exploring the historical context behind one of the Indiana Jones films. By the time this is posted, the new Indy film, The Dial of Destiny, has already released, and I’ve already seen it and am considering what topics I might tackle to finally wrap up this long-running series of standalone blog posts. In the meanwhile, although some may want to disavow its existence, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull actually offers more than one potential topic that I have long wanted to cover on this podcast, so for my purposes, it does exist. In fact, I feel that in many ways this fourth film is unfairly maligned, but in other ways, I entirely understand the disappointment in it. Not because of any far-fetched action sequences; in fact, rewatching the films, it’s hard to get more far-fetched than jumping from a plane in an inflatable raft, and even the beloved Last Crusade has all kinds of continuity errors in iconic action sequences that make them less than believable. Nuked fridges and Tarzan vine-swinging aside, the writing on the fourth one just doesn’t live up to the others. But this is not a film podcast, so I’m not talking about dialogue here. I’m talking about the object of Indy’s quest: the MacGuffin and the lore surrounding it. I understand that behind the scenes there was some push and pull between the filmmakers regarding what this one should be “about,” and it really shows. There was an effort to make this one about flying saucers simply because it was set in the 1950s, but there needed to be some archaeological angle, of course, considering Indy’s profession. Thus the notion of ancient aliens is featured, with that claim’s connections to the Nazca Lines in Peru and the elongated skulls of Peruvian native cultures folded in. But there was a need for an object, a physical MacGuffin, so they mashed these ideas together with the dubious crystal skull artifacts claimed in the 19th century to be pre-Columbian Mesoamerican artifacts. I could, and probably will, devote an episode to talking about crystal skulls. And I most certainly will eventually devote an episode or series to the claims of ancient aliens made by Erich von Däniken and others, but it seems to me that the more compelling MacGuffin, the one really worthy of a quest by Indiana Jones, which should have been focused on without all the other trappings, was the city of the aliens—er, inter-dimensional beings—a place of great wealth, a lost city of gold, here fictionalized as Akator, but conflated in the film’s script with El Dorado. The idea of Indiana Jones seeking after a lost or hidden city of gold is rich in historical significance, so I took on the search myself, or rather, the research, and found that there was never just one city of gold.

Artificially deformed Peruvian skulls, commonly and falsely attributed to alien contact, which feature minimally in the fourth Indiana Jones film.

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Before the legend of El Dorado, there was the legend of the land of Meta, which originated with Diego de Ordás, formerly a captain under Cortés and in 1530 a governor of some islands in the estuary of the Amazon River. In those years, the source of the gold of the Americas remained a mystery. Conquistadors expected everywhere to find gold and silver mines to explain the ornaments that were traded by the cultures they encountered, and they could not believe that it was all taken from rivers, which most of it was. Instead, they believed it must have come from some hidden source. De Ordás believed, like many, that gold grew, like plant in the earth, and that because its color was associated with that of the sun, it must grow in greater abundance closer to the equator. Thus in 1530, he organized an expedition up the Orinoco River, seeking its source. He and his men traveled a thousand miles, both relying on the natives they encountered along the way and making war on them. Eventually, he reached the river’s confluence with the river Meta, where some native prisoners, shown a gold ring and asked whether their land contained such metal, told de Ordás that beyond a mountain range on the side of the Meta there was a city rich in gold, ruled by a one-eyed king, and that the conquistadors did not have enough men to conquer it, but if they did, they could “fill their boats with that metal.” De Ordás’s  expedition ended in abject failure, with the loss of most of his men and the only thing he had to show for his efforts a rumor of a rich land that may have just been a lie told by a prisoner. But the search for the land of Meta would animate other conquistadors as well. During the next few years, numerous expeditions were undertaken into the South American wilderness, and a kind of standard operating procedure was developed. Conquistadors sought out native peoples, not only to trade for gold, but also because they relied on them for food and to carry their luggage. Whenever they encountered a group of indigenous people, they traded with them and pressed them into service, and if they did not comply, they attacked them by surprise and slaughtered them and pressed them into slavery regardless. But to maintain the veneer of Christian respectability, they first read out a document called the Requirement, often without any translation, which explained that the native population was required to accept the Spanish authority and Christian conversion, on the threat of rape and pillaging, and stated, absurdly, that “any death or losses that result from this are your fault.” The expeditions of conquistadors like the German Nicolaus Federmann and Ambrosius Dalfinger cut a violent scar through Venezuela. Many of the native inhabitants they massacred they believed were cannibals, but ironically, members of their own expedition turned to cannibalism when lost and without food. Some of these expeditions did successfully seize and bring back gold, but never discovered the source of it. The notion that hidden civilizations were still out there, full of vast wealth to be stolen, grew in the minds of conquistadors and their cut-throat adventurers when Francisco Pizarro discovered the Inca in Peru, and in 1532 took their ruler, Atahualpa, hostage, demanding a literal king’s ransom. The great wealth stripped from the Incas just further fired the imaginations of other adventurers, many of whom believed the source of Incan gold must be elsewhere, beyond the Andes Mountains. One Spanish governor, Jerónimo de Ortal, believed that the source of Peruvian gold was the rumored land of Meta, and in another effort to find this golden kingdom of the one-eyed king, he sent conquistador Alonso de Herrera up the Orinoco to find it, but the expedition was repelled by natives. Governor de Ortál then led his own expedition overland, but when they believed they were nearing the fabled land of Meta, his men mutinied, intending to seize the gold for themselves. They found nothing, however, as with later expeditions for Meta, but in those later years, it was the legend of a different city of gold that animated the conquistadors, one that it has been suggested was the source of the rumors of the rich land of Meta all along: the story of El Dorado.

The legend of El Dorado was given birth among the conquistadors and Spanish adventurers who sacked the Incan Empire in Peru. Interestingly, it was not originally a rumor of a city of gold, but of a golden man, as the name indicates. In Spanish, “gold” is oro, as in “ore”; thus if something were made of gold, it would be de oro, which as an adjective would be dorada in the feminine, or dorado in the masculine. If it actually referred to a city or land, it would be formed in the feminine and would need the further noun, la ciudad dorada or la tierra dorada. We can better understand the name El Dorado when we find its first use. After Francisco Pizarro accepted the Incan ruler Atahualpa’s ransom, which was literally his weight in gold, he had the king executed anyway and marched on the capital city, Cusco, pillaging the treasury of all its gold and silver, and smelting it into bullion. By one contemporaneous report, they coined more than 1.3 million gold pesos, yet Pizarro and others would never shake the uneasy feeling that the Incas had escaped Peru with a great deal of their gold. Indeed, hearing that one of Atahualpa’s generals had mustered an army at the northern Incan capital Quito, the Spanish marched on, not only to stamp out any further resistance, but also because they suspected to find more gold there. To their disappointment, they did not, and though they tortured captured Incan leaders to death, they were unable to discover the whereabouts of any further treasure, leading to a long-lived legend of lost Incan gold. During the scramble to capture the leaders, there were reports of native chief from the north called el indio dorado, the Golden Indian, whose gold-rich tribe had allied with the Incas. This was 1534, and not much was made of this chief or his tribe at the time. But as rumors spread, they change. Seven years later, as recorded by soldier and historian Fernandez de Oviedo, the Spanish in Quito were still talking about the Golden Chief, and now the story was that he was a king who was daily anointed with oil and a fine powdered gold. Natives of the region were known to paint themselves with resins and ground plants, so the notion was in keeping with extant cultural practices, while hinting at a great wealth of gold. The earliest accounts say that the Spanish learned of this Golden Chief from an “itinerant Indian” that they captured and interrogated, giving the story an even shakier foundation. Over time, the legend evolved further, such that this king, El Dorado, was said to cover himself daily in gold and then bathe in a lake, and all his people made regular offerings of gold which were also deposited in this sacred lake’s waters, such that this lake, it was thought, must contain vast quantities of sunken treasure. And eventually, the story, as such legends do, became simplified, such that this king, ruled over a city near that lake, a city equally rich in gold, nay, covered in gold—built of gold!—a city also, for ease of memory, called El Dorado.

Diego de Ordas, originator of the first city of gold legend: the Land of Meta.

Gonzalo Jiménez de Quesada, a conquistador who quested after El Dorado and failed, and the soldier and poet Juan de Castellanos, came to believe that El Dorado was none other than their own province of New Granada, or more specifically the area around the city of Bogotá in what is today Colombia, and this notion is actually accepted by many today as the most likely case. First of all, the area is north of Quito, where the first rumors of the Golden Chief said his kingdom resided, and more than that it was beyond a mountain range on a bank of the Meta River, further identifying it with the fabled land of Meta. The Muisca or Chingcha people that lived and were conquered there had previously been a well-established and populous kingdom that has been compared with the Aztecs and the Incas. And, they worshipped and made offerings at a nearby sacred lake, the Guatavita, a peculiar, perfectly round lake, which actually appears to be a crater lake. Indeed, since Guatavita was identified with the lake of the El Dorado legend, numerous attempts were made, in the 16th century and the 19th century, to drain it and obtain the gold said to have been deposited in its depths. In 1580, a businessman from Bogotá actually excavated the rim of the lake, cutting a notch in it to let its waters out. Though he did supposedly discover some gold ornaments as the water receded, the earthen walls of his excavation collapsed and ended up killing many of his workers. The next major attempt to drain the lake was made in 1898, by a British contractor who actually succeeded in draining the lake entirely by means of a tunnel. What he was left with was only a pit of mud that his company had difficulty finding anything in, especially when it dried as hard as concrete in the sun. Now the lake has been declared a protected area for conservation and has been restored. Thus whatever may be hidden in the sediment on its floor will remain a mystery. But even if Guatavita and the Muisca lands of Bogotá provide a tidy solution to the mystery of El Dorado, this does not mean the legend was real. In fact, the Muisca were not at all rich in gold, for they did not produce it themselves, but rather acquired it through trade with other tribes like the Incas. As there was no golden kingdom in Bogotá to conquer, the legend of El Dorado shifted elsewhere, to be associated with other lakes. Indeed, examining 16th-century maps of South America, we find Eldorado on the shores of lakes that seem to always be in different unexplored reaches of the Amazon. Funny enough, the name of the lake is always the word for lake in some native language. El Dorado came to be associated with a lake called Manoa, which was actually just the word for lake in Arawak; and Lake Parime, which meant simply “big lake” in Carib. Thus we get the sense that, just as native peoples being attacked and interrogated by conquistadors simply waved them on to the next tribe’s territory, assuring them that they’d find the gold they looked for elsewhere, so too when the conquistadors started asking about lakes, they just told them what they wanted to hear about a lake and gold off thataway somewhere.

At this point I should address the fact that there is a clearly defined historical myth representing the Spanish as pillagers of the New World lusting only after gold and committing all sorts of atrocities to get what they wanted. This is known as the Black Legend of the Spanish, and it was widely employed by the English as a propaganda tool during the two empires’ colonial wars. I want to be clear here. I think some may look at my episode on Columbus and this episode and think that I am promoting this Black Legend. Well… in a way I am, because I reject the notion that we should overlook Spanish atrocities, which certainly and commonly occurred, in order to appreciate accomplishments like their taming of wilderness, building of infrastructure, and advancement of agriculture. I reject this because those things were accomplished on the backs of the native cultures they subjugated. But I do acknowledge that there is a Black Legend of the Spanish insofar as the English were no better and engaged in all the same inhumanities. I’ve been careful in this episode to refer to Europeans or conquistadors, rather than just the Spanish, and I’ve already pointed out two German conquistadors, Federmann and Dalfinger. Now it should be pointed out that in the late 16th and early 17th centuries, the English became the more prominent seekers after El Dorado. Having heard the somewhat famous story of one Spanish soldier who claimed, very dubiously, to have been abducted by natives and taken to the lost city of gold in a blindfold, Sir Walter Raleigh became preoccupied with finding El Dorado himself. Since they did not have a presence in South America or as much knowledge of its inhabitants and geography as the Spanish, he descended on Trinidad, captured the Spanish colony’s governor, Antonio de Berrío, who had undertaken several El Dorado expeditions himself, and interrogated him to discover all he knew about the gold city’s supposed whereabouts. Raleigh would mount more than one expedition into the interior of the continent to search for El Dorado, all of them failures of course, and he would eventually be beheaded by King James for his failure to obey orders to avoid conflict with the Spanish. Such expeditions continued sporadically, sponsored by the English and the Dutch, as well as the Spanish, into the 18th century, none of them succeeding since El Dorado is a myth, and all of them resulting in some loss of life. Thus the legend of El Dorado drove European exploration and exploitation of Latin America for around 250 years.

Lake Guatavita, long thought to hold the treasures of El Dorado. Image courtesy Library of Congress.

The way that European mapmakers haphazardly placed El Dorado on maps of the continent, thereby fueling belief in it as a physical place, recalls the treatment of some myths of antiquity, like that of Atlantis. Indeed, even the name of the Amazon referenced the legendary homeland of the Amazon warrior women. Likewise, the name given to the Caribbean archipelago on which Columbus first landed, the Antilles, references another old legend that also transformed into a modern myth and drove further expeditions into North America searching for lost cities of gold. The name connects the islands to the Iberian legend of Antillia, an island of seven cities said to be a kind of utopia. This legend partakes of a long tradition depicting paradisal islands in the Atlantic Ocean, including that of Atlantis and the Fortunate Isles of Homer. This legend was of later origin than those, though, telling of seven bishops who fled Spain with numerous parishioners during its conquest by Muslim Arabs in the year 711 CE. It was said they sailed westward, into the Atlantic, and landed at a bountiful island, on which each bishop built a city. So that the inhabitants of their seven cities would not risk the peace they had established, they were said to have burned all their ships. It’s not at all clear when this legend was born, however, as the first record of it is in maps of the late Middle Ages, one which Antillia appeared as one of many such phantom islands, drawn in different locations depending on the whims of the cartographer. In 1530, when a captive native in New Spain, or Spanish-occupied Mexico, told the Spanish of a land to the north with seven large settlements rich in gold that he remembered visiting as a child, some believed the fabled Seven Cities of Antillia had been located. Years later, in 1536, four survivors of a failed expedition to Florida, led by Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca, told a similar story. Their expedition had failed to find gold during their northward march in Florida, and facing stiff opposition from natives, decided to build rafts and sail westward up the Gulf Coast, where they were mostly drowned in a storm at Galveston Bay. The survivors lived as castaways on Galveston Island then were captured by natives and remained in captivity for several years before the four survivors escaped. They traveled across modern-day Texas and northeastern Mexico, and arrived with a rumor, told to them by the Sonora tribe about populous and wealthy native lands to the north. Specifically, Cabeza de Vaca mentioned riches of gold, silver, and turquoise, and thus the legend of an Island of Seven Cities was transformed into a legend of Seven Cities of Gold somewhere in North America.

In 1538, two Franciscan friars reached what is believed to be modern day Arizona, and reported on a vast and rich native civilization, probably the Pueblo peoples of the Southwestern U.S., and their report encouraged another expedition led by another monk of the same order, Fray Marcos de Niza, who ended up in modern-day New Mexico and likewise learned of a populous native civilization farther north, said to be rich, with magnificent two- and three-story houses. De Niza called this place Cíbola, and even though he only heard about it and did not visit it himself, he claimed to have seen it with his own eyes. Thus when the Spanish mustered a major expedition to find and exploit these rumored Seven Cities of Cíbola, headed by the conquistador Francisco Vásquez de Coronado, Fray Marcos de Niza went along as a guide. When Coronado eventually arrived at the “seven cities,” which were actually seven adobe farming villages of the Zuñi people, devoid of any wealth, de Niza was roundly cursed for a liar and sent back to New Spain. The rest of the expedition stayed, though, exploring the southwestern U.S. and continuing their search for the Seven Cities. One native informant, whom they called The Turk, told the Spanish of a wealthy nation called Golden Quivira to the east, where the inhabitants were said to all eat from plates and bowls of gold. Thus Coronado went marching again after yet another city of gold, traveling all the way to Kansas to find only the grass huts of the Wichita people. Deceived yet again by his guide, Coronado had The Turk garroted and before long returned to Mexico. Today, The Turk is viewed by the Pueblo native culture as a hero and martyr who purposely fed the conquistador disinformation in order to lead the Spanish away from his beleaguered people.

Coronado’s expedition, depicted being led by a native guide.

Back in South America, the suspicion that the Incas had escaped with most of their gold would continue to haunt the Spanish and fuel further myths of lost cities of gold. Among the Incas themselves, there long existed a myth about the Inkarri, whose father was the sun itself, and who was king of the Incas. This myth evolved when Pizarro had King Atahualpa killed. It was said their ruler swore to return from the dead to exact vengeance, and it was claimed that the Spanish had dismembered Atahualpa and buried parts of his body in separate places to prevent his return, but that his head was growing toward his feet, and when at least he was whole again, he would be the Inkarri, he would destroy the Spanish, and he would restore the Incan civilization at the mythical city of Paititi. Through the years, this Paititi the Incas spoke of was taken to be the lost city to which it was always suspected they had escaped with their gold. While the term El Dorado has today become more of a metaphor than a literal place, expeditions to search for Paititi have become far more common. In 1925, the man some believe was an inspiration for Indiana Jones, Percy Fawcett, set out to find what he called the city of “Z,” which has been identified with Paititi legends by some, and he disappeared, his fate a mystery fit perhaps for another episode. In the 1950s, Nazi propagandist Hans Ertl claimed to have discovered the ruins of the city. In 1970, an American journalist went in search of Paititi and like Fawcett before him, disappeared in the jungle. Since then, journalists, researchers, pseudohistorians and amateur explorers of every stripe have mounted expeditions for Paititi, many just as fodder for travel shows and bad history television. Likewise, there are even in the 21st century continued efforts to locate the mythical Lake Parime associated with El Dorado. These modern efforts more and more rely on aerial photography, satellite imagery, and radar topography technology. It is hard to imagine a greater anachronism than this, wasting state of the art technology in search of places we have long understood to be figments of European minds addled by gold fever.

Further Reading

Crampton, C. Gregory. “The Myth of El Dorado.” The Historian, vol. 13, no. 2, 1951, pp. 115–29. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/24436112. Accessed 24 July 2023.

Buker, George E. “The Search for the Seven Cities and Early American Exploration.” The Florida Historical Quarterly, vol. 71, no. 2, 1992, pp. 155–68. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/30150358. Accessed 24 July 2023.

Hemming, John. The Search for El Dorado. E.P. Dutton, 1978.

Silver, John. “The Myth of El Dorado.” History Workshop, no. 34, 1992, pp. 1–15. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/4289179. Accessed 24 July 2023.

Vigil, Ralph H. “Spanish Exploration and the Great Plains in the Age of Discovery: Myth and Reality.” Great Plains Quarterly, vol. 10, no. 1, 1990, pp. 3–17. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/23531150. Accessed 24 July 2023.

The Thrust of the Holy Lance of Longinus

The story of the conversion of Roman Emperor Constantine I is a powerful tale marking the birth of the Holy Roman Empire. It is said that around 312 CE, only 6 years into his reign and at a time when his rule was threatened by civil war and rebellion, he had a dream. The night before he went into battle at the Milvian Bridge in Rome against Maxentius, the leader of those opposing his rule in the West, he dreamed that a fiery cross appeared in the midday sky, and in it were the words “in this sign, conquer.” It was this dream, which some have claimed was a waking vision, that led to Constantine’s conversion to Christianity. Flying the sign of the cross on his banners and emblazoning it on his soldiers’ shields, he was victorious, and afterward, he Christianized the Roman Empire. It was a watershed event in Christian history. But how true was it? The sources of this story, court bishop Eusebius and court adviser Lactantius, could not even agree on what it was Constantine saw, a cross or the superimposed first two letters of Christ’s name, chi and rho, a sort of monogram. Moreover, the notion that it was a waking vision or even a kind of miraculous celestial event that may have been seen by others appears to be a later embellishment by Eusebius. Indeed, there swirl around Constantine many dubious legends related to Christianity, and perhaps the most questionable and yet most influential centers on his mother, Flavia Helena, now the canonized St. Helena, the simple daughter of an innkeeper who had become empress upon marrying Constantine’s father. According to legend, and again, the story is murky here, after her son’s conversion to Christianity, when she was nearly eighty years of age, she undertook an arduous pilgrimage to Jerusalem. She went seeking the place of Christ’s crucifixion and was led to a temple dedicated to Jupiter that Roman emperor Hadrian had built atop the ruins of a former temple. This she tore down, and beneath the rubble, she is said to have discovered not only Jesus’ tomb, into which Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus deposited his remains, but also a treasure trove of crucifixion relics, most famously, the True Cross. It was after this alleged discovery that Constantine ordered the construction of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which encompassed both the site believed to be Golgotha, where Christ was crucified, and the place said to be his tomb. Destroyed and rebuilt numerous times, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre stands today as one of the most important places in Christendom, and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. There are, of course, numerous reasons to look on this legend doubtfully. First, to get it out of the way, in the tomb, there is a limestone burial bed that is claimed to be where Christ’s body was laid out, but in 2017, scientists tested the quartz within the masonry of this limestone bed, and using optically stimulated luminescence, were able to determine that the bed was built circa 345 CE, that’s after the deaths of both Helena and Constantine, and a full decade after the church was first consecrated. But even without such scientific debunking, the tale itself is hard to believe. It is not only hard to credit the notion of an eighty-year-old woman overseeing the destruction and excavation of the site, especially when the stories make it sound like she was digging through the rubble with her own hands, but when we consider exactly what has been claimed was found there, it simply strains credulity. Through the years, every possible Crucifixion relic imaginable was claimed to have been discovered at that site by St. Helena: not just the True Cross, but all three crosses used on the day of the Crucifixion, the placard placed on Christ’s cross, the seamless tunic stripped from him before his torture, the crown of thorns placed on his head, the nails used to crucify him, and even the marble stairs that Jesus climbed to Pontius Pilate’s palace, and, unbelievably, as I have mentioned before in one of my Xmas specials, the remains of the Three Wise Men. All of this, remember, is said to have been uncovered beneath the rubble of a Roman pagan temple by an elderly empress. Clearly the tale was simply used in later pious frauds as a go-to, readymade provenance for fraudulent artifacts. And one cannot help but wonder, then, about the original discovery of the site, if it happened at all as is claimed. In some versions of the story, a guide led Helena to the site. Could this person have simply been putting one over on the old woman? Might he have perpetrated one of the earliest pious frauds by planting “relics” there for her to find? It’s impossible to know now, but we see in the story how religious belief breeds superstition, which further breeds myth and legend and fraud, and this is a perfect explanation of the further, expansive myths surrounding one of the most mysterious and famous relics said to have been discovered by St Helena: the Holy Lance, used by the Roman centurion Longinus to pierce the side of Christ on the Cross.

Although, as we will see, the story of the Holy Lance has been expanded in legend to extend much further back in time than its presumed origins at the crucifixion, the most accepted birth of this relic is at the death of Christ, on the day memorialized as Good Friday. The lance is actually mentioned in a canonical gospel, the Gospel of John, which states that Jesus was already dead when the Roman soldiers came to break his legs, a common practice in crucifixion called crurifragium, meant to hasten the deaths of the crucified by  preventing them from raising their chests to breathe, and thus also preventing those being crucified from being set free and escaping in the night. One of the soldiers is said to have thrust his lance into Christ’s side, and a mixture of blood and water issues from the wound. Many are the interpretations of the significance of this blood and water. Some find metaphorical and spiritual meaning in it, while others are rather more materialist, arguing that this little detail proves the veracity of the account because it demonstrates that Christ had already died from asphyxiation, that fluid had built up around his heart as circulation ceased, and the lance pierced his pericardial sac, releasing this fluid. But to the first century author of this gospel, the detail of the blood and water seems less important than the act of piercing him itself and the fact that Christ escaped having his legs broken. This is emphasized in John because it is said to represent a fulfillment of prophecy, as Psalm 34 verse 20 states “He keeps all their bones, not one of them will be broken.” Never mind the fact that this Psalm is describing how God rescues all the righteous from afflictions, rather than representing an explicit prophecy of the Messiah. This is somewhat common, though. For example, Matthew points out the drink of vinegar and gall offered to Christ, and more than one gospel features the detail that vinegar is given to him later, in a sponge on a stick lifted to his lips, and these details were important to the authors because it hearkens back to Psalm 69, a kind of prayer about delivery from one’s enemies, which mentions that the speaker is given gall to eat and vinegar to drink. Likewise, John indicates that the piercing by the lance connects Christ to other scriptures that mention one who is pierced and then looked upon. The gospel writers are clearly engaged in a process of religion-making here, scouring the Psalms and other verses in an effort to prove that Christ’s death fulfilled prophecy. Interestingly, though, it is only in the Gospel of John that this piercing with the lance is even related. Other gospels mention various conflicting miraculous signs upon Christ’s death, darkness at noon, the Temple curtain rent in half, or an earthquake that disinters the remains of saints from their tombs, and afterward mention that one Roman centurion watching Christ reacts to the sign by acknowledging that he was the son of God, or at least that he was innocent. In later retellings, this centurion who changes his mind about Christ is conflated with the soldier who pierced his side, but there is no real reason to believe the two characters are the same. The account of the piercing of Christ’s side with the lance is just another way that the Gospel of John is different from the other, Synoptic gospels, which as I’ve discussed in previous posts like The Beloved Disciple and the Authorship of John, appears to be a composite text composed some decades after the other gospels. Thus it is here, it seems, that the myth of the Holy Lance was invented, in an effort to further connect Christ to prophecy, by the unknown author or authors of the Gospel according to John.

Depiction of Helena finding the True Cross from an Italian manuscript circa 825

The centurion who wielded the lance would not receive a name until centuries later, in the apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus, the same text that inspired much of the Grail legend that would be intertwined with that of the Holy Lance. This work, also called the Acts of Pilate, is a composite as well. Some of the oldest passages of it are believed to have been written to counteract or refute another 4th century work also called the Acts of Pilate, this one anti-Christian. The extent of the mention of the Holy Lance in this apocryphon is one line, which adds nothing to John’s account beyond the name of the soldier being “Longinus.” It has been suggested, though, that the etymology of the name proves it was entirely made up or the result of a misreading, as the name Longinus appears to just be a Latinization of the Greek word for lance, lonche. But once the figure had a name, there was no stopping the legend. Eventually, he became a full-fledged saint, and the full name of Gaius Cassius Longinus appeared out of nowhere. It may seem quite odd for a Roman soldier who stabbed Jesus to be canonized as a saint, but according to the Christian view of the account, Longinus’s act was one of mercy. It’s said that he knew Jesus’s followers needed to bury him before the Sabbath, and thus he needed to prove Christ was dead before the other soldiers broke his legs and left him for dead overnight. Thus Longinus pierced Christ in order to show he was dead and allow him to be buried according to Jewish custom, or according to some interpretations, he actually killed Christ with his thrust, putting him out of his misery and ensuring that prophecy would be fulfilled by making the breaking of his legs unnecessary. This certainly puts a positive spin on a seemingly callous act. According to the hagiography of Saint Longinus, we learn that he inherited the lance from his father, who had been given it by Julius Caesar himself, and that he had very poor eyesight but was miraculously healed and could see perfectly after the blood of Christ trickled down his lance and touched his hand. It is said that after this miracle, he left the service of Rome and devoted his life to his newfound Christian faith, either as a monk or as a wandering sage. According to one account he was tortured by the Roman governor of Caesarea and executed. Like the relics of Christ, and his own lance, there are numerous competing claims about what happened to his body, which as a saint would itself be a powerful relic. Pieces of his body have been claimed at different times to reside in Cappadocia, in Turkey; on Sardinia, an isle in the Mediterranean; in a castle in Prague, Czechoslovakia; and of course, in the Vatican. However, hagiographic writings, that is biographies of saints, are notorious for their fictionalizing of figures, even when, unlike Longinus, their actual existence seems more likely. But interestingly the hagiography, which was in such a large part responsible for the legend of the Holy Lance, completely contradicts the story of St. Helena, as it’s said, rather than interring it in Christ’s tomb with all the other Crucifixion relics, that Longinus kept his lance.

Just where the Holy Lance ended up, whether carried by Longinus himself or taken by others, is a question with many convoluted answers. Among the first rumors of its whereabouts are the accounts of 6th-century scholars and pilgrims to the Holy Land. Both Gregory of Tours and Cassiodorus claimed that the Holy Lance was in Jerusalem, though neither had been there and seen it for themselves. One anonymous pilgrim, called by historians the Piacenza Pilgrim after the city in Italy from which he hailed, claimed to have seen it around 570 CE in a church on Mount Zion.  And a Latin guidebook for Christian pilgrims of uncertain date also mentions its presence in Jerusalem. In the early 7th century, following the Persian sack of Jerusalem, one Greek chronicle relates that the tip of the lance was snapped off and carried to Constantinople.  In the late 7th century, Arculf, a Frankish pilgrim who was supposedly shipwrecked in Scotland on his return from the Holy Land and related the things he had seen there, claimed to have seen the Holy Lance, or what remained of it, in the “basilica of Constantine,” in other words, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. These may have been tall tales, or they may have been true accounts of people having witnessed early pious frauds circulating the region. Whatever the case, around the 8th century, the presence in Constantinople of the entire Holy Lance, along with the Crown of Thorns, was attested to by numerous pilgrims. Whether this was the broken tip of the lance previously said to have made its way there, now attached to a replica lance for exhibition, or whether the rest of the Lance that Arculf had seen was later taken to Constantinople as well to be reunited with the tip, as others claim, is entirely unclear. What we see, here, though, is the beginning of a process of multiplication, as Holy Lances begin appearing all over the place.

Image of Longinus the saint.

In the year 1098, the army of the First Crusade, on its way to seize Jerusalem from the Saracens, sacked the city of Antioch and found themselves in a terrible pickle. Arab and Turkish forces promptly besieged them, and they were running out of food. That was when one peasant knight from Provençal named Peter Bartholomew claimed that he had received a vision. An angel had visited him, he said, and revealed that the Holy Lance was buried beneath the cathedral of St. Peter right there in Antioch. The bishop who traveled with the army was skeptical. First, Bartholomew was a drunk and a rake, not the sort of man whom angels visit, and second, he most probably was aware of the claims that the Holy Lance resided in Constantinople. But Peter Bartholomew’s patron, Raymond, the Count of Toulouse, was intrigued. So they excavated beneath the cathedral while the armies of Islam waited outside the walls. At first, they found nothing and were about to give up, but then, rather suspiciously, Peter Bartholomew himself jumped into the hole and suddenly produced an iron spearhead. The discovery convinced their beleaguered forces that God was on their side, and a further vision proclaimed by Peter Bartholomew inspired the starving men to burst out from the walled city in a last-ditch attack, and miracle of miracles, they actually routed their enemies in a glorious triumph that they largely attributed to their discovery of the Holy Lance. Only afterward did doubts creep in, as men began pointing out that this was a spear, not a lance, and that the Holy Lance was actually in Byzantium. Some said they had actually seen it there. Peter Bartholomew insisted that his find must be the real deal, though. After all, it had shepherded them to an unlikely victory against those they considered infidels. In a gambit that seems to indicate he truly believed in the spear himself, Peter Bartholomew volunteered to undergo an ordeal by fire to prove his Lance was genuine. Logs were stacked and set on fire, and Peter, carrying the iron spear, walked through a narrow passage between them, passing through the fire that he seems to have been sure would not harm him so long as he carried the relic. Instead, he was horrifically burned when he emerged and perished from his injuries. This Lance was discredited by Peter’s death in the ordeal, though some tried to say maybe it wasn’t the Lance of Longinus but actually one of the Holy Nails. By then, though, this supposed relic had served its purpose by then, and already there were others being proclaimed elsewhere.

 Certainly the most famous of artifacts claimed to be the Lance of Longinus is the Hofburg Spear, or Holy Lance of Vienna. This weapon, which is typical of the Carolingian period, is a winged lance with a pointed, ovular hole chiseled out of the blade for the placement of an ornamental pin in the core of the weapon’s head. Interestingly, this artifact has a long history. Originally, it was actually said to be the lance of Saint Mauritius, the legendary 3rd-century leader of the martyred Theban Legion who resisted the Christian persecutions of Emperor Maximian. As an artifact associated with a saint, then, it was already a holy relic, but it was not considered a relic of the Crucifixion until the 10th century. The story connecting this relic to the crucifixion actually comes from one single account, by Luitprand of Cremona, as an addendum to his narrative of Otto the Great’s struggles against rebellious dukes. Interestingly, this first account, which discusses Otto’s veneration of the lance and how it ensured his victory in battle, claimed that it was important not because it was the Lance of Longinus, but because it had once belonged to Emperor Constantine. The connection to the crucifixion came with the claim that a nail from the crucifixion, supposedly retrieved from the Holy Land by St. Helena, was fastened to the lance, and this claim remains today, with the central pin within the blade asserted to be a Holy Nail. Luitprand is clear about custody of this lance strengthening claims to the throne. Thus this lance, which was already associated with Holy Roman Emperors before Luitprand mythologized it, became a symbol of legitimacy inextricably linked to sovereignty and divine right. Interestingly, it would not be until the 13th century that this lance, which had never previously been claimed to be the Lance of Longinus, came to be considered the Holy Lance—twice holy, really, in that it was claimed to be the Lance of Longinus with a Holy Nail attached! In the 11th century, a silver covering was placed over the blade by Henry IV, inscribed Nail of Our Lord, and demonstrating the evolution of its legend, in the 14th century, Charles IV replaced it with a golden covering that read “Lance and Nail of the Lord.” By that time, it was already being used officially as part of the coronation, cementing its further role as symbol of royal legitimacy. By the 15th-century, it was officially considered part of the Imperial Regalia, kept at Nuremberg. It would be moved from there to Vienna, Austria, when the French Revolutionary Army marched on Nuremberg in 1796, eventually coming into the possession of the Habsburg dynasty. The evolving claims about the Holy Lance of Vienna show that everyone wanted a Holy Lance of their own, to the point that they sought to mythologize their past in order to write themselves into the story of the Holy Lance.

A depiction of the discovery of the lance at Antioch.

While physical lances and spears were showing up and being mythologized on all sides of the Mediterranean during the Middle Ages, a rather unique Holy Lance legend developed in England, inextricably linked with the legend of the Holy Grail. This began in France, however, in the work of Chretien de Troyes that I discussed so much in the previous post. In his story, Perceval, the young knight, as a guest of the Fisher King, sees a bleeding lance carried in the grail procession. It is certainly debatable whether de Troyes intended this image of a bleeding lance to represent the Holy Lance. As I stated in my last post, the image of blood running down the length of a lance certainly recalls the hagiographic legends of the Holy Lance, and how Christ’s redemptive blood ran down it and touched Longinus’s hand, thereby healing his poor eyesight. Moreover, as his patron Philip of Flanders was a crusader, he very well may have heard the story of the lance found at Antioch and wanted the fabled Holy Lance written into this chivalric romance. However, most grail romances—those of Chretien de Troyes and Wolfram von Eschenbach, for example—do not explicitly relate this bleeding lance to the Lance of Longinus. Even Robert de Boron, who incorporated the apocryphal tale of Joseph of Arimathea from the Gospel of Nicodemus into Grail lore, makes no mention whatsoever of Longinus or his lance. Instead, in de Troyes, the lance is discussed only as a powerful weapon, one so powerful that a single blow from it could destroy all of England. In von Eschenbach, it is the poisonous weapon that grievously wounded the Fisher King. Some scholars have therefore suggested that the image was rather meant to reference a fairy spear of Celtic legend, the Fiacail or Luin, which causes great destruction and is venomous. Or perhaps it was intended to represent the spear of the legendary King Cormac of Ireland, called the Crimall or the Bloody Spear. But just as with the Grail, in continuations and later works the sacred dimension of this lance is stressed, and it becomes the focus of Sir Gawain’s quest. If Chretien de Troyes did not intend this identification in the first place, if it was not suggested to him by his patron, it didn’t really matter, because such is the nature of the Holy Lance myth that it becomes identified with any lance or spear mentioned in history. Once the idea was dreamed up that Longinus and his lance accompanied Joseph of Arimathea to ancient Britain, any and all lances or spears prominent in ancient British lore could be said to have been the Holy Lance, even though there had never been any indication that they were the Holy Lance before the Grail Romances. So the spear wielded by legendary warrior queen Boudica, who led an uprising against the Roman Empire, is claimed to have been the Holy Lance, and even King Arthur’s mythical spear, the Rhongomyniad, can be said to have been the Holy Lance, all with no evidence or without even a shred of corroboration in folkloric traditions.

This same superimposing of medieval myth over ancient lore extended even further back, with some developments of the Holy Lance legend seeking to trace its existence prior to when it came into Longinus’s possession. These tales, again, find mention of a lance or spear and argue this too must have been the fabled Holy Lance. Thus the spear thrown by King Saul at the young David must too have been the Lance, and Joshua must have raised this very lance at the head of the army of Israelites as the walls of Jericho fell, and when the priest Phinehas brought an end to a plague visited on the Israelites for sexual intermingling by running an Israelite man and a Midianite woman through with a javelin while they were in the act, that also must have been the Holy Lance in his hand, the conspiracists will say. One alternative history even traces the origin of the lance to Tubal-Cain, a descendant of Cain and a metalsmith mentioned briefly in Genesis. According to this legend, Tubal-Cain saw a fire fall from heaven, and when he looked for where it had fallen, he found a strange metal. That’s right, this legend, attributed to “ancient” Masonic texts, claims that the Holy Lance was forged more than 3000 years before the Common Era from a meteorite, a magical weapon formed of extra-terrestrial metal. To corroborate this notion, some armchair etymologists have claimed that the name Cain means “spear,” and Tubal means “bringer,” making Tubal-Cain literally mean “bringer of the spear.” Here’s the thing. This legend certainly did originate from the alternative histories of Freemasonic ritual, as with their focus on crafting, they revere Tubal-Cain as a supposed originator of such arts. His name is even a secret password used by Masons to recognize each other. But as I’ve spoken about before, despite what Freemasons claim about their order, this fraternal organization began in the Middle Ages as a guild system providing lodgings for traveling stonemasons who plied their trade far from home, working on the construction of great castles and cathedrals. The mythical ideas about the order’s ancient origins did not emerge until the 18th century, when it became a different sort of organization, an old boy’s club composed of upper-crust “speculative” masons, rather than actual stonemasons, whom they would call “operative” masons. Stories like these about Tubal-Cain were just the result of a secret society romanticizing its past. And the etymology of Tubal-Cain is entirely wrong. Cain actually means “smith,” or “forger.” The idea that it meant “spear” may derive from the fact that spears were, of course, forged. And Tubal means “spice,” giving the sense that Tubal-Cain’s workmanship represented a seasoning or improvement of the art of smithing. All of it, then, much like the legend of Longinus, is just an embellishment of a single mention in the Bible of a person described only as “a forger of all instruments.”

Photo of the Hofburg Spear said to be the Holy Lance and claimed by Trevor Ravenscroft to be the object of Hitler’s obsession. Photo credit: Saibo (CC BY-SA 3.0)

Among the worst of the speculators and fabricators of the myth of the Holy Lance, and the person almost single-handedly responsible for the conspiracy theories surrounding it today, was Trevor Ravenscroft, author of The Spear of Destiny. Ravenscroft is among the worst offenders in speculating about ownership of the Holy Lance throughout history, claiming as if it were fact that the relic was carried into battle by 45 different emperors. I have spoken about Ravenscroft before, briefly, in part two of my series on Nazi Occultism. If you aren’t familiar with his book, it posits that Hitler saw the Holy Lance of Vienna at the Hofburg in his youth, researched it and discovered its power, and was inspired to seize power by the relic, which he eventually acquired through his annexation of Austria in 1938. I recently reread the book, and I honestly can’t understand how anyone takes it seriously. As I said before, he makes claims that biographers of Hitler have proven inaccurate, including claims about where he was and what his financial situation was at certain times, and the plot of his story contains too many coincidences to be credited. Like most conspiracists, he takes material out of context and presents material from unreliable sources as if they were fact, relying on quotes from Hitler’s school friend August Kubizek, whose credibility has been challenged by scholars, to portray Hitler as being obsessed with the Hof Museum and some research that he was undertaking in its library. In fact, after cashing in with his book on young Hitler, Kubizek admitted in a private letter to an archivist that Hitler was not so studious and never seemed much of a reader. More than this, though, Ravenscroft presents direct quotations from Hitler about his obsession with the Holy Lance that are not at first properly cited. Eventually it becomes clear that these quotations were supposedly told to Ravenscroft by a Grail researcher named Walter Stein. Much of the book depicts Ravenscroft’s conversations with Stein, and the central conceit of the book is that Stein would have written himself about all this first-hand knowledge he had of Hitler’s occult obsession with the Lance, if he had lived long enough.

In fact, none of the written work that Stein left behind indicates that he had any interest in the Holy Lance, beyond its connection to Grail lore, and there is no evidence that he ever met Hitler as the book claims. More than this, during a court case in which Ravenscroft sued a novelist for using his intellectual property in a work of fiction, Ravenscroft essentially admitted that he’d made the whole thing up, that he’d never even met Stein except through the faculties of a medium in a séance, and that all the unsupported historical claims he made in the book were dreamed up through transcendental meditation. In retrospect, this should have been obvious. In the very introduction of the book he describes a process of writing about history and discovering previously unknown truths about the past through a “transcendent faculty” or “clairvoyant vision” and only later seeking confirmation of findings through historical research. One would be hard pressed to describe a less reliable approach to historical research than this. The truth of the matter is that Hitler was interested in the Hofburg Spear, though all signs indicate that he was only interested in it as part of the regalia that represented imperial legitimacy. To acquire the regalia would be good fodder for his propaganda machine; that is all. Through his psychic research, Ravenscroft supposedly learned that General George Patton personally recovered the Spear of Destiny at the conclusion of World War II, and that possession of the Holy Lance is what thereafter transformed America into a global superpower. In fact, there’s no record of Patton ever handling the artifact himself—that too must have been glimpsed in a vision—and the U.S. promptly returned it, with the rest of the Imperial Regalia, to the Hofburg. It boggles the mind that anyone could read this book and think it presents accurate historical fact. And yet some do, and from this morass of conspiracy speculation have sprung further bonkers conspiracist claims, like those of Jim Keith, Jerry E. Smith, and George Piccard, claims of Hitler’s survival and phony decoy lances kept in secret Antarctic bases, and of course, flying saucers thrown in for good measure.

A photograph of the less-than-credible Trevor Ravenscroft. (Copyright Disclaimer under section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for “fair use” for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, education and research.)

Today, the number of relics contending for the title of the Holy Lance has diminished. The broken tip of the lance once venerated in Constantinople was sold to the French Crown and enshrined in Paris, but during the French Revolution, it disappeared. The other, intact lance venerated at Constantinople was seized by the Turks and was later sent to Rome, but with the rival lance in Nuremberg, as well as another that had cropped up in Armenia, the Church has never made any official claim of its authenticity. It is kept with other relics beneath the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica, and it’s trotted out, along with other relics, during Lent, to be gawped at. The lance discovered buried at Antioch by Peter Bartholomew may have been lost when the army of Raymond, Count of Toulouse, was annihilated by Turks in the doomed Crusade of 1101, but interestingly, Raymond of Toulouse may have given the Antioch lance to the emperor when he returned to Byzantium. And that means that the lance given back to Rome may actually have been the lance found at Antioch. Ironically, in the 18th century, the Catholic Church declared the lance found at Antioch, possibly the very one that they display every year, to be a pious fraud. As for the Hofburg Spear, in 2003, scientific tests demonstrated that the body of the spear was no older than the 7th century, in one swift stroke cutting through decades of conspiracy theory BS. As for the pin in the center of the blade, claimed to be a Holy Nail, this could not be dated and is said to be at least consistent in size and shape with a Roman nail of the 1st century. But it must be remembered that even if this were proven to be a 1st century Roman nail, that doesn’t mean it is genuinely from the Crucifixion. There are nails all over the world that are claimed to be Holy Nails, far too many nails for them all to be genuine. The phenomenon of pious fraud leaves us unable to give credence to any of them.

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Until next time, remember, there is a difference between popular books on history, and actual historical research. Sometimes you can tell by looking at the book flap and checking out the author’s bona fides, but on The Spear of Destiny, it claimed Ravenscroft “studied history under Dr. Walter Johannes Stein for twelve years,” which we now know to be a lie. You might also discern the quality of such a book by examining how it is categorized. The fact that Ravenscroft’s book is categorized under “occultism” is a pretty clear indication that it shouldn’t be read as if it were a reliable work of history.

Further Reading

Adelson, Howard L. “The Holy Lance and the Hereditary German Monarchy.” The Art Bulletin, vol. 48, no. 2, 1966, pp. 177–92. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/3048362. Accessed 14 June 2023.
Barber, Richard. The Holy Grail: Imagination and Belief. Harvard University Press, 2005.

Brown, Arthur C. L. “The Bleeding Lance.” PMLA, vol. 25, no. 1, 1910, pp. 1–59. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/456810. Accessed 14 June 2023.

Callahan, Tim. “Holy Relics, Holy Places, Wholly Fiction.” Skeptic, 13 Sep. 2022, https://www.skeptic.com/reading_room/holy-relics-holy-places-wholly-fiction/

Cavendish, Richard. “The Discovery of the Holy Lance.” History Today, vol. 48, no. 6, June 1998, www.historytoday.com/archive/months-past/discovery-holy-lance.

Jarus, Owen. “’Tomb of Jesus’ Dates Back Nearly 1,700 Years.” 28 Nov. 2017, www.livescience.com/61043-tomb-of-jesus-excavated.html.

Nickell, Joe. Relics of the Christ. University of Kentucky Press, 2007.

Nitze, William A. “The Bleeding Lance and Philip of Flanders.” Speculum, vol. 21, no. 3, 1946, pp. 303–11. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/2851373. Accessed 14 June 2023.