The year was 1820, and London’s high society was abuzz with the arrival of a dashing new personality.
General Gregor MacGregor, a Scottish war hero with a chest full of medals and a gifted raconteur, had swept into the city and taken it by storm.
Clad in a sharp military uniform and flashing a charming grin, MacGregor regaled audiences with stories of his daring exploits alongside Simón Bolívar during the Venezuelan War of Independence. But what truly captivated the elites wasn’t his charisma or battlefield glory, it was his claim to be the ruler — “cazique” — of a tropical Central American paradise called Poyais.
Poyais, MacGregor declared, was a land of unparalleled riches. Its soil was so fertile that the finest crops grew with barely any effort, its rivers sparkled with gold, and its friendly native tribes were eager to welcome British settlers. It was an investor’s dream and a settler’s utopia. And MacGregor, the benevolent ruler, was more than willing to share his paradise — for a price, of course.
London’s elites fell over themselves to get in on the opportunity. They bought Poyaisian land grants, invested in its government bonds, and dreamed of lounging on their sprawling estates in this New World Garden of Eden. Ships were chartered, and hundreds of eager pioneers boarded them, ready to embark on the adventure of a lifetime.
The problem? Poyais didn’t exist. It was nothing more than a figment of MacGregor’s fertile imagination. The settlers who arrived at the site where Poyais was supposedly located found only a mosquito-infested untamed jungle on the Honduran coast. There was no infrastructure, no resources, and no welcoming natives. Many succumbed to disease and starvation, and the few survivors returned to Britain with harrowing tales of betrayal and disaster.
And MacGregor? He simply shrugged, pocketed the fortune he’d amassed, and moved on to his next scheme. Astonishingly, despite orchestrating one of the most audacious frauds in history, he never faced justice. Instead, he retired to Venezuela, where his earlier association with Bolívar earned him accolades as a war hero. He lived out his days in comfort, unpunished and unrepentant.
It’s hard to imagine anyone matching MacGregor’s sheer chutzpah, but remarkably, he was far from the only 19th-century con artist to leave a trail of devastation in their wake. Fast forward to the late 1870s, and another fraudster — a woman this time — was weaving her web of deceit.
Sarah Howe was the very picture of respectability: impeccably dressed, articulate, and gifted with a knack for making lonely, vulnerable women feel seen and valued. She seemed the perfect person to lead the Ladies’ Deposit Company, a savings bank in Boston catering exclusively to unmarried women.
Howe’s pitch was as appealing as it was bold. Not only did she promise financial security, but she also guaranteed a monthly return of 8% — an eye-popping figure, particularly in an era of economic uncertainty. The deposits poured in. Hundreds of women from across the country entrusted their life savings to Howe, believing they were supporting a visionary cause that promised to give women equal footing in a male-dominated society.
But behind the veneer of benevolence lurked a classic Ponzi scheme. Howe wasn’t investing a penny; she was simply shuffling funds from new deposits to pay earlier investors while skimming off a hefty share to fund her own extravagant lifestyle.
When the scheme inevitably collapsed in 1880, the fallout was catastrophic. Many of Howe’s clients were left destitute. The betrayal stung even more because Howe had presented herself as a champion of women’s empowerment.
And Howe herself? Like MacGregor, she managed to slip through the cracks. After a brief stint in jail, she faded into obscurity, leaving behind a cautionary tale about misplaced trust.
But Howe was far from the most brazen con artist of the late 19th century. If there were an Olympic medal for sheer audacity, James Reavis would have taken the gold. Known as the “Baron of Arizona,” the meticulously groomed and impressively mustached Reavis orchestrated a con so elaborate it could have been plucked straight from a Hollywood script. In the 1880s, he claimed ownership of over 18,000 square miles of land across Arizona and New Mexico — a territory larger than some European countries.
Reavis backed his astounding claim with an intricate web of carefully forged documents, detailed maps, fantastic family legends, and fabricated genealogies, all purporting to trace his land rights to a Spanish land grant awarded to his wife’s family in the 18th century.
For years, Reavis collected rents and fees from settlers, railroads, and even the US government, ultimately pocketing over five million dollars. Few dared to challenge him, convinced that this phony aristocrat held legal dominion over their homes and businesses.
But as with all great frauds, the truth eventually came to light. A team of sharp-eyed government investigators uncovered the forgeries that formed the foundation of Reavis’s empire, and his house of cards collapsed. In 1896, he was convicted of fraud and sentenced to Federal prison — a fitting end for one of history’s most audacious schemers.
Of course, the 19th century wasn’t unique in terms of fraudsters, con artists, and greedy chancers who claimed virtue while ripping people off. After all, wherever there’s money, or even the promise of it, there’s always someone ready to steal it.
The Torah recognizes this timeless truth, and one of its earliest and sharpest examples is Ephron the Hittite in Parshat Chayei Sarah, whose greed and duplicity make him the devilish forebear of MacGregor, Howe, and Reavis.
At first glance, Ephron appears to be the very picture of generosity and goodwill. Abraham is mourning the loss of his wife, Sarah. He approaches Ephron to purchase the Cave of Machpelah as a place to bury her.
Ephron, playing to a hastily gathered audience of hangers-on, theatrically offers to give Machpelah to Abraham for free. “What is 400 shekels of silver between me and you?” he says magnanimously, as though the money were a mere trifle.
But Ephron’s true colors are soon revealed. His offer to gift the burial site is nothing more than a charade. Behind the grand gestures and flattering words lies a shrewd and duplicitous businessman intent on exploiting Abraham’s grief.
Ephron not only charges Abraham the total inflated price of 400 shekels, but insists that the payment be made in the highest quality silver. Ephron epitomizes the timeless brand of voracious greed cloaked in the guise of generosity.
But what makes this story so powerful is Abraham’s response. He could have called Ephron out for his hypocrisy, haggled the price, or used his considerable status to demand better treatment. Instead, Abraham insisted on paying the full price without argument, ensuring the transaction was utterly transparent and entirely irreversible. In doing so, he maintained his integrity, even in the face of Ephron’s dishonesty.
The story of Abraham and Ephron teaches a timeless lesson: in a world teeming with chicanery, the most important thing is to hold fast to your principles. Abraham’s insistence on honesty and transparency ensured his purchase would stand the test of time.
Thousands of years later, the Cave of Machpelah remains a holy site of the Jewish people, a symbol of Abraham’s righteousness, in stark and enduring contrast to the fleeting gains of fraudsters like MacGregor, Howe, and Reavis. Like Ephron’s, their names are remembered as cautionary tales, while Abraham’s legacy inspires a commitment to values that truly last.
The author is a rabbi based in Beverly Hills, California.
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