Twelve Golden Rules for Women Cooks: 1838

the cook hints to servants 1843

The Cook, from Hints to Servants, 1843

TWELVE GOLDEN RULES FOR WOMEN COOKS.

[Extracted from that excellent work, “Essays on Good-Living.”]

Never get drunk—until the last dish be served up.

Never be saucy—unless you happen to be in your airs and can’t help it; but then, take care to have the last word.

Never be sulky—unless you have a great dinner to dress; your mistress will then be sure to coax you.

Never spoil a joint—unless you have been unjustly found fault with, (which must be the fact if you have been accused at all); in which case, if complaint be made of its having been under-done, you may, next time, roast it to a cinder; and, if that should not give satisfaction, you may, the following day, send it up raw.

Never get dinner ready at the time it is ordered—unless you know that the family are not ready for it; in which case, send it up to a moment; if it be cold and spoiled, that, you know, will not be your fault.

Never admit that you are in the wrong—unless the devil will have it so that you cannot help it. If you should transgress your orders, stand stoutly to it, that they were such as you have followed; and, if you have not brass enough for that, say, you thought they were.

Never take snuff –unless when you are mixing a stew, or stirring the soup. Nor never examine the latter without holding a lighted tallow candle obliquely over the pot; if it should not enable you to see quite to the bottom, what drops from it will at least enrich the contents; and when you taste it, be sure to throw back what remains in your spoon.

 Never wash your hands—until you have made the pies; you must do it then, and to do it sooner is only wasting time and soap.

Never give warning to quit your place—until you are quite sure that it will put the family to the greatest inconvenience, and then, be off at a moment; say, “your father’s dead, or your mother’s dying, and you cannot stay if it was ever so.” If warning be given to you, from that moment you may spoil every thing that comes under your hands.

Never tell tales of the family you are with—unless they should be to their disadvantage; nor never speak well of your last mistress, unless it be to contrast her with the present.

Never cheat—unless you can do it without being discovered; but, if you don’t yourself cheat, never prevent others—“Your master can afford it;”— “Service is no inheritance;”—and “poor servants and tradesfolk must live.”

Never tell a lie —when you can get as much by telling the truth; nor ever tell the truth, when you can get more by telling a lie.

Never support a sweetheart out of the house—unless you can’t get one in.

The London Jester; Or, Museum of Mirth, Wit, and Humour, 1838: pp. 100-101

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Of all the domestic plagues, the Cook was believed to be the worst. Complaints were heard on all sides about cooks who were ill-tempered, dishonest, dirty, and intemperate. A truly good cook knew that her value was above rubies and a potential employer would have a job to impress her. Cook’s whims and fancies were Law. And when a gem of a cook was found, other ladies conspired to lure her away.  This rarely ended well:

STOLE HER COOK.

Red Bank, N.J.  Because Mrs. C. B. West stole her “jewel of a cook,” Mrs. G.E. Poulson built a “spite fence” and threatened to horsewhip. West had her arrested. The Evening Sun [Baltimore MD] 9 May 1913: p. 1

 

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.

Advertisements

The Deferred Appointment: 1911

The Deferred Appointment

Algernon Blackwood

The little “Photographic Studio” in the side-street beyond Shepherd’s Bush had done no business all day, for the light had been uninviting to even the vainest sitter, and the murky sky that foreboded snow had hung over London without a break since dawn. Pedestrians went hurrying and shivering along the pavements, disappearing into the gloom of countless ugly little houses the moment they passed beyond the glare of the big electric standards that lit the thundering motor-buses in the main street. The first flakes of snow, indeed, were already falling slowly, as though they shrank from settling in the grime. The wind moaned and sang dismally, catching the ears and lifting the shabby coat-tails of Mr. Mortimer Jenkyn, “Photographic Artist,” as he stood outside and put the shutters up with his own cold hands in despair of further trade.

It was five minutes to six. With a lingering glance at the enlarged portrait of a fat man in masonic regalia who was the pride and glory of his window-front, he fixed the last hook of the shutter, and turned to go indoors. There was developing and framing to be done upstairs, not very remunerative work, but better, at any rate, than waiting in an empty studio for customers who did not come—wasting the heat of two oil-stoves into the bargain. And it was then, in the act of closing the street-door behind him, that he saw a man standing in the shadows of the narrow passage, staring fixedly into his face.

Mr. Jenkyn admits that he jumped. The man was so very close, yet he had not seen him come in; and in the eyes was such a curiously sad and appealing expression. He had already sent his assistant home, and there was no other occupant of the little two-storey house. The man must have slipped past him from the dark street while his back was turned. Who in the world could he be, and what could he want? Was he beggar, customer, or rogue?

“Good evening,” Mr. Jenkyn said, washing his hands, but using only half the oily politeness of tone with which he favoured sitters. He was just going to add “sir,” feeling it wiser to be on the safe side, when the stranger shifted his position so that the light fell directly upon his face, and Mr. Jenkyn was aware that he—recognised him. Unless he was greatly mistaken, it was the second-hand bookseller in the main street.

“Ah, it’s you, Mr. Wilson!” he stammered, making half a question of it, as though not quite convinced. “Pardon me; I did not quite catch your face—er—I was just shutting up.” The other bowed his head in reply. “Won’t you come in? Do, please.” Mr. Jenkyn led the way. He wondered what was the matter. The visitor was not among his customers; indeed, he could hardly claim to know him, having only seen him occasionally when calling at the shop for slight purchases of paper and what not. The man, he now realised, looked fearfully ill and wasted, his face pale and haggard. It upset him rather, this sudden, abrupt call. He felt sorry, pained. He felt uneasy.

Into the studio they passed, the visitor going first as though he knew the way, Mr. Jenkyn noticing through his flurry that he was in his “Sunday best.” Evidently he had come with a definite purpose. It was odd. Still without speaking, he moved straight across the room and posed himself in front of the dingy background of painted trees, facing the camera. The studio was brightly lit. He seated himself in the faded arm-chair, crossed his legs, drew up the little round table with the artificial roses upon it in a tall, thin vase, and struck an attitude. He meant to be photographed.

His eyes, staring straight into the lens, draped as it was with the black velvet curtain, seemed, however, to take no account of the Photographic Artist. But Mr. Jenkyn, standing still beside the door, felt a cold air playing over his face that was not merely the winter cold from the street. He felt his hair rise. A slight shiver ran down his back. In that pale, drawn face, and in those staring eyes across the room that gazed so fixedly into the draped camera, he read the signature of illness that no longer knows hope. It was Death that he saw.

In a flash the impression came and went—less than a second. The whole business, indeed, had not occupied two minutes. Mr. Jenkyn pulled himself together with a strong effort, dismissed his foolish obsession, and came sharply to practical considerations. “Forgive me,” he said, a trifle thickly, confusedly, “but I—er—did not quite realise. You desire to sit for your portrait, of course. I’ve had such a busy day, and—’ardly looked for a customer so late.” The clock, as he spoke, struck six. But he did not notice the sound. Through his mind ran another reflection: “A man shouldn’t ‘ave his picture taken when he’s ill and next door to dying. Lord! He’ll want a lot of touching-up and finishin’, too!”

He began discussing the size, price, and length—the usual rigmarole of his “profession,” and the other, sitting there, still vouchsafed no comment or reply. He simply made the impression of a man in a great hurry, who wished to finish a disagreeable business without unnecessary talk. Many men, reflected the photographer, were the same; being photographed was worse to them than going to the dentist. Mr. Jenkyn filled the pauses with his professional running talk and patter, while the sitter, fixed and motionless, kept his first position and stared at the camera. The photographer rather prided himself upon his ability to make sitters look bright and pleasant; but this man was hopeless. It was only afterwards Mr. Jenkyn recalled the singular fact that he never once touched him—that, in fact, something connected possibly with his frail appearance of deadly illness had prevented his going close to arrange the details of the hastily assumed pose.

“It must be a flashlight, of course, Mr. Wilson,” he said, fidgeting at length with the camera-stand, shifting it slightly nearer; while the other moved his head gently yet impatiently in agreement. Mr. Jenkyn longed to suggest his coming another time when he looked better, to speak with sympathy of his illness; to say something, in fact, that might establish a personal relation. But his tongue in this respect seemed utterly tied. It was just this personal relation which seemed impossible of approach—absolutely and peremptorily impossible. There seemed a barrier between the two. He could only chatter the usual professional commonplaces. To tell the truth, Mr. Jenkyn thinks he felt a little dazed the whole time—not quite his usual self. And, meanwhile, his uneasiness oddly increased. He hurried. He, too, wanted the matter done with and his visitor gone.

At length everything was ready, only the flashlight waiting to be turned on, when, stooping, he covered his head with the velvet cloth and peered through the lens— at no one! When he says “at no one,” however, he qualifies it thus: “There was a quick flash of brilliant white light and a face in the middle of it—my gracious Heaven! But such a face—’im, yet not ’im—like a sudden rushing glory of a face! It shot off like lightning out of the camera’s field of vision. It left me blinded, I assure you, ’alf blinded, and that’s a fac’. It was sheer dazzling!”

It seems Mr. Jenkyn remained entangled a moment in the cloth, eyes closed, breath coming in gasps, for when he got clear and straightened up again, staring once more at his customer over the top of the camera, he stared for the second time at—no one. And the cap that he held in his left hand he clapped feverishly over the uncovered lens. Mr. Jenkyn staggered… looked hurriedly round the empty studio, then ran, knocking a chair over as he went, into the passage. The hall was deserted, the front door closed. His visitor had disappeared “almost as though he hadn’t never been there at all”—thus he described it to himself in a terrified whisper. And again he felt the hair rise on his scalp; his skin crawled a little, and something put back the ice against his spine.

After a moment he returned to the studio and somewhat feverishly examined it. There stood the chair against the dingy background of trees; and there, close beside it, was the round table with the flower vase. Less than a minute ago Mr. Thomas Wilson, looking like death, had been sitting in that very chair. “It wasn’t all a sort of dreamin’, then,” ran through his disordered and frightened mind. “I did see something…!” He remembered vaguely stories he had read in the newspapers, stories of queer warnings that saved people from disasters, apparitions, faces seen in dream, and so forth. “Maybe,” he thought with confusion, “something’s going to ’appen to me!” Further than that he could not get for some little time, as he stood there staring about him, almost expecting that Mr. Wilson might reappear as strangely as he had disappeared. He went over the whole scene again and again, reconstructing it in minutest detail. And only then, for the first time, did he plainly realise two things which somehow or other he had not thought strange before, but now thought very strange. For his visitor, he remembered, had not uttered a single word, nor had he, Mr. Jenkyn, once touched his person… And, thereupon, without more ado, he put on his hat and coat and went round to the little shop in the main street to buy some ink and stationery which he did not in the least require.

The shop seemed all as usual, though Mr. Wilson himself was not visible behind the littered desk. A tall gentleman was talking in low tones to the partner. Mr. Jenkyn bowed as he went in, then stood examining a case of cheap stylographic pens, waiting for the others to finish. It was impossible to avoid overhearing. Besides, the little shop had distinguished customers sometimes, he had heard, and this evidently was one of them. He only understood part of the conversation, but he remembers all of it. “Singular, yes, these last words of dying men,” the tall man was saying, “very singular. You remember Newman’s: ‘More light,’ wasn’t it?” The bookseller nodded.

“Fine,” he said, “fine, that!” There was a pause. Mr. Jenkyn stooped lower over the pens. “This, too, was fine in its way,” the gentleman added, straightening up to go; “the old promise, you see, unfulfilled but not forgotten. Cropped up suddenly out of the delirium. Curious, very curious! A good, conscientious man to the last. In all the twenty years I’ve known him he never broke his word…”

A motor-bus drowned a sentence, and then was heard in the bookseller’s voice, as he moved towards the door. “…You see, he was half-way down the stairs before they found him, always repeating the same thing, ‘I promised the wife, I promised the wife.’ And it was a job, I’m told, getting him back again… he struggled so. That’s what finished him so quick, I suppose. Fifteen minutes later he was gone, and his last words were always the same, ‘I promised the wife’…”

The tall man was gone, and Mr. Jenkyn forgot about his purchases. “When did it ’appen?” he heard himself asking in a voice he hardly recognised as his own. And the reply roared and thundered in his ears as he went down the street a minute later to his house: “Close on six o’clock—a few minutes before the hour. Been ill for weeks, yes. Caught him out of bed with high fever on his way to your place, Mr. Jenkyn, calling at the top of his voice that he’d forgotten to see you about his picture being taken. Yes, very sad, very sad indeed.”

But Mr. Jenkyn did not return to his studio. He left the light burning there all night. He went to the little room where he slept out, and next day gave the plate to be developed by his assistant. “Defective plate, sir,” was the report in due course; “shows nothing but a flash of light—uncommonly brilliant.” “Make a print of it all the same,” was the reply. Six months later, when he examined the plate and print, Mr. Jenkyn found that the singular streaks of light had disappeared from both. The uncommon brilliance had faded out completely as though it had never been there.

The Times-Democrat [New Orleans LA] 12 March 1911: p. 39

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Algernon Blackwood is perhaps best known for his “weird” supernatural and horror fiction. This is a workmanlike example of one of his ghost stories.

Mrs Daffodil regrets that the death-like countenance of Mr Wilson did not appear in the plate or the print so that the image could have been presented to his wife as a memento (mori) of the occasion. Normally a post-mortem photograph would be taken at the home of the deceased, with the decedent passively submitting to the professional ministrations of the photographic artist. The notion of a post-mortem photograph taken of a subject who not only walked into the photographic studio but posed himself at a table containing a vase of artificial roses is uncommonly chilling.

 

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.

Left-Over Laundry: 1889

 

laundry 1901

LEFT-OVER LAUNDRY

Novel Business of a Smart Young Boston Man

“Those bundles,” said he, “which that young man took off with him were what would be called left-over laundry. That is, they have lain upon our shelves for several months since they were washed and have never been called for.”

“Do you have many such bundles?” “Well, yes, we do. That young man who just went out calls here about once a month and he gets just about as many bundles every time. You see there are a great many forgetful people in this world, and many of them will take a bundle of clothes to some laundry office, and then, before it comes time to take them out, will have forgotten where they left them, and so the stuff is left on the agent’s hands. Then again many of the bundles are left by drummers and other travellers who are called away from town before their clothes are washed, and either do not come back at all or have forgotten the place when they do come.

“Then there is still another class: Young men who have money one day and are broke the next. These fellows will often leave large bundles and then will not have money enough to spare to get them out for some time and when they do get them the laundry has been in the office so long that they feel ashamed to call for it. From these and some other causes we have many bundles which would never be called for it they laid on our shelves for ten years. Until within a few months all of these bundles have been a dead loss to us, as we are obliged to pay the laundryman for washing the clothes and then get nothing for them.

“As they are all second-hand clothes we could not sell them until this young man came long and he takes all we have off our hands. What does he do with them? Why, he sells them, of course, he makes a business of it, and goes all over the city and suburbs, collecting this uncalled-for laundry. Of course he has to buy it blind, as he is not allowed to examine the bundles before purchasing them, and so he gets all sorts of things in all sorts of conditions, but as, for instance, he only has to pay ten cents for a shirt, and often gets one which is nearly new and costs perhaps $2, he can afford to get stuck on a few of the things.

“He has made it his business to get acquainted with poor young men and women, to whom he sells articles for about a quarter of what they would cost in the stores and still manages to clear from 300 to 500 per cent on his sales. Not a bad profit, if the sales are big enough, is it? And the business is an easy and a clean one to handle. Altogether it is one of the most novel methods of making a living that I have heard of for some time.”

Denver [CO] Rocky Mountain News 29 December 1889: p. 17

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Mrs Daffodil is always interested to hear of ingenious entrepreneurs who find ways to re-use clothing—an idea which is attracting new interest these days. We have heard of the lady who renovated silks, and of the widow who cleverly restyled outworn fashions.  Second-hand clothing was a lucrative business, either as clothing or even as rags. Certainly it would have been a more cleanly trade than handling the clothes at slop– or pawn-shops. One wonders if the young man kept a store-front or if he went door-to-door to those poor young men and women, peddling the contents of the bundles.

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.

 

Armistice Day: 1918

In Flanders fields.jpg

One hundred years ago, to-day, the guns fell silent on the Western Front. It was a time for rejoicing. The War to End All Wars was over. And yet, amid the cheering crowds,  there were those who were silent,  mourning for those who would not return.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

 

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

 

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

John McCrae

For the story of Canadian physician and poet John McCrae and how he came to write this poem–perhaps the best-known of the Great War, see this podcast and transcription from Library and Archives, Canada.

Mrs Daffodil has discussed the melancholy question of how to mourn the dead of the Great War here and here.

A Soldier on the Garden Path: 1916

grave of an unknown Canadian soldier, Somme battlefield October 1916

The grave of an unknown Canadian soldier, Somme battlefield, October 1916 https://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/205194594

Pauline Frederick’s fine emotional countenance relaxed into a smile on being requested to relate her most vivid Christmas experience; then it grew grave again, as though the request had conjured up an unpleasant memory.

“This story relates to a young cousin of whom I was very fond, as we had practically been brought up together,” commenced Miss Frederick. “On the outbreak of war he joined the Canadian army.

“On this particular night I was about to retire to bed, and my maid, who was drawing down the blinds, turned to me with a movement of surprise, and then cried out: ‘There’s a soldier coming up the garden path.’ I ran to the window and looked out. It was a bright moonlight night, and I had no difficulty in recognising the soldier as my cousin. Wondering that he had never informed me that he would have leave of absence, I went downstairs to open the door, followed by my maid. On opening the door and going out on the steps I found to my surprise that no one was in sight. With my maid we searched the garden, but everything was quiet and we went indoors again. Feeling a little uneasy, I questioned the maid as to the impression she had received of the soldier, and her replies convinced me that I could not have been suffering from hallucinations.

“The next day I dropped a note to my cousin’s mother asking her if she had heard lately from her son. A reply came by return of post that she had that morning received a cheery letter from France, and that my cousin had asked to be remembered to me.

“I felt a little more cheerful on the receipt of this news, and dismissed the incident from my mind. A week later, however. I found a letter on my breakfast table, the envelope being of the kind known as ‘mourning,’ and seeing that it was in my aunt’s handwriting I had an eerie feeling that there was some connection between my vision and this communication. The news was hardly news to me although my aunt informed me that her son had been killed in one of the innumerable raids on the Somme, and the time of the raid corresponded with the time of the strange visitation. What do I make of the experience? I really don’t know. I have heard such things have happened before in–other people’s experience, and I have always been sceptical of those stories, but I shall never be sceptical again.”

Evening Star 22 December 1920: p. 5

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: The narrative above comes from Miss Pauline Frederick, an American stage and cinema actress. It was part of an article about the unusual and supernatural experiences of  actors and actresses.

The Battle of the Somme, which began 1 July 1916, saw 60,000 British casualties just on the first day of the campaign. The Canadian troops were called on in September of 1916 to launch a series of new attacks against a particularly well-fortified trench. When the trench was bombed into submission, the Battle of the Somme ended.

As this site on the Canadian troops in the Great War describes: “The fighting at the Somme shifted the front lines only eight kilometres at a horrendous cost of more than 1 million casualties, including 24,000 dead and wounded Canadians. The human toll of the battle remains as controversial today as it was at the time.”

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.

The Weight of Fashion: 1883

WOMAN’S BURDEN OF DRESS.

The Danger in the Folds of Heavy Shirts and Cloaks—Weighing Garments Which Women Wear—How the Heavy Burden May Cause Disease or Exhaustion.

[New York Times.]

I feel called upon to correct some of the nonsense uttered and written about the injury done to women by their costumes.

High-heeled French shoes and tight lacing have hitherto borne the burden of blame for the sufferings of women. But now comes the Lancet, of London, in the track of other iconoclasts, and casts at least a doubt upon this favorite theory by an article in regard to the weight of women’s clothes. The article in question is brief and pointed, calling attention in a few words to what the writer regards as a serious evil. It was printed in the issue of December 2d, and the principal part of it reads as follows:

“The clothes worn by women are, as a whole, too heavy, and, by a perversity of fashion, they receive an enormous increment of weight at this season in the shape of cloaks and mantles of sealskin or plush with quilted linings. The attention of medical practitioners needs to be specially drawn to this matter in order that they may remonstrate with their female patients, and also avoid misconception as to the actual strength of some who complain of fatigue in waling, which may be mistaken for a token of weakness, whereas it is only natural exhaustion from carrying a burden that few strong men would care to bear.

The waist is encircled as with a belt or hoop, to which a load heavier than a felon’s chains is attached, and the shoulders and chest are compressed by an additional burden. Breathing is laboriously performed, and the contents of the trunk and pelvis are thrust down with a force which, if represented in pounds, would occasion considerable surprise.”

In order to ascertain how far the statements contained in this article were borne out by facts, a Times reporter investigated some of the mysteries of the feminine toilet at Lord & Taylor’s by exploring a number of the departments and having the weight accurately ascertained of every article under examination. Four dresses of medium size were weighed. Six pounds was the weight of a dress of velvet and cloth; a silk dress weighed three and a half pounds, a plush five and a quarter pounds, and a dress of ladies’ cloth on a cloth skirt five pounds three ounces. Dresses of ladies’ cloth are very generally worn, and, with fur trimmings, are still heavier. Twenty years ago dresses had plain underskirts and waists, and were not loaded down with elaborate trimmings, which are now the rage. Steel trimmings, now happily gone out of fashion, were very heavy adornments, but the real jet trimmings worn in certain circles are also a load to carry. When a lady’s heart is set on having a stylish dress she seldom entertains the problem of weight. Dresssmakers try to make them as light as possible, but with plush and silk this is no easy task. With all these trimmings dresses will continue to be burdens until the old-fashioned skirt, gathered at the waist, comes in vogue again. The reporter timidly investigated those articles of dress which may be boldly characterized as ladies’ underwear. He was informed that the gossamer gauze for summer use and the silk goods in pink, blue and flesh colors were as light as a fairy, and could hardly be weighed; but a cold, scientific inquiry, with the assistance of scales, showed a weight of six to eleven ounces for gauze cassimere suits, according to size, and eight to fourteen ounces of the silk. The latter is expensive, costing from $4 to $15 a garment, but it fits closely to the skin, is a preventive against cold, and affords as much comfort, they say, as wool. The heavy merino underwear for winter weighs from twenty-two to twenty-eight ounces a suit. Many ladies wear gauze or silk all the year round, as they want to look as symmetrical, and in some instances as aesthetic, as possible. Closely fitting underwear, it is reported, is an advantage in securing a perfectly fitting dress. Muslin underwear has also its claim for popularity on this score, and the sum total of an outfit runs from twenty-three to twenty-eight ounces. The underskirt is an important factor in determining the weight of a lady’s clothing, a colored underskirt weighing fourteen ounces, and a plain or cambric underskirt eight ounces. A satin waling-skirt scores twenty-nine ounces, and one of flannel twenty-one ounces. The latter, it is needless to say, sells by the thousands on the shopping thoroughfares of the city. When the reporter asked the weight of the seal-skin dolman the young weigher declared it to be four pounds. As this was evidently inaccurate the reporter sent it back to be reweighed. Six pounds was the result this time, and the weigher pleasantly excused the discrepancy by saying he thought he was “doing it for the express company.” Fur-lined dolmans were found to weigh exactly five pounds and sealskin sacques four pounds each. The young lady who would be comfortably and fashionably shod for the street, must wear cork-soled shoes whose average weight is a pound. If she dons a pair of rubbers an additional five ounces will be added. For stormy weather a pair of arctics may be desirable, a matter of fifteen ounces. The problem of stockings depends on whether the lady under discussion is going to the ball and will wear a pair adorned with beads, heavy bangles, and what not, and weighing five or six ounces, whether she will be content with silk stockings weighing two or three ounces, lisle or cotton stockings of three or four ounces’ weight, or even  Derby ribbed cotton at six ounces. Gloves are light eight; a six-button pair registering one ounce; a twelve-button pair two ounces, and fur-topped dog-skin pair three ounces. A lady’s handkerchief weighs an ounce, her collar and cuffs one and two ounces respectively, and her walking-hat, say of plush, beads and feathers, nine ounces.

At Arnold & Constable’s store, Mr. Walker, manage of the manufacturing department, afforded the reporter an opportunity of seeing the various heavy garments worn by women at this season of the year, and gave him estimates of their weights. The first garment examined was a satin-lined sealskin dolman. “That,” said Mr. Walker, “is a favorite covering with ladies, and is quite warm. It weighs about—I can only give you my estimate—eight pounds. Here is a sacque, also lined with quilted satin, under which is laid light cotton wadding. That weighs about twelve pounds. It is no warmer than a sealskin and is more cumbersome, but is not so expensive. Here is a sealskin dolman lined with plush, which I should think weighs a good twelve pounds. I don’t wonder that women get tired if they carry those around much. How, here is the most sensible garment that has ever been adopted by American women. This is a close-fitting pelisse. They are very much worn this season, and are as warm and comfortable as can be desired. They weigh from six and one-half to eight pounds, the weight of the heavier ones being caused by trimmings of braid, &c., which add nothing to their warmth. They combine lightness and warmth with the placing of the weight upon the shoulders.” Mr. Walker then showed the reporter a number of heavy winter skirts. A plain one of cloth, with a few trimmings of plush, weighed about nine pounds, and hung wholly from a waistband. Another, of cashmere, weighed about the same. “That’s nothing,” said Mr. Walker; “think of a woman’s having carry this around all day.” The skirt to which he referred weighed fully twelve pounds and was of plain cloth. Several other skirts of the same kind and weight were exhibited and all were found to be such as are commonly worn in the street at this season. Mr. Walker afterward took from a box a ball dress of blue and white satin and plush, which looked as light and airy as clouds. It had a long train and a low corsage.

“That doesn’t weigh much,” said the reporter. “About twelve pounds,” said Mr. Walker, smiling. The reporter lifted the garment, and judged that Mr. Walker was right. The bulk of the weight in the dress was in the skirt. A number of heavy felt skirts, such as are worn under light dresses, were examined and found to weigh from eight to ten pounds. “Are there any substitutes for these skirts?” inquired the reporter. He was told that there were, and was shown some quilted satin skirts lined with cotton wadding. These weighted about two pounds each, and ranged in price from $5 upward, while the felt skirts cost as high as $8. Consequently, a felt skirt weighing eight pounds could be replaced by a satin one weighing two pounds and costing no more. Skirts of quilted Japanese silk, filled with eider down, were also shown. These weighed about a pound, or a pound and one-half, and were declared to be very warm. Of course they were expensive, but not beyond the reach of a large class of women who tired themselves out in carrying much heavier garments, under the impression that they were warmer. The young woman who was in attendance at the skirt counter was asked if women often wore a heavy cloth or felt skirt and a heavy sealskin dolman at the same time. She said they did so very frequently, thus carrying a heavy burden.

C.C. Shayne, a fur manufacturer, said that when a sealskin sacque did not fit a lady she complained that it felt heavy, whereas, in the case of a good fit, the weight was more evenly distributed. Mr. Shayne saw in a milliner’s shop the other day a dress whose trimmings alone weighed more than sealskin circular. Sealskin was not much heavier than cloth, and otter was a trifle lighter than seal. Fur-lined circulars or dolmans weigh from four to six pounds—about the same weight as that of seal dolmans untrimmed—and otter sacques about seven pounds. These heavy garments are still growing in favor with the fairer sex, more sealskin having been sold this year than last, while otter is making inroads, it is said, on its popularity. Gentlemen do not take so kindly to sealskin overcoats, as a handsome fit can not be made with this material, but it is available for driving-coats and trimmings. A lady’s fur jacket weighs about the same as a gentleman’s, and a lady’s sealskin Derby hat does not tip the beam so much as a man’s double-banded hat by a quarter of a pound more. The heavy coachman’s capes are no longer worn by ladies with sacques, which, being made of beaver, are a little heavier than seal.

Several physicians who were seen expressed interesting opinions on the subject. Dr. Robert F. Weir said that fatigue was one of the most common causes of nervous disease, but it was almost useless to fight against a prevailing fashion. The harm from wearing heavy clothes about the waist lay in the pressure on the abdominal cavity. The lower classes particularly wore heavy weights about their waists and wore ill-fitting corsets. Dr. Weird spoke of a hospital case that had come under his notice in which a woman’s liver was almost cut in two by wearing skirts tightly around her waist with worn-out corsets. He added that fashionable women did not lace to tightly nowadays as formerly, owing to the spread of a knowledge of physiological principles. The dolman having over the shoulders by diffusing its weight, did not do as much harm as the skirts. Stockings held up by supporters were an additional strain on the waist. Many women were daily fagged out by the heaviness of their dress, and especially was this true of a convalescent who is just out of the house to resume her wonted round of gayety. “A great deal of the evils of dressing could be obviated by shoulder supports,” said the Doctor, “but they would be visible with the low-neck style of dressing in the winter and the diaphanous materials in use for summer toilets.” Dr. Weir said he would like to see reform in woman’s dress, but it was like running one’s head against a stone wall to attempt any thing of the sort…

Dr. Mary P. Jacobi said that it was plain that women wore too heavy clothes, which, hanging about the waist, caused troubles of the pelvic organs. Heavy clothes interfere with muscular activity, and, as women were hampered by their dress, walking with them was less valuable than it otherwise would be. Their clothes should be as light as is consistent with warmth. There is an expenditure of force in carrying too many clothes which should be spent in other directions….

Dr. Lewis A. Sayre handed the reporter his twenty-pound ulster, and jokingly said he could hardly blame a woman for wearing heavy clothes while he sported such a weighty garment. He was inclined to find fault with the shoes they wore, their high heels and narrow toes, which made it impossible for them to walk with grace or stand with ease. If a woman would properly distribute the weight of her clothes, the Doctor thought, she could carry enough to keep warm and suffer no inconvenience. Clothes should be so adjusted as to permit the circulation of blood, and should not be so girded around the waist as to cause engorgement of the pelvic organs. A woman gets tired from her clothes simply because she is not properly dressed.

For the purpose of providing date for comparison the reporter called at a large retail clothing house and had some men’s garments weighed. The heaviest ulsters were found to run as high as fifteen pounds. Ordinary winter overcoats weighed from six to eight pounds. A suit of winter clothing, consisting of a Prince Albert coat, waistcoat and trousers, weighed six pounds. An English cheviot suit, with sack coat, weighed four pounds.

The Cincinnati [OH] Enquirer 27 January 1883: p. 12

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  This was, of course, a time of heavily-upholstered ladies, fashion favouring brocade, velvet, and plush. All that was lacking was the ornamental brass upholstery tacks.  As is usual, the medical profession had strong opinions on the subject of what women should wear, although, unusually, one of those physicians was a woman. This article originally appeared under the name of “Clara Belle,” a syndicated fashion writer. The Cincinnati newspaper left out her final word:

So I am down on those alleged reformers who would have us hang every thing from our shoulders, instead of letting the weight rest harmlessly on our hips. In my opinion, the chief reason for the superiority of woman over man in grace depends on the freedom of her shoulders from constraint. If you have any doubt that women really are more graceful than men just put some fellow into skirts and see what a hulking, awkward, outlandish figure he cuts. But if for 100 years all of the women were to shift the weight of their clothes from hips to shoulders the sexes would be brought to a par, the gentler having in the meantime become as lumbering and heavy as the rougher. Believe me, we have no reason to put the upper parts of our torso in bondage.

Springfield [OH] Daily Republic 18 January 1885: p. 3

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.

 

A Lady’s Coolness Upon a Trying Occasion: 1838

the robber and his child 1832

The Robber and His Child, Karl Friedrich Lessing, 1832 https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/the-robber-and-his-child/TQEZjvDA3qdUXw

THE DANGER OF GIVING WAY TO FEELING IN COMMITTING A HIGHWAY ROBBERY.

At Wandsworth Petty Sessions on Tuesday, John Wood, who described himself as a plumber, and who appeared in a very wretched state, was charged with a highway robbery upon the person of Mrs Chevalier, the wife of a respectable tradesman living in Yardley street, Wilmington square, Clerkenwell. lt appeared from the evidence of the prosecutrix, that on Monday last she left home by a stage-coach on a visit to a friend in the neighbourhood of Wimbledon. On her return, being too late for the coach, she was compelled to proceed on foot to Fulham, across the common: it was then about six o’clock. After she had proceeded a short distance the prisoner sprang upon her and demanded her money; at the same moment he presented a pistol at her head, and threatened that he would at once blow her brains out if she did not deliver up to him what money she had about her; adding, that he was reduced to the last extremity, that he had a wife and family at home in a starving state, and he did not care what became of him. She then, under the fear of his threat, gave him what money she had, which amounted to about £3, which consisted of nine half-crowns, a half-sovereign, and the remainder in silver and copper. After the prisoner had robbed her he put the pistol in his pocket. She then remarked to him that she had to go to London, and as he had taken from her all the money she had, perhaps he would let her have two shillings to pay for the omnibus to London, and a halfpenny to go over the bridge. He gave her what she required. She then remarked to him that she would be obliged to him if he would accompany her within a short distance of Fulham, to protect her, as, being alone, she might be again stopped, and if she were stopped, the person would not believe but that she had money about her. The prisoner agreed, and they walked together some distance. They passed two or three men who were walking singly. The prosecutrix, however, however, did not think it prudent to alarm them; but, on coming up to a policeman, she instantly acquainted him, and at the same time seized the prisoner, who, having used great exertions, extricated himself from her grasp and ran away. He was pursued by the police-officer, who speedily apprehended him. The prisoner did not deny the charge, but stated that he had a wife and five children at home, who were in a state of the most deplorable destitution. He was committed for trial. The bench highly praised the conduct of the prosecutrix, who had displayed such coolness and intrepidity upon the trying occasion in which she was placed.

The Examiner [London, England] 25 March 1838: p. 12

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Mrs Daffodil confesses that, while she admires the impressive coolness the lady displayed on this trying occasion, she still feels a certain, possibly unwarranted, pity for the plumber with the large family in such a deplorable state of destitution. What he did was certainly wrong; yet instead of running away, he gave Mrs Chevalier omnibus fare and agreed to “protect her.” The Poor Laws were pitiless; tearing families apart to send them to the Workhouse with cold charity, indeed. One hopes that the Parish gave the starving family some relief and that the prosecutrix pleaded for mercy for the hapless man.

 

Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes

You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.