Mr. Samuel Fisher, the inventor of the Golden Snuff, was acquainted with a widow lady of excellent character, who resided at Cork. This lady was inconsolable for the death of her husband; the day was spent by her in sighs and incessant lamentations, and her pillow at night was moistened with the tears of her sorrow. Her husband, her dear husband, was the continual theme of her discourse, and she seemed to live for no other object but to recite his praises, and deplore his loss.
One morning her friend Fisher found her in a state of mental agitation, bordering on distraction. Her departed love, she said, had appeared to her in the night, and most peremptorily ordered her to enter the vault where his remains were deposited, and have the coffin opened. Mr. Fisher remonstrated with her on the absurdity of the idea; he said that the intensity of her sorrow had impaired her intellect; that the phantom was the mere creature of her imagination; and begged of her at least to postpone to some future period her intended visit to the corpse of her husband. The lady acquiesced for that time in his request; but the two succeeding mornings the angry spirit of her spouse stood at her bed side, and with loud menaces repeated his command.
S. Fisher, therefore, sent to the sexton, and, matters being arranged, the weeping widow and her friend attended in the dismal vault; the coffin was opened with much solemnity, and the faithful matron stooped down and kissed the clay-cold lips of her adored husband. Having reluctantly parted from the beloved corpse, she spent the remainder of the day in silent anguish.
On the succeeding morning, Fisher, who intended to sail for England on that day, called to bid his afflicted friend adieu. The maid-servant told him, that the lady had not risen.
‘Tell her to get up,’ said Fisher, ‘I wish to give her a few words of consolation and advice before my departure.’
‘Ah! Sir,’ said the smiling girl, ‘it would be a pity to disturb the new married couple so early in the morning!’
‘What new married couple?’
‘My mistress, Sir, was married last night.’
‘Married! impossible! What! the lady who so adored her deceased husband; who was visited nightly by his ghost, and who yesterday so fervently kissed his corpse? Surely you jest?’
‘Oh, Sir,’ said the maid, ‘my late master, poor man, on his death-bed, made my mistress promise, that she would never marry any man after his decease, till he and she should meet again, which the good man, no doubt, thought would never happen till they met in heaven– and you know, my dear sir, you kindly introduced them to each other, face to face, yesterday. My mistress, Sir, sends you her compliments and thanks, together with this bride’s cake, to distribute among your friends.’
Sporting Magazine, Vol. 41, 1813, p. 132
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Mrs Daffodil does love a happy ending. Too often death-bed promises cause nothing but heart-ache or the bereaved lady annoys a second husband with tales of the perfections of the late-lamented first. This widow was ingenious enough to satisfy her exacting spouse’s requirements to the satisfaction of all concerned.
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.