Category Archives: Courtship

Wanted: A Wife: 1871

woman wearing flower wreath

WANTED— A WIFE.

BY S. ANNIE FROST.

“I wonder,” said pretty Lizzie Thorndyke, looking up from a newspaper, whose columns had held her attention for nearly half an hour, “I wonder if any of these matrimonial advertisements are ever put in the papers in good faith? Here are no less than five, commencing, ‘Wanted— a wife.”‘

“I should think,” responded Anna Green, cousin to Lizzie, “that if a man wanted a wife very badly, his best plan was to go court one. There are plenty of nice girls to be won.”

“Just fancy advertising for a husband, Anna.”

“Can’t. My imagination cannot compass such an absurdity. But what makes you so interested to-day? I’m sure that trash has been in the papers for years.”

“Why, three of these enterprising gentlemen are modest enough to ask for photographs, and I was thinking it would be fun to send some of those in the box Bob left up stairs.”

“What box?”

“Have you never seen it? You know Bob learned to photograph just before he left for California, to be able to take views of scenery. He took lessons of the foreman at Wright & Hill’s, who were burnt out just before Bob left. Bob was at the fire, trying to save all he could, and amongst other things he rescued a box of pictures that they told him to keep. There is the greatest mix of stuff in it— copies of pictures and statues, groups, heads, and quite a lot of pretty faces.”

“But we might send some picture of a person who would get into trouble by it.”

“Oh, no! I wouldn’t send anything but a fancy head; there are plenty of those. I’ll get the box and let you see them.”

The box proved to be a treasure for passing time. It was quite large and well filled, and the two girls found the morning slipping away rapidly as they examined the contents. Suddenly Anna gave a cry of admiration.

“What an exquisite face!”

“That is one of the fancy heads,” said Lizzie, taking the picture from her cousin’s hand.

“Are you certain, Lizzie? It is very lifelike.”

“But very fanciful, Anna. Nobody in these days sits for a photograph with a wreath of field daisies and green leaves round their head, and who ever saw such hair? Why, there is enough to start a chignon factory in flourishing business.”

Anna looked again at the picture. It certainly was fanciful enough to justify Lizzie’s assertion, although the face had an animated expression rarely attained by the pencil. There was only the head set in a framework of clouds, the dimpled shoulders rising from the fleecy clusters, and the sweet face encircled by them. The regular features, exquisite mouth, and large, soft eyes were framed in masses of heavy curls, just caught from the low brow and little ears by a wreath of field daisies, grasses, and leaves.

“It is a lovely, lovely face, Lizzie, is it not?”

“Yes. I think,” said Lizzie, musingly, “that I will send this to Mr. Edgar Holmes; ain’t that the name? Yes,” she added, after a reference to the paper. “Mr. Edgar Holmes, Box No. 47, Waterford, Illinois. Illinois is a good ways from Hilton, Massachusetts, Anna, so I guess he will not come to look for the original very soon. There! how does that look?” and she tossed the picture to her cousin, having written on the margin, “Ever yours, with love, Ida.”

“But, Lizzie, suppose, after all, this should be a real portrait?”

“Nonsense! We certainly know everybody in Hilton.”

“I don’t half like it, Lizzie.”

“Oh, pshaw! You are always fussy. I mean to get some answers from Mr. Edgar Holmes & Co. It will be real fun. Here is one from California and one from New York; pick out two more pictures. O Anna, here is that hateful old maid, Matilda Truefit. I have half a mind to send her.”

“No, I won’t let you, Lizzie. Send only fancy heads.”

“Well, just as you say. Now for the letters. See how nicely I can disguise my hand,” and she wrote a few lines in a stiff, angular hand as legible and almost as unrecognizable as print.

“Anybody can see that it is a disguised hand.”

“Of course they can; but that’s of no consequence. I shall only write a few lines at first, professing deep interest and a desire for further acquaintance. You are as grave as a deacon, Anna.”

“Because it seems to me foolish, a waste of time, to say the best of it, and it may get you into trouble, Lizzie.”

“I’m not afraid. It is all for fun. I shall sign them all ‘Ida,’ and have the answers directed to the same name.”

An hour passed away, almost in silence. Lizzie wrote three letters of the character she had described, while Anna pondered over the pictures, read the newspaper which had inspired her cousin with the new piece of mischief, and perused the letters as they were finished and tossed over to her for criticism.

There were not two prettier girls in Hilton than these cousins— one a resident of the village from her birth, the other a regular visitor for the summer months. Lizzie Thorndyke was a brown-eyed, dark-haired beauty, with a short, plump figure, fair complexion, a tongue that was the terror of every dull-witted youth in the village, and a love of mischief and excitement that made her the leader in every picnic, festival, and frolic for miles around. Anna, a tall, slender blonde, was more quiet and reserved, a resident of Boston, fond of music and literature, but yet ready to enjoy heartily all the pleasures offered during a visit to Hilton in the summer months. Twice her father had taken herself and Lizzie for a trip to Niagara, the lakes, and the White Mountains; but generally Anna spent the summer in Hilton, and Lizzie a portion of each winter in Boston. Many a heedless prank originating in Lizzie’s busy brain Anna had checked in time to prevent mischief and confusion, while her own graver nature was cheered and made happier by intercourse with her lively little cousin. She sat, now, rather soberly perusing Lizzie’s daring epistles, very doubtful of the results of sending them away, yet not trusting her own powers of persuasion to prevent a freak which she saw had taken strong hold of her cousin’s imagination. The letters were all sealed and directed at last, and depositing them in the post-office being postponed for an afternoon walk. Lizzie yawned, declared she was tired to death, and threw herself upon the sofa for a nap, while Anna took up an intricate piece of knitting to pass the time before dinner. One of the letters only is of interest to our readers, and that we will follow to its destination. It was directed to “Mr. Edgar Holmes, Waterford, Illinois,” and contained the beautiful photograph of the girl crowned with field daisies. Lying upon the table, in a neatly-furnished lawyer’s office, half-hidden by a number of other epistles, it was there found by two young gentlemen, who came in chatting and laughing soon after the office-boy had brought the mail from the post-office.

“More answers to my matrimonial advertisement, Al,” said one of the gentlemen, a handsome, bright-eyed young fellow, whose sunny face spoke of a life free from care, and formed, quite a contrast to that of his companion, who was evidently an earnest man, a deep thinker, and of a grave, rather reserved nature.

“How can you tell before opening them?” he inquired, courteously, but evidently feeling no interest in the matter.

“Oh! they are so daintily enveloped and directed, and I can feel the photograph cards.”

As he spoke he was rapidly breaking open his batch of letters, whilst his companion scanned the columns of a morning paper. Suddenly a cry broke from the lips of the younger man.

“What an exquisite face! It cannot be a portrait, but it is lovely. Direct ‘Ida, Hilton, Massachusetts.’ Look at it, Al.”

Albert Clayton languidly stretched out his hand for the card, but the instant his eyes fell upon the picture the whole expression of his face changed. In the place of the look of indifference, there now flashed from his eyes a look, first of utter surprise, then bitter anger, and finally a contempt that was the strongest of all. Once he turned the card to see the name of the artist, and then slowly there gathered upon his brow and round his lip a set, determined look that it was painful to see.

“Why, Al, what ails you?” suddenly cried his friend. “One would think Miss Ida’s was a gorgon’s head.” The forced smile of answer would never have deceived a keener observer, but Edgar Holmes was satisfied with it.

“Let me see the letter, Ned?”

“Certainly. You can be reading it while I am in court. Shall I find you here when I return?”

“Yes. I shall wait for you, for I must leave this evening, you know, for home.”

“I know. I shall miss you constantly. Well, good-morning!”

Left alone, Albert Clayton, after reading the letter signed “Ida,” drew from his vest pocket a card-case, and from its folds a photograph, an exact copy of the daisy-crowned beauty. Well remembered he the day when the lovely face had been so crowned. The original of the picture was his promised wife, into whose keeping he had put the whole treasure of his love, to whom he had given a heart, which, sorely tried by suffering, had never before bowed before the charms of a woman. Educated in a different school, Albert Clayton might have been a trusting, frank nature, but he had been trained from childhood to suspect and question all around him. He had worshipped his parents, and his father, a wealthy Western lawyer, had given him love for love. When that father died, he was a boy at school, and returned for a summer vacation less than two years from the time he was left fatherless to find his mother again married, and to a man whom he had every reason to believe unworthy of any good woman’s affection. Too fully were all his fears for the future realized. His own share of his father’s property was squandered by the new guardian before he was of an age to claim it; his mother, oppressed and ill-treated, died broken-hearted; and his only sister, driven to desperation, eloped with a young scamp, attracted to her by her father’s wealth.

Orphaned and almost penniless before he was quite twenty-one, Albert was offered a home and an opportunity to continue the study of law by his father’s partner, continuing with him long after he knew that he was a mere drudge, half-paid for services his own intellect and hard study soon made valuable to his employer. The practice of his profession was not calculated to increase the young lawyer’s faith in mankind; and when, at the age of thirty, he opened an office of his own in Cincinnati, he had acquired a reputation as a shrewd, long-headed lawyer, impossible to cheat, but a hard, reserved man, devoid of affection for any one. This was the man who, coming one summer to Hilton to investigate a law case in his care, met there Sadie Elkington, the niece of his client, paying a summer visit to her aunt. Something in the pure, sweet face of the young girl, just stepping into womanhood, attracted first the world-hardened man. Watching her jealously, he found a nature open and frank, yet modest, full of all womanly grace and sweetness, and the closed portals of his heart opened, at last, to fold in a close embrace this true woman, who, in winning his love, all unconsciously had given him her own.

It was pronounced rather a dull summer at Hilton. Many of the young people were away, the cousins Lizzie Thorndyke and Anna Green were at Niagara, and picnics, drives, and dances were “few and far between.” But the month occupied by Albert Clayton in the investigation of old Mrs. Elkington’s papers flew by on gilded wings; and when he returned to Cincinnati, Sadie to her father’s home in Boston, it was with mutual promises of constancy, and bright hopes for the future.

Well did Albert Clayton remember the day when the lovely photograph was taken at his request. They had been for a long ramble in the fields, and he had crowned her with daisies, making her so beautiful in his loving eyes that he would not rest until she consented to allow him to carry away the picture of her face as he had adorned it. One year of betrothal, and the wedding day was set for a certain seventh of October, when, again absent from home on a professional visit, Albert found the face of the woman he had loved almost to idolatry inclosed in a letter answering a matrimonial advertisement.

It is impossible to describe the shock given to the fastidious, suspicious nature of this man. He had given, for the first time in many years, the confidence of his heart to another’s keeping. He had thrown aside the suspicions of all human nature, that had warped his own character, to give a trusting, perfect love to one woman. In her he had found all that his starved heart craved of gentleness, affection, and modesty. All her letters were filled with a spirit of devotion, toned down by a sweet, maidenly reserve, that had commanded his respect as well as his affection. Loving faithfully, trusting utterly, he had looked forward to his future happiness as a thing assured and certain.

And now, to find this woman, his promised wife, his ideal of modest refinement, answering a vulgar matrimonial advertisement, sending the picture, for which he had been forced to plead and petition for hours, to be the sport of an unknown man, writing a letter that was an invitation for future correspondence, and covering all only by the flimsy veil of a disguised hand, and a post-office address a few miles from home. Some friend in Hilton, probably, mailed this precious letter, and would call for the answer. Well, his dream was over. He brooded for a long time over his duplicate pictures, then, tossing one back upon young Holmes’ pile of letters, he inclosed the one he had carried over his heart for a twelve-month in a short letter, directed and sealed it, and, taking up his hat, left the office. His return to Cincinnati the same evening had been settled before the receipt of the momentous letter, so his friend was prepared for his departure, though scarcely for his abrupt and hasty farewell.

And while strangers and her dearest were thus ruthlessly destroying Sadie Elkington’s love dream and hopes of happiness, she was living her life of peaceful daily duty, making the sunshine of home, and looking forward to a future of married bliss. Already there were piles of snowy linen, daintily embroidered by her own skilful fingers, lying in readiness for the trousseau , and daily some such needlework passed through her busy hands, while she sat and dreamed of Albert, his love, and her own powers of rendering him happy. It was a very pure, unselfish love this fair young girl had given to her betrothed. With quick, womanly instinct she had read the character of the reserved suspicious man, penetrated the crust of his proud reticence, and knew that her love was to him almost his sole hopes of faith in any human excellence. She knew also, that from this hard mistrust and cynicism, it was often but one step to positive infidelity, and it was her earnest prayer that she might be permitted so to soften this noble heart as to let in upon it a fuller light and higher faith than it could ever know whilst clouded by doubts of all mankind. Sadie Elkington would have smiled had any one suggested to her that there was any sacrifice in her prospects for the future. She loved Albert Clayton with all the fervor of a first love, and it had never occurred to her to contrast her own home with the one awaiting her. The eldest of a family of nine children, she had learned early to make all the little sacrifices of her own comfort daily required from the oldest sister in a large family. Her father almost worshipped her, while her mother could scarcely endure the prospect of seeing this loving, tender daughter leave the home she had brightened so long, for one so far away. Yet hiding away their own grief, the loving parents were aiding in the preparation of a bridal outfit that was to be as perfect as ample means, taste, and loving care could make it. The mother and daughter were in the sitting-room just before the dinner hour, discussing the merits of a new collar pattern, when Mr. Elkington came to the door, holding a bundle in one hand, a letter in the other.

“There, Miss Sadie,” he said, opening the paper to unroll a piece of superb blue silk, “see if you can get a petticoat out of that. Mamma, there, will lend you some old cotton lace to trim it.”

“Not a yard,” laughed his wife. “Why, you extravagant man, this is the third Irish poplin.”

“Fully paid for by the kisses Sadie has just given me. What are you gazing at this letter for, Sadie? Women are never satisfied. Give them finery and they want flattery. Well, there is your sugar plum.”

“Sadie! Sadie!”

It was a startled cry from the mother that broke the interval of silence following the opening of the letter. The young girl tried to answer the cry, but the stiff white lips were powerless to move, and with a moan of pain she fainted, falling heavily upon the dress just received with warm, shy blushes, and representing so much thoughtful love.

Mr. Elkington took up the letter which had fallen from the nerveless hand, and while his wife was trying to restore life to the insensible girl, he was seeking the cause of her sudden fall.

“Sadie’s picture! Valueless when shared with others! Trusts her new love may prove more agreeable than the old! Shocked at her want of maidenly modesty! What does the fellow mean, mother? How dare he insult our Sadie by such a letter. Useless to answer, as he intends to leave Cincinnati at once. Well for him! He had better get beyond the reach of my horsewhip, for my arm is not yet too weak to thrash the scoundrel!”

“Hush, father; she is recovering,” said Mrs. Elkington, interrupting the passionate exclamations and bitter readings from the letter.

Sadie was, indeed, reviving, and trying to realize her own position.

“Father,” she said, as her father came to her with the fatal letter still in his hand, “what does he mean? How can he write so cruelly to me?”

“He is a rascal!” said the angry old gentleman; “a scoundrel! He has found some newer face to flatter, and tries to make you to blame for his inconstancy. Why, the letter is perfectly absurd upon the face of it. Accusing you of having another love, and giving your photograph to some one else! You, who have lived like a nun ever since Sir Jealousy condescended to bestow his regards upon you! You, who are such a model of reserve and devotion, that your own old father has been jealous fifty times of your fiancé, to be accused of a want of maidenly modesty! I should like to wring the fellow’s neck.”

“There is some terrible mistake, father.”

“Mistake! I should think there was a mistake! There was a mistake when we all believed him an honorable, upright gentleman, if he was a grumpy, sulky companion; and a grand mistake when we believed him capable of appreciating our Sadie, and making her an affectionate husband.”

“But, father, I am sure he has been deceived in some way.”

He deceived! I think it is we who have been deceived! Well, there, don’t look at me so pitifully. I won’t rave any more. Here, mother, you talk to her.” And, conscious of his own inability to talk quietly, the angry, insulted father went off to the library to march up and down, and work off his wrath in solitude. Poor Sadie! It was in vain she read the cruel letter over and over to try to find some solution of the mystery. She could not accept her father’s theory of Albert’s voluntary renunciation of her love. Some influence had been at work upon his jealous, suspicious nature, she felt convinced, though what it was, she could not divine. It was a hard blow, and her cross seemed almost too heavy to carry, but she put out of sight the pretty clothing collected with so much care, and full of such loving associations, locked up the letters that she had welcomed so eagerly, responded to so faithfully, and bravely crushing her own sorrow out of sight, was always the loving child, the devoted sister to the home circle, fully appreciating the tender care her mother bestowed upon her, and the delicacy which kept back all her father’s expressions of anger. She was not one to parade her grief or bare her heart for any eye, and the effort to appear calm and cheerful was rewarded by a real feeling of resignation. She had done no wrong, and perhaps at some future time Albert might learn how truly and faithfully she had loved him; in the mean time she would try to find happiness in her home, her parents’ love, and her friends’ society. A very dull commonplace view of the matter, perhaps, but one that required more real unselfish heroism than many an act admired by the world. Four years passed away with many changes, and Albert Clayton returned from a prolonged European trip to Cincinnati, and again opened an office for the practice of law. Amongst the many friends who came to offer him a word of welcome, he was surprised one morning to receive a call from Edgar Holmes.

“When I heard you had left Cincinnati, Al, I thought I would come for a while, and see if some of your clients would not fancy me for a substitute.”

“I hope you have done well!” said Albert, politely.

“Oh, yes, pretty well. You must drop in when you are passing and see how the old office looks. By the way, you know I am a married man, don’t you?”

“No, indeed! Did you marry Miss Elkington?”

The name seemed almost to choke him, spoken for the first time in four long years.

“Miss Elkington? Never heard of her in my life. What put that into your head?”

“I— was she not the lady who answered your advertisement for a wife?”

“O Al, I must tell you all about that. Can you listen to a long story?”

“Yes.”

“Well, about two years ago, I had business which called me to Boston, and amongst other gentlemen friends there, was one Mr. Green, who made me welcome to a very pleasant home, and introduced me to a pretty daughter and an equally pretty niece, Miss Lizzie Thorndyke, of Hilton, Mass. Miss Lizzie was in Boston purchasing her bridal finery, being engaged to a young gentleman from New York. It was not long before I noticed that the young lady avoided me as much as possible, seeming half afraid of me when thrown into my company. My business was soon transacted, but my heart was yielding to the charms of Anna Green, and I lingered in the city, trying to win an answering affection. I succeeded, and won the father’s consent to my suit. The day was set for a double wedding, the cousins wishing to be married at the same time. You look bored, Al!”

“Oh no, go on,” said Albert, who certainly did look bored.

“Well, to make a long story short, Lizzie’s fiancé, Mr. Moreton, came on from New York, preparations were going on for the wedding, and everything was pleasant, when one evening we were all seated in the parlor chatting. Amongst other subjects, the one of matrimonial advertisements came up. I saw that Lizzie looked distressed, but suspecting nothing, I laughed about my correspondent Ida, and read two or three of her last letters— warm enough they were, too— for the benefit of the party. Mr. Moreton expressed his opinion on the indelicacy of such a correspondence in no measured terms, finally declaring that he would disown his own sister if she was guilty of such a proceeding. Fancy our amazement when Lizzie, as white as ashes, started to her feet, crying out:—

“‘O Robert, don’t, don’t say so! I am Ida!’ and fell in a dead faint upon the floor.”

“But the picture?” said Albert Clayton, himself as pale as a corpse .

“That was a fancy head her brother picked up in some photograph gallery in Hilton. Are you going to faint, Al?”

“No, no,” he said, rousing himself by a great effort; “finish your story.” “There is not much more to tell. Robert, touched by Lizzie’s distress, and influenced by Anna’s entreaties, forgave her, but there came into his manner a reserve and coolness of which he, himself, I think, was unconscious, but which grated terribly on Lizzie’s sensitive, high strung spirit. For a week or two there was a sort of enforced peace, and then the engagement was broken by mutual consent, Lizzie returning to Hilton, and Mr. Moreton to New York, before the wedding day which gave me the dearest wife in the world. I was half afraid I should lose her for my share in the correspondence, but she never referred to it, and you may be sure I did not. Ten o’clock! I must go. You will come soon to see us, Al? No.— Fourth Street.”

He was gone at last. For hours Albert Clayton paced his office floor, now and then sighing out:—

“O Sadie, Sadie, can you ever forgive me?”

Then he sat down to write to her whom he had so cruelly misjudged; but letter after letter was tossed into the fire, till, finally, giving up that task, he packed a valise and started for Boston. It was not Sadie’s nature to be unforgiving when he pleaded for pardon. He should have known her better, she thought, but she made all allowance for the strong evidence against her. It was not so easy to win the old gentleman over; he growled and scolded, made sarcastic speeches, and was altogether most impenetrable, till Sadie’s pleading face and great pitiful eyes silenced him.

“You really think you can forgive him, and trust your happiness to him?” he asked.

“Yes, father,” was the quiet answer, but the expressive face lighted with pleasure.

“Well, get out your finery again, and I —”

“Will go buy more Irish poplins,” laughed his wife.

Nobody ever knew exactly how the story got to Hilton, but Lizzie— still Miss Thorndyke— found all eyes would turn upon her if, in company, any allusion was made to the advertisements headed, “Wanted, a Wife.”

Godey’s Lady’s Book [Philadelphia, PA] March 1871

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Strong evidence? Indeed, no matter how fastidious and suspicious his nature, the lover should have known her better and any lawyer worth his fee should have thought her innocent until proven guilty.  At the very least, he should have given her the chance to look at the “evidence” and refute it. Why did he not call upon a graphology expert? And even at this early date, fingerprints could have been revealed by iodine fumes and compared with Miss Elkington’s. One wonders how accomplished a lawyer Clayton actually was. He seems to have lacked the ability to examine the case against his beloved in a scrupulously fair manner, yet possessed the imagination of a fiend when it came to believing her guilty. Mrs Daffodil hopes that they lived happily ever after and that he devoted his life to making amends for his vile suspicions, but is not sanguine.

Mrs Daffodil has written before about the imprudence of the promiscuous sending of photographs.

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

 

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The Spectre Wedding: 1820s

the oracle 1919 ghosts

THE SPECTRE WEDDING.

Mr. Martin Dupont was a Justice of the Peace in the little town of Marlburg. He had been elected to the office at the close of the war of 1812, and had acted in his present capacity for nearly nine years. Men of Mr. Dupont’s type were very common in those days, and even now one does not have to search far to find one of these self-complacent, pompous gentlemen, who delight in winning admiration from their associates, who always have at their tongue’s end a great many stories in which they played the leading part, but who are, nevertheless, very superstitious, so much so, indeed, that a glimpse of the moon over the left shoulder, or a howling dog, has power to make them melancholy for a week.

Having failed to secure for himself as large a share of this world’s goods as he had wished, Mr. Dupont was fully resolved that his two children, Henry and Margaret, should not be lacking in wealth. As for his son, he very wisely concluded that a good education, added to his natural abilities, would secure for him a place in the world: and already Henry was showing the wisdom of the plan, and by his rapid advancement in business was more than fulfilling his father’s expectations. It had always been Mr. Dupont’s desire that his daughter should marry some rich man, but Margaret had fallen in love, very foolishly, according to her father’s idea, with the principal of the Marlburg High School.

Charles Foster had several times pleaded his suit in vain before Mr. Dupont. There was no fault in the young man, Mr. Dupont rather grudgingly admitted, except that all he had to depend upon was his salary, but still no man should presume to become his son-in-law who had not money enough to support his daughter in better style than that in which she was then living, He liked the school teacher very well as a friend, but as a son-in-law that was quite another matter.

Nevertheless Charles and Margaret did not despair of their cause, although Mr. Dupont was seemingly immovable. The thought of an elopement was banished by them both as being dishonorable, and as no other plan seemed practicable, they very wisely resolved to wait until some kind fate should come to their aid. This, then, was the condition of affairs when our story begins.

Mr. Dupont’s duties as Justice of the Peace did not confine his law practice to Marlburg, but very frequently he was called away to attend various lawsuits in neighboring towns and hamlets, and it so happened that at this particular time he was engaged in a case of some considerable importance in an adjoining town. On account of the nearness of the place, it was Mr. Dupont’s custom to drive his own horse back and forth and to spend his nights at home.

One night, on account of an unusual press of business, he was obliged to remain beyond his ordinary time of leaving, and after the work was completed he yielded to the urgent invitation of his client to chat for a few moments. As they puffed away at the choice Havanas, they began to tell each other of curious exciting adventures and wonderful experiences. Time slipped away so rapidly that it was after 10 o’clock before Mr. Dupont suddenly remembered that a seven-mile drive lay between him and his home. Hastily bidding his friend good-by, he started for the hotel stable to get his horse.

The weather had changed while the two gentlemen had been chatting, and now the ominous stillness and the cloudy sky admonished Mr. Dupont that, if he wished to get home before the rain began to fall, he must hasten. Hastily throwing a quarter to the sleepy hostler, he sprang into his buggy and set out on his homeward way.

The road home was a lonely one; houses were few and far between, and a few miles out of Marlburg some lonely woods lined the road on either side, and adjoining the woods was a graveyard. As Mr. Dupont drove on into the darkness he began to become nervous, the weird stories that he had just been hearing kept flashing through his mind, a great many wrong deeds of his life came before him, magnified by the darkness and solitude, and among other things he began to wonder if he was doing just right in refusing his consent to his daughter’s marriage. In this frame of mind he approached the woods; involuntarily he tried to quicken his horse’s pace, but the darkness and the low murmurings of thunder seemed to have affected the horse too, and the sagacious brute tried constantly to slacken his pace. How lonely it seemed there, no houses, no living being–nothing but the dead in the graveyard beyond. Suddenly the, horse stopped and snorted. Mr. Dupont saw two white figures suddenly dart into the road; one stood beside his horse, and the other beckoned him to descend from his wagon. His hair rose, and his tongue seemed glued to his mouth. The silence was terrible. If those white beings would only speak; but no sound came from them. At last in desperation he stammered out:

“Who are you, and what do you mean by stopping me here in this way” “We are spirits of the departed dead,” a sepulchral voice replied, “and we have need of your services; descend from your vehicle, do as we bid you, and on the word of a ghost you shall not be harmed.”

The terrified lawyer descended and stood by the speaker’s side, while the other ghost tied his horse to a tree and joined them.

“Yield yourself entirely to us and you shall be safe,” said the spokesman. “You must needs walk far and must allow us to blindfold your eyes, in order that you may not discover before your time the way to the land of the shades. No more words must be spoken. Obey.”

Mr. Dupont was so terrified that he could not speak, and in silence allowed a cloth to be bound over his eyes; then, escorted by his ghostly companions he began to walk. It seemed to him that he would never be allowed to stop; seconds seemed ages; every attempt of his to speak was checked by impatient groans of his guides. At last, after walking half around the earth, as it seemed to him, he realized that he was being piloted up some steps and by the feeling of warmth he knew that he had left the open air.

“The Justice of Peace may be seated,” said the ghost who had done all the talking. Mr. Dupont sat down and the cloth was quickly removed from his eyes, revealing to his astonished gaze the interior of a room dimly lighted by wax candles. Every side was hung with black curtains, and on four black-covered stools facing him sat four white-robed spectres, while beside him stood another dressed like his companions. Before he had time to more than wonder at his strange surroundings, the spokesman began:

“Mr. Dupont, we have a solemn duty for you to perform. You are a Justice of the Peace in the world of the living, and a man dear to us on account of your noble life; therefore are you here. We have in these abodes of the dead two young shades recently come from the other world. Each of those died of a broken heart because a stern parent forbade them to marry What do you think sir, of such a parent as that?” Mr. Dupont wiggled about uneasily in his chair, and at last said: “I think, good shade, it was very wrong of him.”

“We knew you would,” resumed the ghost, “because you are a kind man. and one who loves his children. Now do we understand you to say that if the poor girl had been your child it would never have happened?” “Surely it never would,” replied the frightened Mr. Dumont.

“We have not misjudged you, then,” replied the shade, while the other four ghosts nodded approvingly. “We have summoned you in order that you may unite them in wedlock, so that in this world at least they may be happy. Such a marriage as this is not common among us, so we brought you here, a good justice of the peace, rather than a minister, who might have been shocked at these proceedings. You can marry them just as well as a clergyman. Now, sir, will you oblige us by marrying these two shades? If you will consent, you may depart at once to your home. Will you?”

Marry the two shades? Of course he would: anything to get away from this terrible spot. And so, without the precaution of stipulating his fee, he stammered out:

“Oh, yes, surely, anything you wish.”

No sooner had he given his consent than one of the black curtains was drawn aside and two other beings in white entered and stood before him. The other shades rose, and Mr. Dupont, not wishing to be the only one to keep his seat, rose too. The good justice had never married shades; he did not know quite how to proceed. They looked exactly alike; he did not know which was the bride and which the groom. He wished he were well out of it, and the only way to gain his wish was to proceed quickly with the ceremony, and so he began at once. In some way he managed get through, although he could not have told afterward how it was done. He turned to the bride when he said: “Do you take this woman to be your wedded wife?” and to the groom when he should have addressed the bride; but at length, much to his relief, the “I do” was said by each, and the Justice finished with the “I pronounce you man and wife.”

But all was not yet over. No sooner had the words left his lips, than one of the beings before him threw aside its ghostly robe, and there, in a beautiful wedding gown, stood his daughter, Margaret. Mr. Dupont started to speak, but he only gasped, for around him stood the other ghosts; they too had thrown aside their robes and stood revealed. Could he believe his eyes? Yes, there was no mistake, he had married his daughter to Charles Foster, in the presence of his wife, his son, and three family friends; and the Justice knew enough of law to realize that the ceremony was binding. The black curtains, too, were torn down, and there they all stood in his own parlor.

There was no help for it, consequently Mr. Dupont submitted, and someway all his friends thought that he was very glad that the joke was played upon him; at any rate, in later days, as he trotted his grandchildren on his knees he never tired of telling over and over again into their wondering ears the tale of the spectre wedding. Amherst Literary Monthly.

The Garden City [KS] Telegram 15 October 1892: p. 3

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Mr Dupont must have been heavily under the influence of those weird stories not to have noticed the earthly actions of the “ghosts” such as taking care to tie up his horse and the nonsensical explanation for the blindfold. Did he not recall that in Heaven there is no marriage nor giving in marriage? Were there no earthly boots visible beneath those robes? And, even draped in black and lit by candles, why did the quaking gentleman not recognise his own parlour?

Such is the power of imagination. Mrs Daffodil and that ghastly person over at Haunted Ohio have written about persons who were convinced that they were marrying an actual spirit. See A Wealthy Widow Weds a Ghost, Girl Weds a Ghost, and Too Much Prudence–Spirit Weddings.

Justices of the Peace seemed to be ready targets for ghostly clients. Mrs Daffodil has written before about a haunted JP, who married a genuine ghostly couple.

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 Selfish Bride-to-Be: 1906

A June Bride

THE SELFISH BRIDE-TO-BE

It is, of course, tacitly understood by the majority of people that considerable allowances must be made for two young persons who have entered that blissful state just preceding matrimony. Indulgent parents remember the time when they themselves were youthful lovers, with the sole desire to enjoy each other’s society, right away from that of all friends and relations. Consequently they endeavour to afford their daughters every opportunity of indulging in the pleasure of love’s sweet young dream, at the proper time and with the proper person.

Unattached young people, too, as a rule, are in sympathy with the lovers, look forward to enjoying similar privileges when their “Mr. or “Miss Right” comes along; and so they on their part do their best to make the course of true love run smoothly for brother or sister, as the case might be.

Becomes Selfish.

All this, of course, tends to increase the happiness of an engaged girl to a great extent, but—and alas! that it should be so—she is also inclined to become rather selfish under the circumstances. Not intentionally, perhaps.

Lovers are quick to notice the attitude of a girl toward those at home, and value her accordingly. Moreover, any selfishness in this direction is apt to drive a lover away, as is shown by the following incident which came under the writer’s notice a short time ago.

The elder of two sisters became engaged, and, in consequence, considered that the other sister should perform most of those household duties which they had formerly shared between them after coming home from business, owing to the fact that their mother was practically an invalid.

Lost Her Love.

The younger sister did the work without complaint, while the elder girl spent her spare time either with her lover or making and attending to her own wearing apparel. It was not long, however, before the lover recognized the selfishness of his fiancée and after a time went so far as to speak to his sweetheart about the matter. The latter repudiated the suggestion that she was selfish, and a quarrel ensued, which resulted in the engagement being broken off. The sequel to this affair was that the man married the younger sister, whose true worth he recognized.

This is a fit and proper reward for unselfishness.

The Harbor Grace Standard 14 April 1906: p. 4

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Oh, what a lovely wedding day that must have been, with the elder, dressed in a bridesmaid’s dress of some unbecoming shade, glowering at her sister behind her bouquet of Anemone, Marigold, Yellow Roses, and Amaranthus, otherwise known as “Love lies bleeding.” Mrs Daffodil would have taken the obvious precaution of employing a food taster at the wedding breakfast.

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 Tiger’s Teeth: c. 1900

An example of “second sight” as narrated by Mrs K.E. Henry-Anderson.

THE TIGER’S TEETH

Changing trains one day at a small country junction, I stepped into a carriage where there was only one other occupant, a young girl of twenty-three or so, whom I instantly recognised as having been one of the guests at a great garden party at a Highland house, at which I had been present some three or four weeks before. We had not spoken to one another, but in general conversation she had taken an active part, and I remembered her name, which was that of one of those fine old Highland families who have fallen on evil days, and whose home is now in the hands of the stranger. She was dark and handsome—a striking personality. On a fairly long journey, it was inevitable that we should enter into some sort of conversation, and I told her of our chance meeting.
“Ah,” she said, “I remember, you are ___, and have the gift of second sight!”
“I have a gift,” I answered, “but I have never given it a name.”
As frequently happens with people who know this about me, she pressed me to give her some evidence of it; for most people seem to think I carry it about with me, as a pedlar his pack, to be laid out for examination and discussion by whosoever asks. This is not my view of it. I cannot summon it, I cannot reject it. It comes and it compels; no effort of mind could conjure up for one instant the picture that it brings; and I might try in vain to imagine the conversation that I would hold before I met the person who evoked the power.
In the majority of cases I say nothing about it. I keep my visions to myself and play, as it were, a double part; but this young girl, with her Celtic blood, and, unknown to herself, personal magnetism, had already cast somewhat of a spell upon me. I said: “I have never endeavoured to give expression to my visions in such a distracting place as a railway carriage, but —you interest me! Let us continue our conversation, and if I feel that I can see anything I will tell you.”
This involved a dual personality. I watch myself as an outsider for a manifestation, while at the same time I give my attention to the subject of conversation with the other person. About ten minutes after this the white mist slowly enveloped her, and I saw a scene in India.
How did I know it was India? I cannot say. I knew, and that is all.
“I can tell you something now,” I said. “Listen! but do not speak to me. Ask me no questions.
“I see a jungle and a tiger-hunt. The ground is marshy and the growth is higher than my head. Other figures are indistinct, but I see one very clearly. The face of a tall, dark man with level brows—an earnest, passionate face with strongly moulded chin. He raises his gun to his shoulder; I hear the sound of the great beast in the jungle. The reeds bend, and just missing this man a great tiger shoots above him, and across the path. The man fires upwards and hits it in the belly while still in the flight over his head. He is not hurt, and you carry on your person at this moment a strange reminiscence of that scene.”
My companion’s aspect would perhaps be best described by the word scared. Without a word she unfastened her coat, put her hand inside her dress and drew out—a necklace of tiger’s teeth!
“These teeth,” she said, “were given to me by a man who cared for me, but whose affection I did not return. He begged me to wear them always as a charm, which they are believed to be in India. The tiger was shot in British Burmah under the exact circumstances of your vision.”

The Occult Review March 1905: p. 134

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Were this a story by Mr H. Rider Haggard, the tiger-tooth necklace would have instantly bent the young woman to the will of the gentleman-hunter with the strongly moulded chin. The object must have been most uncomfortable, particularly if worn virtually next the skin and would wreak havoc on the Valenciennes insertion of one’s corset cover. Mrs Daffodil purses her lips dubiously over the lady’s stated indifference to the hunter, for no one without affection for the giver would continue to wear such a penitential accessory.

In the careless days of the Empire, the shooting of wild creatures such as tigers was seen as jolly sport rather than the terrible toll on nature that it is to-day. Tiger jewellery was an expected part of the experience. Saki’s story, “Mrs Packletide’s Tiger,” takes a jocular view of the tiger-shooting indulged in by Mrs Packletide, merely to acquire a souvenir tiger-claw brooch for her social rival, Loona Bimberton.

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.

She Asked for His Photograph: 1897

WHY SHE WAS GRACIOUS.

A Lover Who Easily Fell Into an Ingenious Trap.

She was particularly gracious that night, and he was correspondingly happy.  He felt that he had made an impression at last.

She let him hold her hand a minute when she welcomed him, and he thought–in fact, he was quite sure–that she responded to the gentle squeeze he gave it, and heretofore she had been so distant, so cold, although always courteous. Surely it was enough to make him feel happy. Then she laughed at his witticisms, and there was something in her manner that invited him to draw his chair closer to hers. Of course he accepted the invitation, and almost before he knew it he found himself whispering all sorts of silly things to her, while she listened with downcast eyes.

It was blissful, and yet there was a greater pleasure in store for him. She blushed and hesitated a little as she asked if he had a photograph of himself.

Of course he had, and she should have one that very night. He would go for one at once. She protested that that was not necessary, but he insisted. She should have anything that she wanted and have it at once.

She thanked him so coyly and sweetly when he brought it that the boy was nearly insane with joy, and when he left she let him hold her hand again for a minute.

Then, as he walked away with a light step and a light heart, she handed the photograph to her maid and said with decision:

“Mary, hang that in the servants’ hall, where every one can see it, and remember that I am never home when he calls. I must stop this thing somehow, and mamma changes servants so often he gets in every week or two now.”

The Copper County Evening News [Calumet MI] 19 August 1897: p. 7

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  A little-known consequence of the Servant Problem…

 

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 Lover’s Ghost: 1880s

A LOVER’S TRYST

By A.G.A.

The following may interest those who, like Hamlet, think “there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy!” I have set down a plain and simple statement of facts, for the absolute truth of which I can vouch, as I was one of the two persons who, through the medium of the table, obtained them at first hand.

Some years ago I was living in a central part of the S.W. district in London. The numbers of the houses were even on the one side and uneven on the other. I lived on the even-numbered side, and on the opposite side, only a little lower down, lived a friend whom I saw nearly every day. If I called about tea-time and found her out, I was sure to be told “Mrs. West would be back for tea, and that I was to wait.” I was then shown into the drawing-room, and would take up a book or paper to amuse myself with till her return, my companion being a pretty little pug belonging to Mrs. West. Very often, whilst reading, I would suddenly feel that there was a Presence in the room, and this feeling was so strong that I felt it impossible to shake it off, and would get up and examine every nook and corner to see if any one had come into the room and was hiding for a joke, but t never found any one, and would sit down again, still with the feeling of some one being near me. The little dog shared this feeling, for she would spring up on my knee whining and shaking from head to foot, her coat bristling, and exhibiting every sign of terror! I would pat her and say “We are a pair of geese to feel nervous when there is no one here!” On my friend’s return, I would laugh and say: “This is an uncanny room, for I feel sure some one comes into it, but I cannot see who it is!’’ One day I was dressing to go out when a note was brought up to me ; it was from Mrs. West, to say that she wished to see me particularly; if I had no other engagement, would I dine with her that evening? I sent an answer in the affirmative, and at 7.30 I walked across to her house. I found Mrs. West and her cousin, Mrs. Meade, who was visiting her, both in the drawing room. The former said: “I am so glad that you were able to come this evening, I expect you are wondering why I want to see you so particularly, but not a word till after dinner.”

When we had settled down again in the drawing-room and pulled our chairs nearer the fire, Mrs. West said: “Now for my story! Grace (her cousin) and I had been out shopping, and we came home at one for lunch. We both came upstairs together, and I was just turning into my bedroom, which, as you know, is behind this drawing-room, and Grace was going up to her room, when I saw my housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, as I thought, pass between us on the landing, and walk straight into the drawing-room. I wanted to see her particularly, so saying: ‘Oh, Mrs. Brown, you are the very person I want to see,’ I turned back from my bedroom door and followed her into the drawing room. The room was empty. I looked everywhere, but no, not a sign of any one. Then I wondered if I had made a mistake and if it was Grace who had gone into the room. I stepped out, and going to the foot of the staircase, I called out: ‘Grace, did you go into the drawing-room just now?’

“‘No.’ came the reply, ‘but Mrs. Brown did! Did you not see her pass between us, when we were outside the drawing room?’

“I did not answer, but when my cousin and I met at lunch, she said— ‘Was there anything wrong? Because I fancied from the tone of your voice that there was!’

“I then told her of my speaking to Mrs. Brown and following her into the drawing-room only to find the room empty. She was astonished and said: ‘But I saw her!

“‘So did I,’ I replied, ‘but no one was in the room!’ I then made up my mind to ask you to come to dinner this evening, for I knew you would be much interested.”

I told Mrs. West that I was indeed interested, and should much like to find out who had gone into the room, and I continued— “I have told you more than once that II have felt a Presence in this room!”

We then resolved to see if the table, which had often rapped out things, could throw any light on this subject. Mrs. West and I put our hands on the table, and Mrs. Meade sat by, paper and pencil in hand, ready to write every word down.

After waiting a little time, the table began its communications. It stated that the figure which had appeared was that of Louise D—–. At the time of the Indian Mutiny [c. 1857], she had come to this house to take leave of her lover, George S—–, who had been ordered off with his regiment to the seat of war. It was their last meeting, for he was killed; and every year she returned to revisit the scene of their last farewell.

We were immensely interested in this, and Mrs. West asked a military friend if he could find out anything about George S—–. He hunted through the records and found that an officer bearing this name had been in the regiment named by the table, and had actually been killed at the place mentioned.

Two years passed away, and we thought no more about this incident, when one day I got a message, asking me to go and see my friend. This was in the afternoon. So I went about five o’clock. She was brimming over with excitement, and exclaimed, “You will be so interested to hear what I have to tell you!” “You know that Mrs. Thompson has been staying with me, and has been taking lessons in wood-carving at South Kensington. This morning we went out and came in at one o’clock for lunch. She went upstairs first, and I was following. Presently I heard her say: ‘Oh! Mrs. Brown (the name of the housekeeper), you must not go down till you have seen my carving!’ I said, ‘Mrs. Brown is not there.’ ‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Thompson, ‘you did not see, but she went into the drawing-room?’ We both went into the drawing-room, but it was empty. I at once recollected what had occurred two years previously, and looking over my note-book I found that this was the same hour of the same day of the same month on which the figure had been seen by my cousin and myself.

“Louisa D—– had come back to keep her tryst.”

The Occult Review September 1905: p. 140-42

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Mrs Daffodil confesses herself somewhat puzzled by this story. By this time Louisa D__ should have pined herself to death and been ecstatically reunited in the Afterlife with George S__.   And if she was still alive, surely a kindly note could have been dispatched to the bereaved lady, suggesting that she cease her astral-projection–so distressing to the the lawful current tenants.

Mrs Daffodil wonders about the status of George S__ in this spectral drama: did he also return to the drawing-room—but at the wrong time because of the different time zones, thus missing the tryst? Or was he waiting somewhere else—tapping his foot impatiently on the platform at Paddington Station, when he should have been at King’s Cross?  Or—unromantic thought!—was he so absorbed in the attractions of the Afterlife—perhaps the excellent cigars and whisky Oliver Lodge‘s late soldier son Raymond mentioned—that he had entirely forgotten his erstwhile Beloved?

Mrs Daffodil has heard from the footmen who sometimes watch “ghost-hunting” shows on the television, that certain individuals simply do not know that they have died and need to have the news tactfully broken to them so that they can “go to the light” or something of the sort. One tactic is to tell the lingering spirit that the Beloved is waiting for them so that they will “move on.” Mrs Daffodil is surprised that the narrator did not try this approach, although one wonders what awkwardness would have ensued if George S__ ,  absorbed in a game of billiards with a whisky-and-soda at his elbow, refused to be summoned from the ranks of the Blessed to keep a tryst with his Louisa.

 

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 Valentine Charm Party: 1911

cupid and two putti.JPG

VALENTINE CHARMS

A recently engaged girl gave a charming valentine charm party to her young girl friends. The invitations were made of water-color paper, and were in the form of tiny padlocks, with a dainty key attached. A painted Cupid was on one side and the following words filled the other: “If thou wouldst know the secrets and charms of love which St. Valentine keeps under lock and key, meet at the mystic board at 29 Chestnut St., at eight o’clock, on February fourteenth.” After a session of girlish chatter, and a social game or two of “Hearts,” the guests were taken to the dining-room, which was hung with many-colored dangling hearts. Heart-shaped ices, “kisses,” “lover’s delight,” etc., were served. Garlands of vines, rosebuds and hearts trailed from the chandelier over the white cloth. The centerpiece was a mammoth crimson rose made of crape paper surrounded by ferns, and its heart contained as many petals as there were guests. Each petal was fastened to a white satin ribbon which led to each place. After the plates had been removed, the guests remained at table and the charms began, when each guest gently drew her streamer and its petal. The petal contained her fortune. The heart of the rose being drawn away disclosed a tiny Cupid in a white satin bride’s slipper. The slipper was filled with crape-paper rose leaves of various colors. Each guest received three leaves on which she wrote a lover’s name (a different lover for each leaf). and dropped them into her individual bowl of water. The first to come up was to be her future husband. On each place-card was found five bay leaves, a tiny crimson candle, two matches and a pencil. Then tiny cups of tea were brought in. The maidens wrote their wishes on the bay-leaves, lighted the candles and burned the leaves, so that the ashes fell into the tea. At a given signal the tea, ashes and all, was consumed, and thus St. Valentine’s help was insured for the gratification of the wishes. Each guest then received an egg, on the shell of which was written the name of her best love, with indelible ink. The eggs were boiled and each lassie claimed her egg. Then the yolks were removed and salt put in its place. The girls bravely ate the eggs, salt and all, while their wishes were made. If they retired without taking a drink of water, the person of whom they dreamed was to be lord of the future, and the wish would come true. The favors for the occasion were satin sachets with a garland of rosebuds and lovers’ knots painted on the surface. A long-stemmed crimson rose was pinned to it. In the heart of each rose was a tiny gilt heart with a quaint valentine verse on it.

-Florence Bernard.

The Delineator, Volume 77, February 1911: p. 157

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  What dainty accessories as a backdrop to the performance of ancient (and to be perfectly frank, rank) superstitions!  Mrs Daffodil has written before about the Valentines’ rites and customs of yore in Holly Boys, Ivy Girls, Eggs, and Billets. The bay leaves were more usually pinned to the young lady’s pillows, but one supposes there are fads in love charms as well as Valentines.

 

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.