Category Archives: Husbands and Wives

Encore: A Bashful Bridegroom: 1830s

Country Wedding, John Lewis Krimmel, 1820

A Bashful Bridegroom

Senator Sebastian, of Arkansas, was a native of Hickman county, Tenn. On one occasion a member of Congress was lamenting his bashful awkwardness. “Why,” said the

A Bashful Bridegroom

Senator Sebastian, of Arkansas, was a native of Hickman county, Tenn. On one occasion a member of Congress was lamenting his bashful awkwardness. “Why,” said the senator from Rackensack, “you don’t know what bashfulness is. Let me tell you a story, and when I get through I will stand the bob if you don’t agree that you never knew anything about bashfulness and its baneful effects. I was the most bashful boy west of the Alleghenies. I wouldn’t look at a girl, much less speak to a maiden; but for all that I fell desperately in love with a sweet, beautiful neighbor girl. It was a desirable match on both side, and the old folks saw the drift, and fixed it up. I thought I should die, just thinking of it. I was a gawky, awkward country lout about nineteen years old. She was an intelligent, refined and fairly well educated girl in a country and at a time when the girls had superior advantages, and were therefore superior in culture to the boys. I fixed the day as far as I could have put it off. I lay awake in a cold perspiration as the time drew near, and shivered with agony and thought of the terrible ordeal. The dreadful day came. I went through with the program somehow in a dazed, confused, mechanical sort of a way, like an automaton booby through a supper where I could eat nothing, and through such games as “Possum Pie,” “Sister Phoebe,” and all that sort of thing. The guests one by one departed, and my hair began to stand on end. Beyond the awful curtain of Isis lay the terrible unknown. My blood grew cold and boiled by turns. I was in a fever and then an ague, pale and flushed by turns. I felt like fleeing into the woods, spending the night in the barn, leaving for the west never to return. I was deeply devoted to Sallie. I loved her harder than mule can kick; but that terrible ordeal!—I could not, dare not stand it. Finally the last guest was gone, the bride retired, the family gone to bed, and I was left alone—horror of horrors, alone with the old man. “John,” said he, “you can take that candle, you will find your room just over this. Goodnight, John, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul,” and with a mischievous twinkle in his fine gray eye the old man left the room. I mentally said “Amen” to his “Heaven help you,” and when I heard him close a distant door, staggered to my feet and seized the farthing dip with nervous grasp. I stood for some minutes contemplating my terrible fate, and the inevitable and speedy doom about to overwhelm me. I knew that it could not be avoided, and yet I hesitated to meet my fate like a man. I stood so long that three love letters had grown in the wick of the tallow dip and a winding sheet was decorating the side of the brass candle-stick. A happy thought struck me. I hastily climbed the stair, marked the position of the landing, and the door of the bridal chamber. I would have died before I would have disrobed in that holy chamber, where awaiting me a trembling and beautiful girl, a blushing maiden, “clothed upon” with her own beauty and modesty, and her snowy robe de nuit. I would make the usual preparations without, blow out the light, open the door, and friendly night would shield my shrinking modesty and bashfulness and grateful darkness at least mitigate the horror of the situation. It was soon done. Preparations for retiring were few and simple in their character in Hickman, altogether consisting of disrobing, and owing to the scarcity of cloth in those days man was somewhere near the Adamic state when he was prepared to woo sweet sleep. The dreadful hour had come; I was ready. I blew out the light, grasped the door-knob with a deathly gripe and a nervous clutch; one moment and it would be over.

One moment and it wasn’t over by a d__n sight. I leaped within, and there around a glowing hickory fire, with candles brightly burning on the mantel and bureau, was the blushing bride, surrounded by the six lovely bridesmaids.”

The Fresno [CA] Republican 24 June 1882: p. 1

Mrs Daffodil really has nothing to add….

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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How Mother Did It: 1872

“HOW MOTHER DID IT.”

By Anonymous.

If we were to suggest one thing which, above all other things combined, would most contribute to the happiness of the young housekeeper, it would be to learn how to cook as a husband’s mother cooked. Mother used to make coffee so and so! Mother used to have such waffles! and mother knew just how thick or how thin to make a squash-pie! And, O, if I could only taste of Mother’s biscuit! Such are the comments of the husband, and of too many meal-tables. It would be only a little more cruel for the husband to throw his fork across the table, or to dash the contents of his teacup in his wife’s face. The experience of a contrite husband is good reading for those men whose daily sauce is “How Mother did it.” He says:—

“I found fault, some time ago, with Maria Ann’s custard-pie, and tried to tell her how my mother made custard-pie. Maria made the pie after my recipe. It lasted longer than any other pie we ever had. Maria set it on the table every day for dinner; and you see I could not eat it, because I forgot to tell her to put in any eggs or shortening. It was economical; but in a fit of generosity I stole it from the pantry and gave it to a poor little boy in the neighborhood. The boy’s funeral was largely attended by his former playmates. I did not go myself.

“Then there were the buckwheat cakes. I told Maria Ann any fool could beat her making those cakes; and she said I had better try it. So I did. I emptied the batter all out of the pitcher one evening and set the cakes myself. I got the flour and the salt and water; and, warned by the past, put in a liberal quantity of eggs and shortening. I shortened with tallow from roast-beef, because I could not find any lard. The batter did not look right, and I lit my pipe and pondered. Yeast, yeast, to be sure. I had forgotten the yeast I went and woke up the baker, and got six cents’ worth of yeast. I set the pitcher behind the sitting room stove and went to bed.

“In the morning I got up early and prepared to enjoy my triumph; but I didn’t. That yeast was strong enough to raise the dead, and the batter was running all over the carpet. I scraped it up and put it into another dish. Then I got a fire in the kitchen and put on the griddle. The first lot of cakes stuck to the griddle. The second dittoed, only more. Maria came down and asked me what was burning. She advised me to grease the griddle. I did it. One end of the griddle got too hot, and I dropped the thing on my tenderest corn while trying to turn it around.

“Finally the cakes were ready for breakfast, and Maria got the other things ready. We sat down. My cakes did not have exactly the right flavor. I took one mouthful, and it satisfied me. I lost my appetite at once. Maria would not let me put one on her plate. I think those cakes may be reckoned a dead loss. The cat would not eat them. The dog ran off and stayed away three days after one was offered to him. The hens wouldn’t go within ten feet of them. I threw them into the back yard, and there has not been a pig on the premises since. I eat what is put before me now, and do not allude to my mother’s system of cooking.”

The Donaldsonville [LA] Chief 17 February 1872: p. 4

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  For “Wife Appreciation Day,” a salutary lesson for the officious husband! Mrs Daffodil has posted before on how a clever wife chastened an impossible-to-please husband who found fault with any dish she set before him, no matter how dainty. In the same post is an amusing story  of a widow who expertly trained her new husband to be less exacting in his tastes. It is odd how gentlemen who would not know one end of a fowl from the other when plucked, scalded, and nicely larded in the roasting pan, somehow have all the finer points of cookery at their fingertips.

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.

Farmers’ Wives’ Vacations: 1898

1918 advertisement for electric stove.

Farmers’ Wives’ Vacations

Of course, the business man in the city should have a vacation, if he can afford it, and so should the society ladies, and the office-holders, and the clerks, and the dudes, but the one that needs a vacation most of all is the farmer’s wife, who plans and prepares hot meals for a household throughout the year. She may not care to go to the seashore, or to go fishing with a supply of bait in a jug; but she should be lifted out of the everlasting grind of three hot meals over a hot cook-stove every day by some sort of relief from such work for a portion of the heated season. It may not be practicable for her to even leave home at all, but much can be done to make her work more bearable. There should be a cool kitchen—one that is shaded and has all the fresh air that is going. In that kitchen there should be a stove that can cook a meal without cooking the cook. This is a day of successful and cheap oil and gasoline stoves. They can be used to prepare all the breakfast and supper anyone needs, and are used by tens of thousands for preparing dinners that require the usual boiling and baking. There should be a good supply of fruit to take the place of dishes that must be prepared over a stove. There should be convenient water, and there should be a boy that will do all outside chores. Above all, there should be a household that is willing to dispense with hot suppers and the usual supply of greasy dishes during the red-hot weather of August. This does not apply to many farm homes, it is true, but there remains a considerable number in which the hardships of the housewife during July and August are greater than men would bear if places could be exchanged.

The Holt County Sentinel [Oregon MO] 14 October 1898: p. 2

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: The picture of a farmer’s wife “slaving all day over a hot stove” was a proverbial one, particularly in advertisements for electric or oil stoves. “Summer kitchens,” in the warmer districts helped to keep the heat out of the house, but were still unpleasantly hot and fly-filled.

Then again, some husbands were Brutes, refusing to grant their hard-working wives any modern conveniences.

 Hot summer days with a big family to feed, augmented by the additional hands, she perspires over a huge coal stove, fire in which must be started before daybreak to get the early breakfast, and which heats the kitchen to suffocation long after sundown. A fireless cooker and a blue-flame oil stove would give her many hours’ rest, and a cool place to work in, but her husband’s mother cooked on that stove years before modem invention lightened woman’s work, and the husband sees no reason why what was good enough for his mother is not good enough for his wife. It is fortunate for him that he keeps the mail order catalog in such constant use himself, selecting farm implements and the like, that she never gets a peep in them, for could she see the small expenditure that would bring her ease and comfort she might break out in open rebellion.  [Successful Farming 1916]

Still, occasionally something good might be said about the old-fashioned hot cook-stove:

How a Pennsylvania Widow Served a Sewing Machine Agent.

The usually quiet little village of Leesport on the line of the Philadelphia & Reading railroad, eight miles above Reading, has had a sensation, which has caused a good deal of amusement. A Reading sewing-machine agent induced the head of a family to take a machine and pay for it in monthly installments. Before the machine was paid for, the husband and father died. The widow was in destitute circumstances, with half a dozen children, and unable to pay the balance owing on the machine, when the agent came round to take the machine away. She determined that he should not remove the machine until he had handed back at least some of the money that had been paid on it by her husband. He was apparently just as determined to secure the machine without returning any of the filthy lucre, insulted the woman and endeavored to take by force what he said belonged to the company by reason of the payment of monthly installments having been stopped.

While the agent was inside the house she locked both the front and back doors, and put the keys in her dress pocket, and being a robust woman “went for” the agent. She took hold of him and a severe and prolonged struggle ensued, while the children were frightened and cried and screamed. The widow threw the agent over the hot kitchen stove, and finally succeeded in setting him down on top of it and held him there, when he begged piteously for mercy. “For God’s sake, let me go, and I’ll pay you back every cent your husband paid me.” Being satisfied that he was severely scorched, if not partly roasted around the thighs, she pulled him off the stove, but held on to him until he had paid back every cent of the installments and then she gave him two minutes time to take the machine and clear out with it. The name of the plucky woman and also that of the agent, are withheld by special request.

Atchison [KS] Daily Patriot 30 September 1875: 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.

 

Funeral Drill: 1912

Hearse and Mourning Coaches, William Francis Freelove http://www.wikigallery.org/wiki/painting_220846/William-Francis-Freelove/page-1

FUNERAL DRILL.

Two stories are told quite seriously by a contributor to London ‘Truth, which it is difficult to accept at face value. The first relates a system of funeral drill to which a wife in the shires declares she has been subjected. She writes:

“Sir,—Some months ago I married ___, who is a well-known but eccentric man. After the honeymoon we retired to his estate, when began the annoyance of which I complain.

Every Wednesday a hearse and several mourning coaches are driven up to the front door, and mutes carry down from my husband’s bedroom a coffin which is supposed to contain his remains!

Draped in widow’s weeds, and accompanied by several of the servants, I have to follow this, my husband marshalling the procession, and directing the proceedings generally!

‘Be careful; do not ram the rails,’

‘Bend your head more reverently, dear,’

‘Slower, please,’

‘Keep your distances; it looks so slip-shod.’

The coffin is raised into the hearse, and I and several of the householders occupy the coaches, whilst the gardeners and others follow on foot, my husband drilling us until the funeral service is completed, even to the lowering of the coffin into the grave!

I can scarcely hope that this letter will not be intercepted, but should it reach you, will you publish it, that your readers may know to what length a man will go in indulging his peculiarities?”

Mataura [NZ] Ensign, 26 February 1912: p. 7

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: That gentleman’s eccentricities were not as singular as one might think. The Divine Sarah was celebrated for allegedly sleeping in her coffin, or, at the very least, posing for photographs in it:

Sarah Bernhardt posing in her coffin.

A certain lady who is not over-religious, in the usual acceptation of the term—Madame Sarah Bernhardt—has her whole life toned and seasoned and solemnised by the presence of the grim, even if dainty, case in which her mortal remains are to be interred. She has got a new coffin to replace the old one, which some time ago, along with her other personal effects, was seized by her relentless creditors. The present coffin is daintily lined with blue silk, and at the head has a soft little pillow trimmed with Valenciennes lace. It is Sarah’s grim humour to sleep in her coffin sometimes; and, to be quite consistent, she dresses herself in something not unlike a shroud. But usance dulls the edge of appetite, and this funeral fad of the Divine Sarah has a tendency to make the coffin a joke and the grave a jest.

Roses and Rue: Being Random Notes and Sketches, William Stewart Ross, London: W. Stewart & Company, 1890: p. 168

Returning to Mr Funeral Drill’s eccentricities, “peculiarities” is perhaps the kindest euphemism for such tastes. The lady’s statement about the note being intercepted suggests alarming and sinister possibilities. If this were a Gothic Novel written by a lady with three names, our heroine would be a great heiress, wooed in a whirlwind courtship and married before she could discover her husband’s morbid fancies. Then, one day, the funeral drill would go on without her and the coffin would be buried, the lady’s absence explained by an indisposition which would shortly lead to a permanent residence in the South of France for her health, despite no one seeing her en route. Her tragically early death in France would be announced and shortly thereafter Mr Funeral Drill would remarry….

Mrs Daffodil suggests that after the first few repetitions of this macabre ritual, the lady should have taken steps to ensure that the next funeral was no drill, but the genuine article.

For more on Victorian funerals and mourning, please consult The Victorian Book of the Dead by Chris Woodyard, also available in a Kindle edition.

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 Husband Lost and Found: 1894

STRANGER

Than Fiction Is Real Life.

Romantic Story of Separation and Reunion.

After Twenty-Eight Years, Walter Henley, of Nashville, Finds His Wife.

Dover, Ky., March 16. Twenty-eight years ago last September Miss Josie Hamilton, an orphan, making her home with a maiden aunt living in Huntington, W. Va., was a passenger on an Ohio steamer from Cincinnati to that city. The second clerk on the boat was a young man named Walter P. Henley, whose home was in Pittsburg, and who will be remembered by river men of to-day as one of the handsomest and most popular clerks on the river. Young Henley became terribly smitten with the charms of Miss Hamilton, then a beautiful and vivacious young girl of 19 summers. The attraction was mutual, and it seemed to be a case of love at first sight with them both.

Before the boat had reached the young lady’s destination, Mr. Henley had engaged himself to marry the young lady, and the wedding was set for the following May. The first year of their wedding life was one of extreme happiness, the young bride continuing to reside with her aunt in Huntington, and making frequent round trips on the boat with her husband.

In the second year of their marriage, Mrs. Henley persuaded her husband to leave the river and open out a grocery store in Huntington. All went well for about a year, when Mr. Henley, who had acquired the habit of strong drink, indulged to such an extent that liquor became his master. As

THE HABIT GREW

Upon him he became cross and overbearing in his manner toward his wife, and frequent domestic quarrels were the result.

One day he indulged in an unusually violent quarrel with his wife, and in a fit of rage said he would leave the house and never return. He was as good as his word, and that night sold his store for a mere song and took passage on a down steamer for Cincinnati. From there he soon departed for the West. The heart-broken young wife, with the care of a bright, little baby boy, was left almost penniless by the deserting husband, and, to make matters worse, her aunt had died but a few months previous. She would not go to her husband’s people, as they had been opposed to their son’s marriage. Neither would she write to them. Instead she decided to go to an uncle, a Mr. Jackson, who was a prosperous farmer, living a few miles back of Covington, and who gave his niece and her babe a generous welcome.

With this kind relative Mrs. Henley and her little boy took up their permanent abode, and when Mr. Jackson, in 1882, sold his Kenton County farm and purchased 200 acres of fine land about 20 miles south of this place she came with him to the new home. In the meantime the deserted wife had never heard a word from or about her husband, and did not even know whether he was still living.

Six years ago the son, Charley T. Henley, then a bright and industrious young man of 22, and who had just received a business education at the Smith College, at Lexington, went to Chattanooga, Tenn., where he was given a position in the real estate office a married son of Mr. Jackson, who had located in that city some 15 years ago. Now comes the strangest and most

ROMANTIC PART OF THE STORY.

And which reads more like fiction than an actual occurrence in real life.

Last January Mrs. Henley went to Chattanooga on a visit to her son. About a week after her arrival there, she was sitting in the office one afternoon chatting with her son and Mr. Jackson, when in stepped a well-dressed and portly gentleman with the air of an all-round business man. The stranger gave only a hurried glance at the lady present and introduced himself to Mr. Jackson as W. P. Henley, real estate agent, Nashville, Tenn.

It afterward developed that he had called to consult Mr. Jackson in regard to some Chattanooga property. At the sound of the gentleman’s name, Mrs. Henley, who had been keenly eyeing the visitor, gave a scream and fell to the floor in a dead faint. All three gentlemen went to her assistance, and the long absent husband, for such he proved to be, immediately recognized his wife and also his son, now that the mist was clearing away, as young Henley bore a striking resemblance to his father.

By the administering of proper restoratives Mr. Henley was soon brought to a state of consciousness, and then the husband, who appeared overjoyed at the strange and unexpected meeting, stated that the one hope of his life in recent years was now realized. He then told the

STORY OF HIS WANDERINGS

Since his desertion of his wife in Huntington. After sobering up in Cincinnati and coming to his senses he regretted what he had done, but his money was about all gone and he was ashamed to go back to Huntington.

On a sudden impulse he resolved to go out West and when he made a stake to send for his wife. At the same time he made a solemn pledge to himself never to drink another drop of liquor, and that pledge he had faithfully kept. He made money rapidly out West, and was soon in a splendid shape financially. And yet he could never hear anything from or about his wife and child.

He wrote to friends in Huntington, and they could only reply that she had left that city, but did not know where she had gone. He had drifted to the booming city of Wichita on the top wave of excitement, and by judicious investments and timely sales made quite a fortune in real estate. He had moved to Nashville three years ago and entered the real estate business, and in the meantime hand almost given up all hope of ever finding any trace of his wife and child. A complete reconciliation took place between the long separated husband and wife, and they are now living happily together in Nashville. Mr. Henley has taken in a partner in the real estate business and the firm name now reads Walter P. Henley & Son. Cincinnati [OH] Enquirer 17 March 1894: p. 9

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Perhaps Mrs Daffodil is too censorious but anyone clever enough to make a fortune by judicious investments and timely sales, ought to have had the wit to hire a Pinkerton operative with some of that fortune to locate his wife and child, who, for aught he knew, were dead in a ditch somewhere.

One wonders if this was a species of “urban legend” common in the papers of the past. Here is another, similar story of a happy, improbable coincidence, albeit with a shipwreck, rather than liquor, as the agent of separation

A late issue of the Vallejo (Cal.) Chronicle says: ‘One of those strange episodes in human life which makes us sometimes wonder at “the eternal fitness of things.” occurred last night at the Vallejo junction. The tide being low on the arrival of the Contra Costa passengers for Vallejo were compelled to make quite a descent from the wharf to the boat, and the ladies required the assistance of the gentlemen present. A Mr. G., a grain speculator, was doing the agreeable in this respect, and one of the last ladies to descend was overburdened with a few bundles, which he took charge of, and accompanied the lady to the cabin, where they sat and engaged in conversation. The subject finally touched upon the nativity of each, when it was found they were both from the same town in Kentucky. This fact made each more communicative, when he inquired her name, which was given as Mrs. G. Immediately the gentleman grew pale and excited, and asked:

“You had a daughter, did you not?”

“I did “she responded. “Pray, how did you know that?”

“Is that daughter living?”

“She is, and at present on a visit to friends at Vallejo, where I am now going.”

“Merciful heavens!” he gasped. “My child!”

“Sir,” said the lady, rising; “what do you mean?”

“Mean?” he crazily replied. “Mean? Why, I mean that that daughter is my own child and you are my wife!”

Almost overpowered at this confession she plied him with questions, to every it one of which he returned a correct answer, when she was convinced that the man was really her husband, from whom she had been separated twenty years. It seems the twain were married at Paris, Ky., in 1858, and thirteen months afterward he went to Liverpool on business. The vessel on which he took passage was wrecked, and all on board were supposed to have perished.

The news coming to the young wife’s ears, she was utterly prostrated and was ordered to California by her physicians. Arriving here she took up her residence in Los Angeles. The husband was picked up from the wreck by a fishing smack and taken to some remote foreign port, where he was thrown upon a bed of sickness, which lasted some fifteen months. In the meantime he had written repeatedly to his wife, but received no answer. In his despair he concluded to risk a journey across the Atlantic. Feeble as he was he shipped before the mast on a sailing vessel, and in due time arrived in New York. From there he wrote three times to his wife, but received no answer.

Almost frenzied at the thought that she might be dead, and being without funds and no friends, he “faced” his fare clear to Kentucky, and shortly after arrived at Paris. Inquiries throughout the town assured him that his wife had disappeared a year or so before, no one knew whither. Some said she had gone in search of her husband, others that she might be dead, and others that she had gone to California. He sought the old family physician, but he had left the town some time before. Mr. G. then went to work at Louisville and made enough to bring him to California a year after his arrival in Kentucky. He searched everywhere for his absent wife, but without success, and finally gave her up as dead, and she also had mourned for his death. Neither, however, had married again, and last evening on board the Contra Costa was the first intimation either had that the other was in existence.

The now happy couple arrived here last night, and to the surprise of the friends of the lady she introduced her husband, from whom she had been separated twenty years. But imagine his unutterable surprise and joy when the mother led into the parlor a beautiful young lady, his own daughter, whom he had not seen since she was a babe. Father, mother and child will leave tomorrow for San Francisco, where Mr. G., who is now a comparatively wealthy man, has his business, and where they will hereafter reside.

The Abbeville [SC] Press and Banner 4 February 1880: 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.

 

The Little Children’s Watches: 1882

The Little Children’s Watches.

Yesterday an old man entered a Little Rock store, and taking from his pocket an old buckskin pouch he emptied two coins on the counter, and the, after regarding the silver for a few moments said; “Mister, I want to buy some goods to make a dress.”

“That money is mutilated, old gentleman. This twenty-five-cent piece has notches filed in it, and this fifty-cent piece has been punched. You see they have been abused. I can’t take them.”

“Abused,” said the old man. “Abused,” and he took up the fifty-cent piece and looked at it tenderly. “And you won’t take it on account of the holes. Heaven grant that I did not have to offer it to you. Years ago, when my first child was a little girl I punched a hole in this coin and strung it around her neck. It was her constant plaything. At night when she went to bed we’d take it off, but early at morning she would call for her watch. When our John—you didn’t know John, did you? No. Well, he used to come to town a good deal.”

“Where is he now?” asked the merchant, not knowing what to say, but desiring to show appreciation of the old man’s story.

“He was killed in the war. I say that when John was a little boy I strung this quarter around his neck. One day his watch got out of fix, he said, and he filed these notches in it. He and his sister Mary—that was the girl’s name—used to play in the yard and compare their watches to see if they were right. Sometimes John wouldn’t like it because Mary’s watch was bigger than his, but she would explain that she was bigger than him and ought to have a bigger watch. The children grew up, but as they had always lived in the woods they were not ashamed to wear their watches.

When a young man came to see Mary once she forgetfully looked at her fifty cents. ‘What are you doing?’ asked the young man, and when she told him she was looking at her watch, he took it as a hint and went home. After this she did not wear her watch in company.

Well, Mary and the young man married. John went off in the army and got killed. Mary’s husband died, and about two years ago Mary was taken sick. When her mother and I reached her house she was dying. Calling me to her bed, she said: ‘Papa, lean over.’ I leaned over, and, taking something from under her pillow, she put it around my neck and said: ‘Papa, take care of my watch.’”

The old man looked at the merchant. The eyes of both men were moist. “Do you see that boy out there on the wagon?” he said. “Well, that is Mary’s child. I wouldn’t part with this money, but my old wife, who always loved me, died this morning, and I have come to buy her a shroud.”

When the old man went out he carried a bundle in one hand and the “watches” in the other.

Little Rock (Ark.) Gazette.

The Abbeville [SC] Press and Banner 22 March 1882; p. 1

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Shrouds, strangely enough, could be purchased from one’s local dry-goods store. Here is a more light-hearted account of such a purchase: The Trousseau Night-dress.

Mrs Daffodil’s readers will, she hopes, excuse her from further comment, as she has something in her eye.

 

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 Dangerous Pair of Stockings: 1883

A Dangerous Pair of Stockings

A man at Albert Lea, Minn., had the worst time explaining a telegram to his wife. He is a sporting man, who does a good deal of fishing and hunting, and he had a pair of rubber wading stockings which he wore when hunting marshes. A friend of his wanted a pair of them, and he promised to send to New York and get them. The two men were great friends, and the man who had been promised the wading-stockings, and who lived at North Branch, got ready to go hunting last fall, and wanted them, so he telegraphed to his Albert Lea friend, as follows:

“Send my stockings at once, as I need them bad. YOUR BLONDE DARLING.”

The dispatch came to the man’s residence, and his wife opened it, and her hair stood right up straight. When the innocent husband came home she put on a refrigerator expression, and handed him a pair of her own old stockings, done up in a paper, and told him he better send them to his blonde darling at North Branch. He was taken all of a heap, and asked her what she meant, and said he had no blonde darling at North Branch or any other branch; and after he had said he did not know a woman any-where, and never thought of supplying stockings to anybody but his wife, she handed him the telegram. He scratched his head, blushed, and then she thought she had him, but finally he laughed right out loud, and went to his room, where he keeps his guns and things, and brought out the new pair of rubber wading stockings, that he had bought for his friend, each of which would hold a bushel of wheat, and handed them to his wife, and asked her how she thought they would look on a blonde darling. Then he told her they were for his sporting friend, of a male persuasion, and she asked his pardon, but insisted that the telegram had a bad look on the face of it, and was enough to scare any wife out of her wits and stockings. The wading stockings were expressed to the friend with a letter, telling him to be mighty careful in future how he telegraphed.

New Hampshire Patriot and State Gazette [Concord, NH] 25 January 1883: p. 6

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Mrs Daffodil must  take the wife’s side: the telegram certainly did have a “bad look” to it and one cannot blame her for being upset.  For all she knew, it could have been a genuine instance of a stocking mis-communication which would inevitably lead to a domestic tragedy. One is relieved that this was not another and hopes that the “blonde darling” ceased his “kidding” in future.

Mrs Daffodil is reminded of a wag who, as a “joke,” sent out half a dozen telegrams to random acquaintances, reading: “All is discovered. Fly at once!”  The men decamped and were never seen again. In the wrong hands, telegraphy is a dangerous weapon.

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.