Category Archives: Husbands and Wives

The Widow, the Shoemaker and the Will: 1850s

A Flaw in the Will

A Flaw in the Will, Phillip Richard Morris http://blackcountryhistory.org/collections/getrecord/WAGMU_OP99/

An amusing incident is related of a woman in England whose husband, a very wealthy man, died suddenly without any will.

The widow, desirous of securing the whole property, concealed her husband’s death, and persuaded a poor shoe-maker to take his place while a will could be made. Accordingly, he was closely muffled up in bed as if very sick, and a lawyer was employed to write the will. The shoe-maker, in a feeble voice, bequeathed half of all the property to the widow.

“What shall be done with the remainder? ” asked the lawyer.

“The remainder,”‘ replied he, “I give and bequeath to the poor little shoe-maker across the street, who has always been a good neighbor and a deserving man.” thus securing a rich bequest for himself!

The widow was thunderstruck with the man’s audacious cunning, but did not dare to expose the fraud; and so two rogues shared the estate.

The Herald of Progress, 21 May 1864: p. 222

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Mrs Daffodil will point out that this story is very likely to be an “urban legend,” to judge by the many variants and repetitions found in the papers, but that does not make it any less plausible.

The widow of a man who was careless enough to die intestate generally only inherited a third of his estate. If you are interested in the arcane law covering subject of such vital interest to ladies who could have no property of their own until the Married Women’s Property Act was passed a few years later, please see this link. So it is no wonder that the widow was keen to perpetrate a fraud.  She does not seem to have been alone. Such impositions involving deathwills, and mourning were a staple of the nineteenth-century press. No trick was too low, where a bequest was concerned:

AN APPARITION OF HIS MOTHER

Was Invoked by Fakirs to Swindle H.S.H. Cavendish the Great British Explorer.

London, May 14. The chancery court has ordered the cancellation of the deed by which H.S.H. Cavendish, the explorer, provided that his property should go to Mrs. Strutt, wife of Major C.H. Strutt, and her children, to the exclusion of the plaintiff’s own wife, who was Isabel Jay, formerly leading lady of the Savoy theatre.

Mr. Cavendish, in his appeal to the chancery court, charged Maj. Strutt and Mrs. Strutt with influencing him through table turning, and claimed that Mrs. Strutt obtained the deed by pretending to be the ghost of his, the plaintiff’s, mother, and by representing the latter as speaking from heaven and advising him to so dispose of his property. The Winnipeg [Manitoba, Canada] Tribune 14 May 1903: p. 9

 

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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In Lieu of Champagne: Mrs Daffodil’s One-Thousandth Post

 

Mrs Daffodil is pleased to report that to-day marks an anniversary of sorts: the one-thousandth post on this site. Mrs Daffodil should enjoy breaking out the champagne for a toast, or at the very least, passing around a box of chocolate cremes, but, alas, this is impracticable, since her readers are scattered all around the globe.

In lieu of champagne, Mrs Daffodil will share her reader’s best-loved posts and some of her own favourites, interspersed with some cuttings from her fashion scrap-books.

gold sequins sun king fan

“Sun King” fan with tinted mother-of-pearl sticks and guards and shaded copper and gold spangles, c. 1880-1910 https://www.google.com/culturalinstitute/beta/asset/fan/xAG2xDgj6hb8LA

Although it is difficult to choose from posts so numerous and wide-ranging, three of the most popular posts shared by Mrs Daffodil were

How to Make Stage Lightning and Thunder: 1829-1900

Men Who Wear Corsets: 1889 and 1903

Strange Flower Superstitions in Many Lands

A guest post by the subfusc author of The Victorian Book of the Dead on Bad Taste in Funeral Flowers: 1895-1914, also made the top of the charts.

Posts about the contemporary costs of fashion were quite popular.

The Cost of a Curtsey: Court Presentation Expenses: 1907

Where That $10,000-a-year Dress Allowance Goes: 1903

What Gilded Youth Spends on Its Wardrobe: 1907

The Cost of a Fine Lady: 1857

As were stories of how to dress nicely on a budget:

Dressing on $50 to $200 a Year: 1898

How To Be a Well-dressed Young Man on a Budget: 1890

spring green Callot orientalist

1923 Callot Soeurs orientalist dress http://kerrytaylorauctions.com

Some of Mrs Daffodil’s personal favourites include

How to Dress (or Undress) Like a Mermaid: 1868 to 1921

A Children’s Christmas Cottage: 1850s

How to Entertain with Impromptu Fruit Sculpture: 1906

A Bashful Bridegroom: 1831

 

The Dress Doctor: An Ingenious Lady’s Profession: 1894

A Ghost Orders a Hat: 1900

The Angel of Gettysburg: Elizabeth Thorn: 1863

A Shakespearean Contretemps: 1830s 

stumpwork casket with garden

Stumpwork casket with a garden on the lid, c. 1660-1690 http://www.royalcollection.org.uk/collection/39240/stumpwork-casket

Mrs Daffodil thanks all of her readers for their kind attention and she would very much enjoy hearing about their favourite posts on this site in the comments.

 

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 Peril of Perfumed Lipstick: 1922

Arman Kaliz and Amelia Stone

Armand Kaliz and Amelia Stone “The Happiest Couple in Vaudeville”

If Paris hadn’t sent the “perfumed lipstick” to Broadway no discord might have jangled Broadway’s “perfect romance.” Nobody along the Rialto might be saying, “Isn’t it too bad about Arman Kaliz and Amelia Stone! There was one stage romance that seemed made in heaven. And now just look at them–separated, suing and scrapping.”

But the perfumed lipstick arrived. It was the very latest fad, a cute little vial with a pencil to tap the perfume atop the rest of the mouth makeup. And all the beauties began to dab their pretty pouts with essence of heliotrope and attar of roses. And Amelia Stone says Arman Kaliz came home one night and gave her the usual affectionate husbandly kiss, and she drew back and her nose crinkled and she tasted something strange and saccharine left by Arman’s salute, and she said, almost like the temperance wife in the play, “Arman, you’ve been kissing!”

Arman denied the indictment vigorously. But right there, according to Miss Stone, began the jealousies that finally took her into court, asking for a legal separation, and caused two fights one between Arman and an admirer of Amelia’s, and one between Amelia and a friend of Arman’s. Before the perfumed kiss wafted along, the team of Stone and Kaliz had been just as happy a combination in private life as it was on the stage. Their romance was famous for the devotion manifested on both sides. Whenever pessimists sniffed at the notion of true love between players, optimists triumphantly pointed to Stone and Kaliz.

Miss Stone was a Detroit comic opera star, who made her premiere in “A Chinese Honeymoon.” She has been the prima donna of a number of Broadway successes. When she married Arman Kaliz, in 1910, she declared she was madly in love with him. He declared he was madly in love with her. Everybody was delighted especially when they kept right on being madly in love with each other.

Mr. Kaliz was and is a champion kisser on the stage, that is. When he approached his leading lady in the flare of the footlights, slid one deft arm about her waist, tipped back her chin, and–kissed her–his matinee audience never failed to flutter.

The Kaliz kiss became celebrated among theatregoers. It was a feature of the Kaliz vaudeville sketch “Temptation” last season, and it is the big moment of “Je Vous Aime,” the act in which Kaliz stars this year on tour with “Spice of 1922.”

Miss Stone didn’t show any particular anxiety about the Kaliz kiss so long as her husband confined it to public performances. She knew that the stage kiss, generally speaking, is impersonal–to be regarded no more seriously than any other piece of “business.” But, outside business hours, she held that the Kaliz kiss belonged to nobody but herself.

Thus her disquiet when she says she detected the ghost of exotic perfume on the lips of Mr. Kaliz. She does not say what brand of perfume it was. She does not state positively that it was a different scent from her own favorite. But, evidently, she had seen the cute little wrinkle from Paris–the perfumed lipstick. Anyway, she was indignant. Mr. Kaliz was touring then with “Temptation.” Miss Stone was not playing in the act. She went along just to be near her husband. The beauty of the sketch was Miss Pauline Garon. And Miss Stone told her husband she thought he was more attentive to Miss Garon than professional courtesy required. At all events, Miss Garon left “Temptation” in the middle of the tour and returned to New York.

That first quarrel of Amelia Stone and Arman Kaliz was by no means the last. Each admits that, with jealousy tarnishing their great love, the “perfect romance” was seriously shaken. They separated. They were reconciled. They quarreled again. They separated again. Mr. Kaliz says Miss Stone was forever nagging him.

Miss Stone discussed her position freely to a reporter, and gave for publication the following letter from Kaliz:

“Assuredly, Amelia, two people who, I believe, understand right from wrong, cannot continue wrong such as this forever,” he wrote to her after one violent quarrel. “They are simply hurting each other. I did nothing to cause your display of temper last night, and the situation was no more serious than, unfortunately, a hundred others which have happened between us. . . . How could you, a girl whom I have always regarded as being in a situation entirely alone as far as refinement and culture are concerned, run out into a public hall in a hotel disheveled and improperly clad, trying to disturb other guests in order that they might inquire into our unfortunate situation?  . . As you won’t let me live with you decently, then I must, under the circumstances, do the thing which you said you wish and that I have tried so hard to avoid–live without you.”

After the separation, when Miss Stone was living at a Broadway hotel and Kaliz at his own apartment, Miss Stone accosted Miss Garon one day as the latter was leaving a restaurant and scratched and slapped her. Tit-for-tat followed. Almost the duplicate of this incident was staged, with Mr. Kaliz as the aggressor and a friend of Miss Stone’s as his opponent, after Mr. Kaliz moved out of his apartment and turned it over to Miss Stone as part payment on the temporary alimony that had been arranged.

Kaliz says he was passing the apartment late one night when a taxicab stopped before the door and he saw his wife alight with two men. Though he was separated from her, he boiled with rage when he beheld what seemed to him to be one of the men kissing his wife good night.

Rushing across the street he cried, “What do you mean by kissing my wife?” and aimed a left at the nearest man’s jaw. The kiss was denied, but the blow was returned. The two men leaped into the taxicab and told the driver to speed up.

Kaliz hopped on the running-board. He lunged at the men. The taxicab careened southward. Kaliz was crying to the driver to go to a police station. The driver was taking orders from nobody but his fares. Finally Kaliz was pushed off somewhere on the lower East Side.

Though Kaliz had been suspected of kissing by Amelia Stone, and in turn had accused her of being kissed: though Amelia Stone had slapped the face of the girl she deemed her rival, and though Kaliz had punched the man he deemed was his rival–hostilities did not end there.

Kaliz investigated. He learned, he says, that the man who, he said, kissed his wife was Dr. L. J. Lautman, a prominent Brooklyn dentist. To reporters Dr. Lautman did not deny that he was with Amelia Stone and had a fight with Kaliz. But he did deny the kiss.

Kaliz employed detectives to watch his wife. They reported that Miss Stone and Dr. Lautman were to attend a masquerade ball together at Long Beach, a favorite Long Island resort. Kaliz decided to attend the ball himself. He went. He peered into the face of dancer after dancer. But he found neither. And Dr. Lautman and Amelia Stone deny that they were among those present.

Miss Stone has filed suit for a separation and alimony. H. S. Hechheimer, attorney for Kaliz, says he has prepared a suit asking $100,000 for alleged alienation of the wife’s affections. Yet occasionally they see one another. When a stage “drop” fell and struck Mr. Kaliz on the head during a recent rehearsal he called for his wife at the hospital. She thought he was dying and went to his side. Friends joyfully predicted a reconciliation. But the report was premature. Mr. Kaliz recovered. There was another quarrel. Broadway sighed and shook its head. Its “perfect romance” seemed shattered beyond any hope of repair. Now Mr. Kaliz is quoted as declaring he will always be “free.” And Amelia Stone has only this to say–Paris has invented many gim-cracks that are harmless; but when it introduced the perfumed lipstick, Paris invented trouble–for one married pair, anyway.

The St. Louis [MO] Star and Times 22 October 1922: p. 60

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Mrs Daffodil is amused by the American newspapers’ unusually accurate transliteration of the French-born Mr Kaliz’s Christian name—Armand—as “Arman.”

Should one attribute the tribulations of this couple to his Parisian insouciance over kissing (the historic record states that with actress Florence Browne this “champion osculator” set a world’s long-kiss record of 10 minutes) or ought we, like Miss Stone, his wife, blame the perfumed lipstick manufacturers for the cosmetic’s aphrodisiac properties?

The latest dainty fad from Paris was also seen as causing problems for easily confused gentlemen:

America is importing perfumed lip-stick from France! Well, in the first place, it’s disadvantageous for a man—a fellow will be terribly confused on a dark night if he tastes attar of roses when it should have been heliotrope.

University Daily Kansan [Lawrence KS] 24 October 1922: p. 2

Mrs Daffodil suggests that if a fellow is that easily confused, he should not be kissing anyone in the dark.

 

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.

Spoopendyke and the Bathing Suit: 1880

1877 men's bathing suit

A COMPLICATED GARMENT.

“My dear,” observed Mr. Spoopendyke, looking up from his paper, “I think I would be greatly benefited this Summer by sea baths. Bathing in the surf is an excellent tonic, and if you will make me up a suit, and one for yourself, if you like, we’ll go down often and take a dip in the waves.”

“The very thing,” smiled Mrs. Spoopendyke, “you certainly need something to tone you up, and there’s nothing like salt water. I think I’ll make mine of blue flannel, and, let me see, yours ought to be, red, my dear.”

“I don’t think you caught the exact drift of my remark,” retorted Mr. Spoopendyke; “I didn’t say I was going into the opera business, or that I was going to hire out to some country village as a conflagration. My plan was to go in swimming, Mrs. Spoopendyke, to go in swimming, and not grow up with the country as a cremation furnace. You can make yours of blue if you want it, but you can’t make mine of red, that’s all.”

“There’s a pretty shade of yellow flannel–”

“Most indubitably, Mrs. Spoopendyke, but if you think I’m going to masquerade around Manhattan Beach in the capacity of a ham, you haven’t yet seized my idea. I don’t apprehend that I shall benefit by the waters any more by going around looking like a Santa Cruz rum barrel. What I want is a bathing suit, and If you can’t got one up without making me look like Fulton street car I’ll go and buy something to suit me.”

“Would you want it all in one piece, or do you want pants and blouse?”

“I want a suit easy to get in and out of. I’m not particular about following the fashion. Make up something neat, plain and substantial, but don’t stick any fancy colors into it. I want it modest and serviceable.”

Mrs. Spoopendyke made up the suit, under the guidance of a lady friend, whose aunt had told her how it should be constructed. It was in one piece, and when completed was rather a startling garment.

“’I’ll try it on, to-night,” said Mr. Spoopendyke, eyeing it askance when it was handed him.

Before retiring Mr. Spoopendyke examined the suit, and then began to get into it.

“Why didn’t you make some legs to it?  What d’ye want to make it all arms for?” he inquired, struggling around to see why it didn’t come up behind. “You’ve got it on sideways,” exclaimed Mrs. Spoopendyke. “You’ve got one leg into the sleeve.”

“I’ve got to get it on sideways. There ain’t any top to it. Don’t you know enough to put the arms up where they belong?  What d’ye think I am, anyhow? A star fish? Where does this leg go?”

“Right in there. That’s the place for that leg.”

“Then where’s the leg that goes in this hole?”

“Why, the other leg.”

“The measly thing’s all legs. Who’d you make this thing for, me? What d’ye take me for, a centipede? Who else is going to get in here with me? I want somebody else. I ain’t twins. I can’t fill this business up. What d’ye call it, anyway, a family machine?”

“Those other places ain’t legs; they’re sleeves.”

“What are they doing down there? Why ain’t they up here where they belong? What are they there for, snow shoes? S’pose I’m going to stand on my head to get my arms in those holes?”

‘I don’t think you’ve got it on right,” suggested Mrs. Spoopendyke. “It looks twisted.”

“That’s the way you told me. You said, ‘put this leg here and that one there,’ and there they are. Now, where does the rest of me go?”

“I made it according to the pattern,” sighed Mrs. Spoopendyke.

“Then it’s all right, and it’s me that’s twisted,” sneered Mr. Spoopendyke. “I’ll have my arms and legs altered. All I want is to have my legs jammed in the small of my back and my arms stuck in my hips; then it’ll fit. What did you take for a pattern, a crab? Where’d you find the lobster you made this thing from? S’pose I’m going into the water on all fours? I told you I wanted a bathing suit, didn’t I?  Did I say anything about a chair cover?”

“I think if you take it off and try it on over again, it’ll work,” reasoned Mrs. Spoopendyke,

“Oh! of course. I’ve only got to humor the gastod thing. That’s all it wants,” and Mr. Spoopendyke wrenched it off with a growl.

“Now pull it on,” said Mrs. Spoopondyke.

Mr. Spoopendyke went at it again, and reversed the original order of disposing his limbs.

“Suit you now?” he howled. “That the way you meant it to go? What’s these things flopping around here?”

“Those are the legs, I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Spoopendyke, dejectedly.

“What are they doing up here? I see; oh! I see, this is supposed to represent me making a dive. When I get this on, I’m going head first. Where’s the balance? Where’s the rest? Give me the suit that represents me head up,” and Mr, Spoopendyke danced around the room in fury.

“Just turn it over, my dear,” said Mrs. Spoopendyke, “and you are all right.”

“How’m I going to turn it over?” yelled Mr. Spoopendyke. “S’pose I’m going to carry around a steam boiler to turn me over when I want the other end of this thing up? S’pose I’m going to hire a man to go around with a griddle spoon and turn me over like a flapjack, just to please this dod gasted bathing suit? D’ye think I work on pivots?”

“Just take it off and put it on the other way,” urged Mrs. Spoopendyke, who began to see her way clear.

Mr. Spoopendyke kicked the structure up to the ceiling, and plunged into it once more. This time it came out all right, and as he buttoned it up and surveyed himself in the glass the clouds passed away and he smiled. “I like it,” he remarked, “the color suits me and I think you have done very well, my dear; only,” and he frowned slightly, “I wish you would mark the arms and legs so I can distinguish one from the other, or some day I will present the startling spectacle of a respectable elderly gentleman hopping around the beach up side down. That’s all.”

The Brooklyn [NY] Daily Eagle 27 June 1880: p. 2

swimsuits 1882

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: We have met the irascible Mr Spoopendyke before, as he complained of the masquerade costume the much-tried Mrs Spoopendyke had selected for him. Back in the day his vile abuse passed for humourous domestic banter. If Mrs Daffodil were Mrs Spoopendyke, she would have sewed a number of lead weights into the seams and hems of the bathing costume she had so kindly constructed and would have encouraged the lout to eat a hearty lunch and then take a nice long swim, far far from shore.

 

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.

Spoken Between the Courses: 1905

SPOKEN BETWEEN THE COURSES

Mr. Bounderby’s wife had not said a word to him since they sat down to dinner, except to remark that the weather was exceedingly warm. Casting a covert look at her across the fish he noticed two deep and ominous lines between her eyebrows.

“Brace up, Bounderby!” he said to himself, and forthwith swallowed a great goblet of wine without drawing breath.

“My dear,” he began, “You seem rather distrait this evening.”

“I—I am far from well, Archibald,” faintly. “The doctor”—

“Ah!” Bounderby drags his chair close to the table and assumes the attitude of a man about to catch a cannon ball in his bare hands. “Why, my dear, I think I never saw you looking so well before.”

“That Is because I have taken pains to conceal my sufferings. Doctor Borax assured me that I am falling rapidly, and nothing short of a trip to Switzerland would save me,” whisking a dainty bit of cambric across her eyes.

“Huh! He doesn’t consider my chances of failing when he gives such expensive prescriptions. Besides, you are the very picture of health.”

“That is the most dangerous sign of all. Nature’s last rally before the end. I feel it here! Here!” Clasping her bosom convulsively and staring at the ceiling.

“Well, now if it is us bad as that,” replies the unsympathetic brute, “I shouldn’t risk the journey. But apart from financial reasons there is another why you shouldn’t go.”

“How can there be any other?”

“Heh? Oh, to be sure! Why, business wouldn’t permit me to go with you, and as for straggling off alone in your feeble health”—

“Oh, I have arranged for all that. Dear mamma will accompany me.”

“Take the old ca — old lady with you? There’s double expense!”

“But what (tragically) does a paltry sum of money weigh against a life?”

“As you say (musingly), what does a paltry sum of money weigh against a life? I give it up.” He relapses into deep thought and then returns to the charge. “But think, Celestina, how people will talk if you spend the summer away from your husband.”‘

“And for idle gossip would you hold me here to perish at your feet?”

Bounderby, in a brown study, rouses at the last words.

“Perish? Feet? Whose feet? Certainly not! But, my love, are you not the least bit selfish? Of course I can deny you nothing, but a man needs woman’s companionship more in summer than any other time,” (He sighs deeply.) “It is then that love’s romance is renewed and the most holy sentiments of the soul awakened. Ah, me,” and bows his head on his breast.

His wife regards him curiously, even with some alarm.

“Since you are bent on going” — after a pause— “better this summer.”

“And why this summer more than another?” icily.

‘There is— er — a possibility I shall not have to spend the silvery evenings alone,” his coward eyes downcast.

“Archibald Bounderby,” nibbling nervously on her handkerchief, “I insist on your explaining your meaning.”

“Oh, it’s nothing that could interest you, my dear. Fact is an old friend of ours has asked me to look her up a house in the neighborhood. It will comfort you when in foreign climes to think that I have a pleasant place to spend the evenings. Won’t it, darling?”

“And might I ask who this person is?” twisting her handkerchief to shreds and displaying ill-concealed emotion.

“Why, certainly, my dear. Of course, you have not forgotten— the former Miss Gabster— she’s a widow now.”

“You mean the creature with dyed hair that angled so shamelessly for you before we were married?” her voice rising shrilly.

Bounderby swallows a chuckle mid shakes hands with himself effusively under the protection of the table. “I certainly knew the lady very well before marriage, but what of that? It will make it all the easier to renew the acquaintance.” The craven Bounderby dares not raise his shameful head, and an ominous silence follows. A servant enters with the next course, removes the remains of the fish and himself.

“Well, my dear, and what are you thinking about?” he asks. She seems to be writing on the table with a fork. Then she gulps hard, as if a croquet ball had lodged in her throat:—

“I— l have been thinking that, after all, it is selfish of me to consider my own happiness first. Wha— what If you should fall ill whe— when I am away,” with a look as if confronted by some horrid vision.

“And your health, my dear,” hardly able to repress his unholy glee.

“Archibald (with tragic gravity), a wife’s place is at her husband’s side. I shall remain.”

Victorious in his villainy, the arch-hypocrite says to himself as he imprints a chaste kiss on his wife’s brow, “Archie, old boy, you were born to be a diplomat!”

Los Angeles [CA] Herald 30 April 1905: p. 30

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  The summer pilgrimage of the Little Woman to some Beauty Spot while her lord and master remained toiling at home in the summer heat was a convention which inspired many jokes and saucy sea-side postcards. We have seen the rules for gentlemen who preferred to think of themselves as “slipping the leash” rather than abandoned by wife and chicks. Mrs Daffodil has mentioned the Summer Girls who posed as married ladies to avoid mashers. Gentleman, too, posed as “grass widowers” as we see in this cartoon.

knew his way about mourning cartoon

Algy: No bereavement, I hope, dear boy? I see you’re in mourning. Neddy: Oh, no, nobody dead. Fact is, I’m off to Rotorua for a week. I want the girls to take me for a widower, and then I’m sure of a good time.

 

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

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

A Solo Bridal Tour: 1875

 

honeymoon couple on moon

A Kentucky Bridal Tour.

[From the Courier-Journal.]

There came one day to a little inland town in Kentucky a young rural couple who had just been bound by the “silken bonds.” Their destination was the depot, and the bridegroom was evidently quite impatient for fear the train should arrive before he could reach the office. Buying one ticket, they stood on the platform until the train had stopped. When they entered the car the bridegroom found his bride a seat, kissed her most affectionately, and bade her “good-bye,” and going out, seated himself on a box and commenced whittling most vigorously. He watched the train out of sight, regret depicted on his face, when a bystander, thinking the whole proceeding rather strange, resolved to interview him. Approaching him carelessly, and chewing a straw to keep up his courage, he said:

“Been getting’ married lately?”

“Yes,” said he, “me and Sallie got spliced this mornin’.”

“Was that her you put on the train?”

“Yes,” with a sigh.

“A likely lookin’ gal,” said our questioner. “Anybody sick, that she had to go away?”

“No;” but here he grew confidential. “You see me and Sallie had heard that everybody when they got married took a bridal tour. So I told Sallie I hadn’t money enough for both of us to go, but she shouldn’t be knocked out of hern. So I jist brought her down here, bought her ticket, and sent her on a visit to some of her folks, and thought I might get some work harvestin’ till she got back.”

That afternoon found him busily at work, and when in a day or two after Sallie got back, he welcomed her cordially and affectionately, and hand in hand they started down the dusty road to their new home and duties.

Reading [PA] Times 19 August 1875: p. 2

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Mrs Daffodil has written before about perfect and problematic honeymoons, but never about a solitary bridal tour.

A most considerate bride-groom, not to “knock” his wife out of a honeymoon treat, which suggests that we may feel quite sanguine about the future happiness of the union.

 

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 Plain Man on His Honeymoon: 1713

A wedding banyan (or “silk night-gown”) c. 1729, of the sort the bridegroom complained of. http://www.nationaltrustcollections.org.uk/object/1140120.1

No. 113. Tuesday, July 21, 1713

___Amphora coepit

Institui, currente rota, cur urceus exit?

Hor. Ars Poet. Ver. 21

[Why dwindle to a cruet from a tun?   Simple be all you execute, and one!]

When you begin with so much pomp and show,

Why is the end so little and so low?

Roscommon

I last night received a letter from an honest citizen, who, it seems, is in his honeymoon. It is written by a plain man, on a plain subject, but has an air of good sense and natural honesty in it, which may perhaps please the public as much as myself. I shall not, therefore, scruple the giving it a place in my paper, which is designed for common use, and for the benefit of the poor as well as rich.

Cheapside, July 18.

“Good MR. IRONSIDE,—I have lately married a very pretty body, who, being something younger and richer than myself, I was advised to go a wooing to her in a finer suit of clothes than I ever wore in my life; for I love to dress plain, and suitable to a man of my rank. However, I gained her heart by it. Upon the wedding-day, I put myself, according to custom, in another suit, fire-new, with silver buttons to it. I am so out of countenance among my neighbours, upon being so fine, that I heartily wish my clothes well worn out. I fancy every body observes me as I walk the street, and long to be in my old plain gear again. Besides, forsooth, they have put me in a silk nightgown and a gaudy fool’s cap, and make me now and then stand in the window with it. I am ashamed to be dandied thus, and cannot look in the glass without blushing to see myself turned into such a pretty little master. They tell me I must appear in my wedding suit for the first month, at least; after which I am resolved to come again to my every day’s clothes, for at present every day is Sunday with me. Now, in my mind, Mr. Ironside, this is the wrongest way of proceeding in the world. When a man’s person is new and unaccustomed to a young body, he does not want any thing else to set him off. The novelty of the lover has more charms than a wedding-suit. I should think, therefore, that a man should keep his finery for the latter seasons of marriage, and not begin to dress till the honey-moon is over. I have observed, at a lord-mayor’s feast, that the sweet-meats do not make their appearance until people are cloyed with beef and mutton, and begin to lose their stomachs. But, instead of this, we serve up delicacies and coarse diet when their bellies are full. As bad as I hate my silver-buttoned coat and silk night-gown, I am afraid of leaving them off, not knowing whether my wife won’t repent of her marriage, when she sees what a plain man she has to her husband. Pray, Mr. Ironside, write something to prepare her for it, and let me know whether you think she can ever love me in a hair button.

“I am, &c.

“P. S. I forgot to tell you of my white gloves, which, they say, too, I must wear all the first month.”

An embroidered gentleman’s cap, worn with undress, c. 1700-25 Perhaps the “gaudy fool’s cap,” the bridegroom referenced above. http://collections.lacma.org/node/214537

My correspondent’s observations are very just, and may be useful in low life; but to turn them to the advantage of people in higher stations, I shall raise the moral, and observe something parallel to the wooing and wedding suit, in the behaviour of persons of figure. After long experience in the world, and reflections upon mankind, I find one particular occasion of unhappy marriages, which, though very common, is not much attended to. What I mean is this: every man in the time of courtship, and in the first entrance of marriage, puts on a behaviour like my correspondent’s holiday suit, which is to last no longer than till he is settled in the possession of his mistress. He resigns his inclinations and understanding to her humour and opinion. He neither loves, nor hates, nor talks, nor thinks in contradiction to her. He is controlled by a nod, mortified by a frown, and transported by a smile. The poor young lady falls in love with this supple creature, and expects of him the same behaviour for life. In a little time she finds that he has a will of his own, that he pretends to dislike what she approves, and that, instead of treating her like a goddess, he uses her like a woman. What still makes this misfortune worse, we find the most abject flatterers degenerate into the greatest tyrants. This naturally fills the spouse with sullenness and discontent, spleen, and vapour, which, with a little discreet management, make a very comfortable marriage. I very much approve of my friend Tom Truelove in this particular. Tom made love to a woman of sense, and always treated her as such during the whole time of courtship. His natural temper and good breeding hindered him from doing any thing disagreeable, as his sincerity and frankness of behaviour made him converse with her, before marriage, in the same manner he intended to continue to do afterwards. Tom would often tell her, “Madam, you see what sort of man I am. If you will take me with all my faults about me, I promise to mend rather than grow worse.” I remember Tom was once hinting his dislike of some little trifle his mistress had said or done; upon which she asked him how he would talk to her after marriage, if he talked at this rate before? “No, Madam,” says Tom “I mention this now, because you are at your own disposal; were you at mine, I should be too generous to do it.” In short, Tom succeeded, and has ever since been better than his word. The lady has been disappointed on the right side, and has found nothing more disagreeable in the husband than she discovered in the lover.

The Works of Joseph Addison: 1868 p. 127

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Tom Truelove has the correct view: Begin as you mean to go on. One young bride found herself (mercifully, perhaps) disabused almost immediately:

What is the whole duty of a bridegroom when, after the wedding and the breakfast, he finds himself alone with his bride in an empty railway compartment? One would imagine that a few terms of endearment, and possibly an occasional caress, would not be considered quite out of place. This seems to have been the opinion of a young lady who was married at Accrington, the other day, to a Mr. John Smith. The blushing bride had not been married before, but she was naturally surprised and distressed by the proceedings of her husband. They had scarcely left Accrington, when Mr. Smith settled himself in a corner, yawned once or twice and fell into a deep slumber. It is possible that Mr. Smith in repose is not a pleasing spectacle. It is possible that Mrs. Smith was merely hurt by the stolidity of his demeanour under conditions favourable to cheerfulness, not to say enthusiasm. But it is certain that, for one or both of these reasons, the maiden slipped, quietly out of the carriage at the first station, leaving behind her only a slip of paper attached to Mr. Smith’s coat tail, and bearing these words: “Tired of matrimony. Had enough of it and gone home to my ma. Mary.”  Evening Gazette [Pittston, PA] 2 January 1888: 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.