Category Archives: Medicine

The Weight of Fashion: 1883

WOMAN’S BURDEN OF DRESS.

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

[New York Times.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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The French Doctor’s Bride: 1830s

lighter shrouded corpse Rowlandson 1775

Grave-robbers interrupted by Death, Thomas Rowlandson, 1775 https://wellcomecollection.org/works/j7twdvrd

THE FRENCH DOCTOR’S BRIDE.

BY VICTOR LECOMTE.

Twenty-five years ago I entered the medical college at F__ as a student. I was then quite young, inexperienced, and inclined to be timid and sentimental; and well do I remember the horror I experienced, when one of the senior students, under pretence of showing me the beauties of the institution, suddenly thrust me into the dissecting room, among several dead bodies, and closed the door upon me; nor do I forget how my screeches of terror, and prayers for release from that awful place, made me the laughing-stock of my older companions.

Ridicule is a hard thing to bear: the coward becomes brave to escape it, and the brave man fears it more than he would a belching cannon. I suffered from it till I could stand no more; and wrought up to a pitch of desperation, I demanded to know what I might do to redeem my character, and gain an honourable footing among my fellowstudents.

“I will tell you,” said one, his eyes sparkling with mischief; “if you will go, at the midnight hour, and dig up a subject, and take it to your room, and remain alone with it till morning, we will let you off, and never say another word about your womanly fright.”

I shuddered. It was a fearful alternative; but it seemed less terrible to suffer all the horrors that might be concentrated into a single night, than to bear, day after day, the jeers of my companions.

“Where shall I go and when?” was my timid inquiry; and the very thought of such an adventure made my blood run cold.

“To the Eastern Cemetery, to night, at twelve o’clock,” replied my tormentor, fixing his keen, black eyes upon me, and allowing his thin lips to curl with a smile of contempt. “But what is the use of asking such a coward as you to perform such a manly feat?” he added, deridingly

His words stung me to the quick; and without further reflection, and scarcely aware of what I was saying, I rejoined, boldly, “I am no coward, sir, as I will prove to you, by performing what you call a manly feat.”

“You will go?'” he asked quickly.

“I will,” was my response.

“Bravely said, my lad!” he rejoined, in a tone of approval, and exchanging his expression of contempt for one of surprise and admiration. “Do this, Morel, and the first man that insults you afterwards makes an enemy of me.”

Again I felt a cold shudder pass through my frame, at the thought of what was before me; but I had accepted his challenge in the presence of many witnesses—for this conversation occurred as we were leaving the hall, after listening to an evening lecture—and I was resolved to make my word good, should it even cost me my life: in fact, I knew I could not do otherwise now, without the risk of being driven in disgrace from the college.

I should here observe, that in those days there were few professional resurrectionists; and as it was absolutely necessary to have subjects for dissection, the unpleasant business of procuring them devolved upon the students, who, in consequence, watched every funeral eagerly, and calculated the chances of cheating the sexton of his charge, and the grave of its victim.

There had been a funeral, that day, of a poor orphan girl, who had been followed to the grave by very few friends; and this was considered a favorable chance for the party whose turn it was to procure the next subject, as the graves of the poor and friendless were never watched with the same keen vigilance as those of the rich and influential. Still, it was no trifling risk to attempt to exhume the bodies of the poorest and humblest—for not unfrequently persons were found on the watch even over these; and only the year before, one student, while at his midnight work, had been mortally wounded by a rifle-ball; and another, a month or two subsequently, had been rendered a cripple for life by the same means.

All this was explained to me by a party of six or eight, who accompanied me to my room—which was in a building belonging to the college, and let out in apartments to some of the students; and they took care to add several terrifying stories of ghosts and hobgoblins, by way of calming my excited nerves, just as I have before now observed old women stand around a weak, feverish patient, and croak out their experience in seeing awful sufferings and fatal terminations of just such maladies as the one with which their helpless victim was then afflicted.

“Is it expected that I shall go alone?” I inquired, in a tone that trembled in spite of me, while my knees almost knocked together, and I felt as if my very lips were white.

“Well, no,” replied Belmont, my most dreaded tormentor; “it would be hardly fair to send you alone, for one individual could not succeed in getting the body from the grave quick enough; and you, a mere youth, without experience, would be sure to fail altogether. No, we will go with you, some three or four of us, and help to dig up the corpse; but then you must take it on your back, bring it up to your room here, and spend the night alone with it!”

It was some relief to me to find I was to have company during the first part of my awful undertaking; but still I felt far from agreeable, I assure you; and chancing to look into a mirror, as the time drew near for setting out, I fairly started at beholding the ghastly object I saw reflected therein.

“Come, boys,” said Belmont, who was always, by general consent, the leader of whatever frolic, expedition, or undertaking, he was to have a hand in; “Come, boys! it is time to be on the move. A glorious night for us!” he added, throwing up the window, and letting in a fierce gust of wind and rain: “the very d__l himself would hardly venture out in such a storm!’” He lit a dark-lantern, threw on his long, heavy cloak, took up a spade, and led the way down stairs; and the rest of us, three besides my timid self, threw on our cloaks also, took each a spade, and followed him.

We took a roundabout course, to avoid being seen by any citizen that might by chance to be stirring; and in something less than half-an-hour we reached the cemetery, scaled the wall without difficulty, and stealthily searched for the grave, till we found it, in the pitchy darkness—the wind and rain sweeping past us with dismal howls and moans, that to me, trembling with terror, seemed to be the unearthly wailings of the spirits of the damned.

“Here we are,” whispered Belmont to me, as we at length stopped at a mound of fresh earth, over which one of our party had stumbled. “Come, feel round, Morel, and strike in your spade; and let us see if you will make as good a hand at exhuming a dead body as you will some day at killing a living one with physic.”

I did as directed, trembling in every limb; but the first spade-full I threw up, I started back with a yell of horror, that, on any other but a howling, stormy night, would have betrayed us. It appeared to me as if I had thrust my spade into a buried lake of fire—for the soft dirt was all aglow like living coals; and as I had fancied the moanings of the storm the wailings of tormented spirits, I now fancied I had uncovered a small portion of the Bottomless Pit itself.

“Fool!” hissed Belmont, grasping my arm with the gripe of a vice, as I stood leaning on my spade for support, my very teeth chattering with terror; “another yell like that, and I’ll make a subject of you! Are you not ashamed of yourself to be scared out of your wits, if you ever had any, by a little phosphorescent earth? Don’t you know it is often found in graveyards?”

His explanation re-assured me; though I was now too weak, from my late fright, to be of any assistance to the party; who all fell too with a will, secretly laughing at me, and soon reached the coffin. Splitting the lid with a hatchet, which had been brought for the purpose, they quickly lifted out the corpse; and then Belmont and another of the party taking hold of it, one at the head and the other at the feet, they hurried it away, bidding me follow, and leaving the others to fill up the grave, that it might not be suspected the body had been exhumed.

Having got the corpse safely over the wall of the cemetery, Belmont now called upon me to perform my part of the horrible business. “Here, you quaking simpleton,” he said, “I want you to take this on your back, and make the best of your way to your room, and remain alone with it all night. If you do this bravely, we will claim you as one of us to-morrow, and the first man that dares to say a word against your courage after that, shall.find a foe in me. But hark you! if you make any blunder on the way, and lose our prize, it will be better for you to quit this town before I set eyes on you again! Do you understand me?”

“Y—ye-ye—yes!” I stammered, with chattering teeth.

“Are you ready?” Y-ye-ye—yes,” I gasped.

“Well, come here! where are you?” All this time it was so dark that I could see nothing but a faint line of white, which I knew to be the shroud of the corpse; but I felt carefully round till I got hold of Belmont, who told me to take off my cloak; and then rearing the cold dead body up against my back, he began fixing its cold arms about my neck-bidding me take hold of them, and draw them well over, and keep them concealed, and be sure and not let go of them, on any consideration whatsoever, as I valued my life. Oh! the torturing horror I experienced, as I mechanically followed his directions! Tongue could not describe it!

At length, having adjusted the corpse so that I might bear it off with comparative ease, he threw my long black cloak over it, and over my arms, and fastened it with a cord about my neck, and then inquired, “Now, Morel, do you think you can find the way to your room?”

“I—I—do-do—don’t know,” I gasped, feeling as if I should sink to the earth at the first step.

“Well, you cannot lose your way if you go straight ahead,” he replied. “Keep in the middle of this street or road, and it will take you to College Green, and then you are all right. Come, push on, before your burden grows too heavy; the distance is only a good half-mile!”

I set forward with trembling nerves, expecting to sink to the ground at every step; but gradually my terror, instead of weakening, gave me strength; and I was soon on the run—splashing through mud and water—with the storm howling about me in fury, and the cold corpse, as I fancied, clinging to me like a hideous vampire.

How I reached my room, I do not know—but probably by a sort of instinct; for I only remember of my brain being in a wild, feverish whirl, with ghostly phantoms all about me, as one sometimes sees them in a dyspeptic dream. But reach my room I did, with my dead burden on my back; and I was afterwards told that I made wonderful time; for Belmont and his fellow student, fearing the loss of their subject—which, on account of the difficulty of getting bodies, was very valuable— followed close behind me, and were obliged to run at the top of their speed to keep me within hailing distance.

The first I remember distinctly, after getting to my room, was the finding myself awake in bed, with a dim consciousness of something horrible having happened—although what, for some minutes, I could not for the life of me recollect. Gradually, however, the truth dawned upon me; and then I felt a cold perspiration start from every pore, at the thought that perhaps I was occupying a room alone with a corpse. The room was not dark; there were a few embers in the grate, which threw out a ruddy light; and fearfully raising my head, I glanced quickly and timidly around.

And there—there, on the floor, against the right hand wall, but a few feet from me—there, sure enough, lay the cold, still corpse, robed in its white shroud, with a gleam of firelight resting upon its ghastly face, which to my excited fancy seemed to move. Did it move? I was gazing upon it, thrilled and fascinated with an indescribable terror, when, as sure as I see you now, I saw the lids of its eyes unclose, and saw its breast heave, and heard a low, stifled moan.

“Great God!” I shrieked, and fell back in a swoon.

How long I lay unconscious I do not know; but when I came to myself again, it is a marvel to me, that, in my excited state, I did not lose my senses altogether, and become the tenant of a madhouse ; for there—right before me-standing up in its white shroud—with its eyes wide open and staring upon me, and its features thin, hollow and death-hued—was the corpse I had brought from the cemetery.

“In God’s name, avaunt! ” I gasped. “Go back to your grave, and rest in peace! I will never disturb you again!”

The large hollow eyes looked more wildly upon me—the head moved, the lips parted, and a voice, in a somewhat sepulchral tone, said, “Where am I? where am I? Who are you? Which world am I in? Am I living or dead?”

“You are dead,” I gasped, sitting up in bed, and feeling as if my brain would burst with a pressure of unspeakable horror; “you were dead and buried, and I was one of the guilty wretches who this night disturbed your peaceful rest. But go back, poor ghost, in heaven’s name! and no mortal power shall ever induce me to come nigh you again!”

“Oh! I feel faint!” said the corpse, gradually sinking down upon the floor, with a groan. “Where am I? Oh! where am I?”

“Great God!” I shouted, as the startling truth suddenly flashed upon me; “perhaps this poor girl was buried alive, and is now living!”

I bounded from the bed, and grasped a hand of the prostrate body. It was not warm—but it was not cold. I put my trembling fingers upon the pulse. Did it beat? or, was it the pulse in my fingers? I thrust my hand upon the heart. It was warm—there was life there. The breast heaved—she breathed—but the eyes were now closed, and the features had the look of death. Still it was a living body—or else I myself was insane. I sprung to the door, tore it open, and shouted for help. “Quick! quick!” cried I. “the dead is alive! The dead is alive!

Several of the students sleeping in adjoining rooms came hurrying to mine, thinking I had gone mad with terror, as some of them had heard my voice before, and all knew to what a fearful ordeal I had been subjected.

“Poor fellow!” exclaimed one, in a tone of sympathy; “I predicted this!”

“It is too bad,” said another; “it was too much for his nervous system!”

“I am not mad,” returned I—comprehending their suspicions; “but the corpse is alive!—hasten and see!”

Hey hurried into the room, one after another; and the foremost, stopping down to what he suppposed. was a corpse, put his hand upon it, and instantly exclaimed, “Quick a light and some brandy! She lives! she lives!”
All now was bustle, confusion, and excitement, one proposing one thing, and another something else, and all speaking together. They placed her on the bed, and gave her some brandy, when she again revived. I ran for a physician (one of the faculty), who came and tended upon her through the night; and by sunrise the next morning she was reported to be in a fair way of recovery.

And recover she did; and turned out to be a most beautiful creature, and only sweet seventeen. But that is not all: for she turned out an heiress, and married me!

Yes: that night of horror only preceded the dawn of my happiness; for that girl—sweet,
lovely Helene Leroy—in time became my wife, and the mother of my two boys.
She sleeps now in death, beneath the cold, cold sod, and no human resurrectionist shall ever raise her to life again!
 Frank Leslie’s New York Journal, 1857: p. 85-6

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: A most grim and grewsome tale, in the florid French vein of the Gallic tabloids, but Mrs Daffodil does so like a happy ending, even one that sums up an entire lifetime of important events in a paragraph or two.

Mrs Daffodil will not quibble over how a friendless orphan girl was transmuted into a beautiful heiress, but perhaps on the dark and stormy night, the medical students mistook the grave.

 

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 King’s Foster-Mother: 1910

Mrs Ann Roberts King George V nurse

KING’S NURSE POOR

Foster Mother of George V Living in Dire Poverty.

 LONGS FOR HER OLD HOME

Hopes Sovereign She Mothered Will Provide for Her.

SACRIFICED HER OWN BABE

Daughter Died While She Was in Attendance on Great Britain’s Future Ruler.

 

 Is Living in Poverty.

Special Dispatch to The Star.

PITTSBURG. Pa., September 10. Mrs Ann Roberts, foster-mother of George V, King of England, has been discovered in poverty here. Mrs. Roberts lost one of her own babes through her attendance upon the infant prince. The royal physicians and retainers would not inform her of own child’s Illness for fear the milk with which she was nourishing the future King of England might become feverish and do him harm. Mrs. Roberts at the suggestion of friends, is writing the English sovereign of her condition and asking some recognition at his hands for what she did for him as an infant. Mrs. Roberts Is the mother of Capt. Henry A. Roberts of the Volunteers of America. She is a native of Wales. She has been living for the past several years with her brother, Richard W. Edmunds of Nunnery Hill, North Side. She was a member of the royal household of Great Britain for ten months and three days. Her own child died in the night without her knowing that she had even been ill. Mrs. Roberts is the only woman in the world who ever nursed the King of England,  including his own mother.

Husband a Tradesman.

Mrs. Roberts went from Bethesda, North Wales, when quite a young girl to seek service in London. She was eventually married there. Her husband was a respectable tradesman, residing close to Buckingham Palace. They were happy and prospered. Among their friends were some of the most influential Welsh people in London. Among these was a Mrs. Jones, then of 20 Hills street. Knightsbridge, also a Welsh woman. Mrs. Jones was a great favorite with the late Queen Victoria, under whom she held authority to select and engage all the domestics for the royal nursery. Mrs. Roberts was then a comely young matron, of splendid physique, and in the enjoyment of perfect health and a robust constitution, which had been developed while romping as a girl over the rock-bound and heather-clad hills of her native Wales.

Mrs. Roberts was at that time about to become a mother. She knew, as did all Britain, that the then Princess Alexandra had similar expectations. Mrs Roberts had a dream in which it appeared to her that she had been selected to nurse the expected child of royalty. Within a day or two thereafter, not then knowing the full extent of Mrs. Jones’ authority, Mrs. Roberts called on her and related her strange dream, and told her also of her seemingly impossible ambition. The surprise of Mrs. Roberts may be imagined when Mrs. Jones informed her that if it was her wish she would then and there appoint her to the position, provided, of course, that the royal physicians approved of her choice.

Passed by Royal Physician.

After the birth of her child, a beautiful girl baby. Mrs. Roberts was ordered by a royal messenger to call on Dr. Farr, one of the royal physicians, in Harley street. Mayfair, who, after a thorough examination and many questions as to family history, pronounced Mrs. Roberts to be in every way fitting to become the foster mother of a royal prince. Mrs. Roberts then applied for permission to spend a few days at her old home in Bethesda, in order that she might see her brothers and sisters and visit the graves of her parents. She had intended to leave for Wales the last day of May, 1865, but becoming uneasy lest her services might suddenly be called for, she hesitated, changed her mind, and finally abandoned the trip.

“It was well that I did so,” said Mrs. Roberts, relating the strange story of her entrance upon royal service, “for on the night of June couriers were sent to Bethesda to fetch me at once. Mounted messengers scoured the hills around my old home all of that night in search of me. My people in Wales, who knew nothing of my appointment, were thrown into consternation and terror. Royal couriers implied nothing but terror to them. They probably concluded that their poor Ann had committed some terrible crime.

“All of this time I had remained in London, and the city bulletins had informed me of the state of affairs I reported for duty at 10 o’clock on the morning of June and began immediately to nurse and to mother the little baby prince, George. I had left my own child in the care of an older sister, who was to manage the household and dairy business for my husband while I was away. A few days after my departure my own baby was taken ill. It pined for its mother, but I was not acquainted with the fact. One of the doctors of the royal household called to see her each day. The child died on the eighth day without my even knowing that she had been ill.

Blow a Cruel One.

“I will never forget the hour that I was told that my beautiful child was dead. The cruel news brought me to my knees on the floor of the royal nursery. The splendor of my surroundings appeared to me as so much dross. It seemed to me that I had been turned into a block of cold marble. The loss of my own beautiful child had that effect upon me regarding the little prince that I soon grew almost to believe that he was truly my own child. I was kept in this position just about one year. When my services were no longer required King Edward, then Prince of Wales, sent for me from the nursery to tell me that I had not only won his own esteem, but that of his beautiful Alexandra, and that I was also esteemed and respected by the royal household.

“When I arrived in my own home once more, after nearly a whole year of absence, it was to find that fortune had withdrawn her smiles and that my husband’s business had been ruined. A cattle disease, then raging, had killed nearly all of our good cows, and every penny that we had saved during our time of prospering had been expended in a vain attempt to stem the disastrous flood. On the very afternoon that I arrived a butcher delegated from the cattle commissioners also arrived to kill the last two remaining cows of what had been an excellent dairy. These appalling conditions at home caused me to decide at once to take up nursing as a profession. I immediately arranged to lay out the money I earned In the royal service in a course of nursing and midwifery. In due time I won my diploma in both branches, and nursed among the noble and the great of Great Britain for thirty-five years.”

Nursed Many Notables.

Mrs. Roberts’ old friend, Mrs. Jones, was again able to help her by securing for her the appointment to nurse and foster the first born of the Princess Christian, at Cumberland Lodge. Windsor. Windsor. The popularity of Mrs. Roberts was at once securely established through her connection with the royal nursery. In the years that followed she nursed the Duchess of Abercorn. the Duchess of Iniskillen, the Countess Lutzow, Lady Vivian (now Lady Swansea), the Lady Church and many other among the noble dames of Britain. She has served at Windsor Castle, where to Welsh people of a few centuries ago entrance was far easier than exit; at Marlborough House, Balmoral Castle. Buckingham Palace, Osbourne, Osbourne, Sandringham and Cumberland Lodge in the discharge of her professional duties.

After this long tenure of service Mrs. Roberts at last became so deaf that she did not feel longer competent for the work and declined to take on any new cases. She was then appointed to the Royal Maternities Charities Society, an institution organised by the then Princess Alexandra, now the beloved Dowager Queen of England, and controlled by her and a committee of London ladies. This position Mrs. Roberts held for several years, when, owing to her advanced age and the dangers and hardships of obeying calls In the poorer districts of London at all hours of the night, she resigned of her own accord, the secretary saying to her that she was leaving with an exceptional record of success and that her name should always remain on the roll call of the society. It is a source of great pleasure to Mrs. Roberts now to know that her name remains living and green in the heart of the field wherein she laboured so long and so diligently.

Longs for Native Land.

“Your United States is a great country,”  continued Mrs. Roberts, “but, after all, you will not blame me when I say that I prefer my native land, and it seems to me that there should be a place for me over there. I cannot feel as my brother does here. He has been here for many years: his children have grown up here, and his family and all of his ties are here. But my heart is over there, where now reigns the young prince whom I nursed. Were I over there now I would be entitled to the old folks’ pension, but don’t you think she who nursed the reigning king is entitled to something more than such a pittance? You have possibly read how truly noble and generous the young King of Spain is acting toward his old nurse. He provides for her every comfort, and she is made much of by court and people. Do you think my Prince George would do less for his old nurse? I refuse to believe it.”

Mrs. Roberts wears a heavy gold brooch that was personally presented to her by the then Princess Alexandra upon the occasion of her leaving the royal nursery. The princess told hereupon that occasion that she would be privileged to refer to the little prince, now king as “my boy.” King Edward, then Prince of Wales, presented her at the same time with a heavy gold watch, which she also now has. There is an Inscription on the inside of the back cover which reads: “To Mrs. Roberts, in remembrance of H. R. H. Prince George.”

Has Brooch From Victoria.

She also has another brooch, presented to her by the late Queen Victoria upon the christening of Prince George. On being called to Osborne on another occasion Mrs. Roberts was presented by the queen with two beautiful photographs, with her signature, one of herself and one of the deceased prince consort, informing her at the same time that they were the best photos ever taken of both. These Mrs. Roberts left with a relative on the other side. She says that as poor as she is their weight in gold would not buy them. She did not care to subject them to the hazards of travel. Mrs. Roberts states that when Sir Arthur Bigge is appointed keeper of the privy purse she intends to appeal to him for a statement of her case to the king. She believes that Sir Dighton Probyn, who held this position under the late lamented King Edward, would never allow her protests and supplications to reach his royal master. Mrs. Roberts believes that if her petitions had been presented some action would have been taken on her case long ago. She claims to have some of Sir Probyn’s official letters now in her possession, possession, in which he is alleged to state that nothing could be done for her. Mrs. Roberts gives it as her belief that these are solely the words of a mercenary. She says that King Edward had ever a kind and grateful heart, and was always good to old servitors.

Faith in Lloyd George.

“I have served in Sir Arthur Bigge’s family,” Mrs. Roberts states. “He knows me, and I am sure he will desire to help me. The Right Hon. Lloyd George would also interfere in my behalf if I appealed to him. The greatest Welshman of us all would not suffer an old country woman who has served the same crown for which he labors so energetically to be utterly disregarded. There is only one burden to my poor old soul: I want to go back to spend my few remaining years in my native land, and to be allowed to go to my long rest in that sacred old .spot where my father sleeps.”

Mrs. Roberts was treated with every consideration by the royal household. She was several times invited upon the royal carpet. She enjoyed many pleasant chats with the late Queen Victoria. Sometimes, upon receiving Welsh newspapers, newspapers, the queen would send for her from the nursery and request her to read selections from them and to translate them. She would ask Mrs. Roberts to pronounce some Welsh words and sayings, and she would utter them after her, doing it far better. Mrs. Roberts says, than some of the young Welsh Americans whom she has met since being in this country.

Mrs. Roberts saw the queen in her grief for her beloved prince consort. On one occasion she invited Mrs. Roberts to visit the grand mausoleum wherein rests his remains. She gave Mrs. Roberts the golden key which opens the door thereto, and sent her head dresser to accompany her, graciously saying that she would meet her there at a certain time. Mrs. Roberts says she will never forget the hour she spent there with the widowed queen and the mortal remains of the consort and husband whom she had loved so deeply.

Has Met Other Royalties.

“I have been formally presented to the Empress Frederick, mother of the present Emperor of Germany, and also the Grand Duchess of Hess.” continued Mrs. Roberts. Roberts. “and I have many times attended the different ladies of the family to their balls and parties. These royal ladies know very well how to show little marks of esteem to favorite servants. I have had them more than once hand their fans to me to hold while their own ladies in waiting would be at their elbows, and, to their credit be it said. I never saw any of these ladies in waiting evince any sign of displeasure at such marked favors.

“All of Victoria’s children, with the possible exception of Princess Beatrice, were very affable and chatty with servants and dependents. The Princess Beatrice (the youngest) was brought up under somewhat different surroundings from the others. Her good father was taken sick while she was yet a child in arms, and she grew up to be the daily companion of her sorrowing mother. This, I always thought, was the reason for her being more reserved and distant than the other children.

“When I was nursing the Duchess of Abercorn the Princess Alexandra came in person to call on her friend, and was surprised and pleased to find me in attendance. It was our first meeting since my departure from her service. She greeted me warmly and shook hands with me, as would any good woman, and made inquiries as to how I was getting along. I was also all impatience to ask questions regarding the little prince and was tempted to tell her how much I should like to see him. I knew he was by this time quite a boy, big enough to romp and play with his elder brother, Prince Albert Victor.

Paid Visit by Prince.

“On leaving the princess called for me and told me that, if such was my wish, she would arrange with the Canon Dalton, then tutor to the princes, for him to accompany them on an afternoon visit to me in a day or two. They came, and I had my hands full for that afternoon. They romped and blew soap bubbles, as would any pair of ordinary healthy boys, and both had a splendid time, untrammelled by court etiquette and unwatched by tutors.

“The late Prince Albert Victor once asked his royal mother why Prince George was ‘my boy’ any more than himself. He was answered that he would be told when he became a man, and that he was to understand that Mrs. Roberts was his dear friend also, and that she had been very good to him. “When Prince George was elected chancellor of the University of Wales, at Bangor, he caused his private secretary, Sir Arthur Bigge, to send me a letter of invitation to attend the celebration. I had at that time a very important and serious case of nursing on my hands, and so sent my son to represent me. I have always regretted that I was unable to attend, for I lost there an opportunity of meeting the boy whom I love so well.

Welsh Expect Great Things.

“Have you ever stopped to think that the Welsh people have a right to expect great things from the new king? There never was a better time than the present to agitate the question of securing the representation of Wales on the national flag. I firmly believe that he suckled my own love of kin and country with his sustenance. One of the royal doctors told me at one time, when speaking of the honor connected with my distinction, that he never was quite sure which one of us was the most honored. ‘But.’ said he, with a twinkle in his eye, “let us hope that your boy will prove a good and wise man, and that he will inherit the good traits of his Welsh foster mother.’

“The doctor was an old man at that time, and a wise and good one, but at that time it was not for him or myself to see that Prince George, who was the second in ‘advance right’ claim, would ascend the throne. But since the death of his elder brother I have often found myself repeating the old doctor’s words, ‘Let us hope that he will be a good man and a wise one.’

“Often, while holding him in my arms, and thinking of the beautiful child I had sacrificed for him, I would wonder over the possibility of his succeeding to the throne, and would pray God to bless him with a kind and loving heart, so that, when the time came, if fate ordained it so, he would prove a tower of strength and a blessing, not only to his own subjects, subjects, but to the wide, wide world. His, wise and great father, and his saintly grandmother have already given us proof what England’s monarchs can do for the welfare of the world, and I feel like prophesying that King George will follow in their footsteps, with the good of mankind in its entirety as the motive principle of his actions. May God bless him.”

Evening Star [Washing DC] 11 September 1910: p. 3

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Mrs Roberts is a good deal more charitable to her former employers than Mrs Daffodil would have been. Gold brooches and watches, no matter how heavy or suitably inscribed, are, indeed, dross, when it comes to the death of Mrs Robert’s daughter and the doctors’ odious decision (based on the mistaken belief in “maternal influence”) not to tell Mrs Roberts that the tiny infant was ill and pining for her mother. It is possible that the child was ill with a disease untreatable at the time, such as diphtheria, even had her mother been able to nourish her, but at least Mrs Roberts would have been there to hold the child in her last moments. For the Royal physicians, the phrase “special place in Hell” springs to mind.

In the interests of space, Mrs Daffodil will omit her trenchant remarks on the “favour” shown to Mrs Roberts by the ladies who condescended to hand her their fans to hold.

Captain Henry Roberts, Mrs Roberts’s son was incensed at the headlines about Mrs. Roberts living in poverty and issued a corrective statement:

“I was absolutely dumbfounded at receiving a clipping from some Rochester papers saying that Mrs. Ann Roberts, royal nurse, was found here in poverty…As to her being in poverty, she has always paid her own expenses, and has jewels and other gifts to her from royalty. Immediatley upon her arrival here she deposited a good sum of money and jewels in my care until she needs them. In fact, she wants us to purchase some property and make a permant home here, but we decline to do that, as she is very fond of old England and often speaks of returning there after a while.”

He stated that he gave the true version of the story to an editor who interviewed his mother, but that “distortions of the facts have since appeared in several papers.” Democrat and Chronicle [Rochester NY] 8 July 1910: p. 15

Still, Mrs Roberts’s story did come to the eye of the proper authorities and her story has something of a happy ending:

A few weeks ago Mrs. Roberts sailed again for England, and upon her arrival at London she was called upon by a representative of King George, who stated, that he had been sent to learn what could be done for her comfort. She informed him that it was her desire to have a little home of her own among the hills of her own native Wales, in Carnavonshire, and preferably on the Penrhyn estate. Lord Penrhyn was instructed to find a cottage for this purpose and to have it fitted up with all the necessary comforts and she was also told that a substantial annuity was to be settled on her. Word has already been received by her relatives in this country that Mrs. Roberts is comfortably provided for for her remaining years. Bennington [VT] Banner 13 December 1910: p. 2

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 Painter of Black Eyes: 1880

Eye miniature with "tear," early 19th c. http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O1067812/eye-miniature-unknown/

Eye miniature with “tear,” early 19th c. http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O1067812/eye-miniature-unknown/

A NEW ART

Black Eyes, Bruises and Blemishes Bleached

By Paint, Pond’s Extract and a Polite Professor,

Who Beautifies Belles, Beaux, and Beaten Wives

“Cress,” the gossipy correspondent of the Chicago Inter-Ocean, has discovered in New York a profession hitherto unknown, which she describes in the following letter.

Reading the advertisements in the daily papers, one involuntary wonders why we are not all “things of beauty and joys forever.” For we are promised compounds that will give us adipose tissue or deprive us of the same when too much has accumulated. We are insured hair in any quantity or color we choose; we are assured that our forms may be developed into molds of grace and beauty, while such trifling accessories as coral lips, pearly teeth, luminous eyes, and dazzling complexions are kept bottled up and to be had for a mere trifle. Beside that there are people who stand ready to puncture dimples, and make you false noses, glass eyes and ivory teeth, furnish you with artificial necks, false calves, arched insteps, etc., until one is impressed with the fact that if it was not for that necessary thing called the breath of life we could do without a Creator, as far as the perpetuation of the race is concerned, keeping up the supply by liberal orders from these factories of imitation humanity, with a clever foreman to put the bits together. Then to lose a limb or two would be a mere trifle; to grow bald or blind, a bagatelle; and when one went travelling it would be easy enough to tuck in a Saratoga trunk a few odd pieces in case of accidents. But without speculating further your correspondent will add that a few days ago she discovered a hitherto unknown profession, lately sprung into life and advertisement, which merits description. The following is

A Sample of the new Notices:

BLACKENED OR BRUISED EYES MADE NATURAL instantly; skin disfigurements concealed. Ladies, send for artist. Studio, 28 West Fourth street.

Calling at the studio, I was surprised to find the owner a gentleman with no small pretensions to the title of artist. The room itself was large and almost filled with oil paintings, among which I recognized the portraits of Rose Eytinge, John Raymond, John McCullough, Charles Pope and others. A large copy of the celebrated “Last Supper” hung on one wall, and studies in oil, lithographs and crayons filled the interstices. However, I was not in search of high art, and far more interesting was the live tableau in the centre of the room that met my gaze. Imagine seated in a steamer chair, in an easy, reclining position, a very fashionably-attired youth (this was early on the day after the Fourth), whose patent-leather boots, white tie, and dress coat would indicate that a lark of the night before had just been finished—the results of the said lark being visible in a large and exceedingly dusky horseshoe heel somebody’s fit had imprinted under one orb. The artist, a pleasant-faced, stalwart young man, was busily engaged in mixing some preparation, and hardly looking up he waved me to a seat, saying, “I will attend to your eye in a moment, Madame!” Glad for this opportunity for observation, I picked up a newspaper, and watched with interest the young “swell” who had been “seeing life” have his acknowledgment of the same obliterated. First the artist poured into a bowl a liberal amount of Pond’s Extract, which, with a soft sponge and the air of a mother administering soothing syrup to her babe, he applied to

The Injured Cheek

During this process he remarked, “I’m afraid you have been trying to cure it with something cold.”

“By jove, how it hurts!” ejaculated the patient. “Yes, she put some ice on it afterward, but it didn’t seem to do any good.”

“Of course not,” said the oracle, severely; “I don’t know why people will persist in making such a mistake. Ice, or oysters, or cold water they will apply in spite of the fact that anything cold makes the blood concentrate beneath the skin and turns it black. What they should do it to bathe the bruise in water as hot as they can stand it; that scatters the blood and keeps the skin from discoloring.”
“Well,” said the exhausted hero of a fracas, with a feeble attempt to be witty, “when a fellow gets into hot water he don’t think of pouring it on.”

By this time the live canvas was ready for coloring, and, with a tiny brush and delicate strokes, the artist proceeded to lay on the flesh tints. For nearly half an hour he worked steadily, pausing frequently to add another shade, then toning the edges down. Then allowing the paint to dry, and then softly rubbing on a fine powder that removed the gloss. Then he stepped back and viewed his handiwork with the air of a stern critic, finally holding a small mirror before the youth, who expressed my thoughts when he exclaimed in admiring accents, “By George, judging from the looks, I couldn’t tell which eye was blacked!” Then with as much of a smile as he had energy for, he added: “How much is it, old boy?”

“Five dollars,” was the answer.

“It’s worth that to

Keep Me Out of a Row With the Governor,

But, deuce take it, I haven’t a fiver left; but take this until I call for it,” and he thrust upon the artist a handsome pearl scarf-pin.

“Now, what can I do for you, ma’am?” queried he of the brush, after a disappointed look upon my unblackened countenance. Whereupon I explained my mission, and the artist, not averse to the idea of being written up, assented to my staying awhile to take notes. “For,” said he, “the day after a holiday I always do a rushing business.” Scarcely had he spoken when a little lady entered. She was modestly dressed in black, and had a rather pretty face, though terribly disfigured by a deep semi-circle of black and blue under one of her eyes. She seemed a little embarrassed, and was profuse in her explanations of how she came by it.

“Indeed,” she said, “I never had such a thing happen to me before in my life, but you see I was going down stairs with a tray full of dishes, and my foot caught in the matting and tripped, and I fell all the way down. Such a thing never happened to me before, and I wonder I did not break every bone in my body. Such a shame it should have come on my eye. I never had a black one before, and it’s so mortifying.”

Again the artist plied his art, taking great pains to match the color of her complexion, and persevering until the ugly-looking mark was rendered invisible. Adding, as he concluded; “You can wash your face in cold water, but don’t use hot or soap, because it will bring the paint off. With a little care it will last

Until the Eye is Cured.”

The lady, after careful examination, expressed herself satisfied, and inquired the cost. “Two dollars,” said the artist, considerately, after a glance at her modest toilet.

“Two dollars!” fairly screamed the lady. “Two dollars for such a pesky little job as that. I never heard of such an imposition. Why, young man, in all my life, I never paid more than fifty cents before!”

This assertion, coming after her profuse explanations, had a very comical effect, which she was quick enough to perceive, and without further parley, she put down the money and departed. When the door closed on her your correspondent inquired if the artist had many lady callers.

“They are not uncommon, and they come as this one did, with profuse apologies and explanations, thinking, poor things, that their stories about tumbling down stairs and running up against doors will be swallowed by me, as if I didn’t know that the brutes who beat their wives are not confined to the wearers of fustian and cowhide boots, and you would be surprised to see some of the ladies who come here in carriages. Ladies living in fine houses, and dressed in silks and diamonds, that would die of shame to have the truth suspected, and come here to have the blows of the coward who pass for fine gentlemen hidden. They would sooner be torn to pieces than own up, and I never knew of but one lady that did. She was a bride, only been married three weeks, and lived on Madison avenue. One day her husband got into a rage and threw his boot at her. It struck her on the forehead, leaving

A Terrible Mark;

But after the shock was over all the poor thing thought of was to keep it from her parents, for she had married against their wishes.”

“Do you ever have any members of the demi-monde here?”

“Oh, yes; though not of the lowest class. They generally get hurt at wine parties, where, after they have drank all they can stand, they commence throwing things at each other, especially fruit. One of the worst black eyes I ever covered was caused by an apple being thrown with considerable force, and fresh lemons can do considerable harm. The gashes from wine-bottles and broken glass generally go to the doctor.”

“What other disfigurements are you called upon to conceal?”

“Why, for ladies generally moles and birthmarks. You see a lady may have a very beautiful white neck or snowy, well-molded arms, but be unable to wear a low-necked party dress on account of one or more of these blemishes. I have regular customers, who, whenever they go to a ball, send for me to paint over these marks. And it is singular the shapes they are in. There is one belle in this city who has on her right arm a regular cross and crown, bright red in color, and large enough to be seen across the room. Another young lady, who has the shoulders of a model, has upon one the initials C.L., in red spots about the size of currants. Still another lady has on her forearm a perfect miniature ladder, though, of course, the majority of these marks assume no distinct form.”
“You must sometimes have ladies who have really suffered from an accident?”

“Oh, yes. There was one young lady here last week whose face was

Covered with Crimson Spots

Big as silver quarters. She was engaged to be married, and to please her betrothed had taken a course of lessons in cooking from Miss Corson. The day before the wedding she invited him to a little supper of her own preparing, intending to give him a pleasant premonition of bliss to come, in the shape of good housekeeping. Her chef d’oeuvre was a dish of soft-shell crabs, and, alas, as she was in the act of frying them, the hot grease sputtered up and burnt her face badly in half a dozen places. It was too late to defer the wedding, and, accordingly she had to have her face done entirely over for the ceremony, but it turned out such an improvement on her natural complexion that I do not think she minded it much.”

“Do you ever ‘make up’ people?”

“Yes, often for dinners and balls, for besides making the complexion, I can fill up wrinkles, and dimples, etc. I do a great deal of this for the dramatic profession. I have made up Rose Eytinge 126 times as ‘Rose Michel,’ and all the Union Square Company during their run of ‘Smike,’ and I used to make up Mr. Palmer whenever he was to make a speech before the curtain. Sara Jewett, Maud Harrison, Linda Dietz, Charles Thorne, Charles Coghlan, Charles Pope, Frederick Paulding, and lots of others, though generally

My Patrons in the Profession

Are debutantes who have not learned the art of making up.”

“I should think this branch of art would exclude any other.”

“Oh, no; I have two gentlemen in the business with me, and I devote most of my time to portrait painting. Barrett, Booth, McCullough, Florence, Sotherns, Raymond, Pope, Brougham, and others have sat to me. McCullough I have painted four times,” concluded Mr. Lysander Thompson, for such is the artist’s name. Before leaving, I asked from what class of men he drew the largest number of blackened-eye customers.

“From sporting men and wealthy business men. The latter class, of course, would be injured by being seen with such disfigurements. There is one gentleman on Wall street who has hardly missed a visit to me this year. Every Saturday night he starts off on a tare that lasts him until Monday morning, when, bright and early, he comes here to get fixed up before going to business. One funny case I had last winter when two gentlemen conspicuous in the management of the Madison-square Garden, got into a quarrel, in the course of which one had both eyes blackened; the other only one. He of the two black eyes came here to be painted over, and told me if I would refuse to fix the other man’s eye he would pay me three times what it was worth. This I promised not to do, and in consequence the worst punished of the two men went round boasting how he had come out ahead, as no one could detect his bruises. The ridicule fell on he of a single and apparently blackened orb.

The Boston [MA] Weekly Globe 28 July 1880: p.7

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Mrs Daffodil scarcely knows what to add to this exhaustive discussion of a little-known art except her horror at the headline’s jaunty linking of “beaten wives” with “belles and beaux” and of the artist’s insouciant and dismissive comment, “poor things!”

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.

 

An Imperial Secret: 1903

tsar-nicholas-and-baby-alexei

Tsar Nicholas and Tsarevich Alexei

FANTASTIC IMPERIAL SECRET

CURIOUS YANKEE STORY.

[From Our Own Correspondent.)

SAN FRANCISCO, March I6.

A fantastic “Imperial secret” that had its inception on a New York farm, and its conclusion in the courts of the Romanoffs, was told on March 14 in New York after twenty years of silence by Edward Hatch, a New York merchant, former member of the firm of Lord and Taylor.

In 1903 a New York newspaper published an account of the lamentable state of affairs on the Hatch farm near Brewster, New York State. Hatch’s story runs:

Eighty-five per cent of all the animals born there were males, said the paper. Bulls that might have sold for thousands of dollars went to the butchers because the market was flooded. All the chickens were roosters. Even the turkeys and carrier pigeons suffered from the hoodoo. The house had seven kittens, and six were toms.

A hired man and his wire on the farm had five sons. Even the corn would grow only on stubs, and scientists said it was male corn.

Soon after this story was published, Hatch now said, a stranger questioned him about it at his store. He wanted an explanation. Hatch said he thought it might be the water, which analysis had shown contained much phosphorus and magnesium. The stranger then introduced himself as the Russian Consul. He wanted a sample of the water, and Hatch agreed.

A few days later the stranger appeared on the farm with two uniformed attendants to get a keg of the water. Hatch sought an explanation. The only answer he could get was “just an experiment.”

A year later cable dispatches reported that a male heir had been born to the Imperial Russian throne. The preceding children of the Czar had been daughters.

Auckland [NZ] Star, 16 April 1926: p. 3

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Mrs Daffodil feels that this is as good an explanation as any, although, alas, young Alexis was born to sorrow, haemophilia, Revolution, and an untimely death.

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 Mask of Glory: 1920

Mrs Daffodil will caution the sensitive that some may find this post (and its illustration), which is about French soldiers disfigured in the Great War, disturbing.

The Mask of Glory

Paul Junka [pseudonym of “Mlle Ferponnes”]

A powerful car, marked with large white initials, U. S. A., called for me to begin my series of visits to the principal establishments of the American Red Cross in and around Paris. I was shown to-day one of the most ingenious and touching things that has arisen from the war, which if it has developed means of destruction to a degree hitherto unknown, has, on the contrary, exalted to sublimity acts of devotion and the divine art of healing sorrow.

“Now,” Miss Farrand, my guide, announced, with that lovely smile which told at the same time her intimate pride in the great things she showed me and the modesty which she brought to her role. “Now I will show you the masks.” “The masks?” “Yes; for the mutilated.”

We crossed Paris and reached that part of the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, which, with its little houses behind gates hung with ivy and glycin, recalled a corner of our calm Provinces, where, in similar dwellings and silent gardens, grow the virile virtues which our race has proved to the world—to the world that knew only its superficial and glittering side. The motorcar stopped before one of these homes, well designed to shelter the dream of a thinker and artist.

“Here is the studio of Mrs. Maynard Ladd, under whose direction the masks for the wounded are made.” said Miss Farrand.

We followed an alley between two walls covered with vines and entered a room where one noticed only plaster casts and molds, the habitual equipment of a sculptor’s studio. From thence we climbed three flights up to Mrs. Ladd’s private studio, and at first saw but a vast bay-window showing a sunlit perspective of sky and foliage. Several people were working here, and I was presented to Mr. Wlerick, the sculptor, Mrs. Ladd’s collaborator. As Mrs. Ladd was at Vichy, he courteously placed himself at my disposition to furnish me all details of interest.

A soldier rose to go, but Mr. Wlerick cordially called him back. “Wait a moment, will you, old fellow? Madame came to see the masks. Will you kindly show her yours?”

With military discipline the soldier made a haft turn and stood before me, his face raised for my inspection. He was a sharpshooter, with slightly olive complexion, and on the ardent face, under his rakishly worn cap, I could find nothing whatever abnormal. I was surprised, and said: “And the mask?” Mr. Wlerick smiled, saying, “He has it on. Look closer, Madame.” I approached and could, indeed, distinguish a faint line upon the soldier’s check; a shadow, rather, that went from mouth to ear. It was so slight a thing that I said, “Oh, yes,” out of politeness, not being able to realize that beneath the perfect appearance of the face was a terrible mutilation. Then, pressing the soldier’s hand, I added, “My friend, it is wonderful; no one could believe that you wear a mask!”

My sincerity was obvious, my astonishment so complete that I was not conscious of it. The poilu was overjoyed, saluted and went out; shortly afterward I understood why my simple words gave him such keen pleasure.

On one side of the large bay-window that lighted the studio numbers of plaster molds were lying. I started forward to see them and stopped, horror-struck. It was almost impossible to discover human lineaments in these casts that, nevertheless, represented poor martyred faces which had been serene, often beautiful, almost always smiling from being loved, from being young, and having all the future before them, and which were now but terrible formless ruins, something indescribable, “which has no more a name in any tongue.” There were noses torn off, twisted lips, disfigured chins and crushed foreheads—the whole gamut of deformity.

While I gazed, wide-eyed, Mr. Wlerick explained to me that these were the first molds, made upon the mutilé exactly as his wound had left him. Finally a second mold is modeled after a photograph of the blesse taken before his wound, which is a reconstruction of his normal face. To restore a complete resemblance to this visage and give back its proper psychological expression a medical study is often necessary, examination of the throat, etc. This work requires a rather long and delicate series of processes, no less than ten in number:

  1. A plaster negative on the mutilé.
  2. A plaster positive on the mutilé.
  3. Modeling after a photograph prior to the wound.
  4. and 5. Plaster molds on the portrait model.
  5. Galvanoplastie (deposit of sulphate of copper by electricity).
  6. Work of adjustment upon the blesse.
  7. Unalterable painting upon the mutilé.
  8. Placing of artificial eyes, lashes and brows.
  9. System of spectacles to hold the mask in place. “When this difficult work is ended and the arrangement is as it should be, it is difficult to realize that the one who wears this mask is generally completely disfigured,” continued M. Wlerick. “You have seen it in the case of the sharpshooter whom I presented to you just now. Here is his cast. . .”

The sculptor indicated a plaster mold which seemed a strange animal head and which would have appeared to be a caricature had not we compared it with the corresponding cast which showed the head reconstructed. For this terrible deformation was due to the absence of the whole lower part of the face, and I had not even guessed it! I understood now why my unthinking compliment had so delighted the poor soldier!

An example of a mask for a wounded soldier, 1919

An example of a mask for a wounded soldier, 1919

Upon further inquiries I learned that the invention of the mask is due to Captain Derwent Wood, of the Second London Hospital. Mrs. Ladd adopted it as it was first made, but it has been since developed and perfected. The first masks were necessarily heavy and quite different from the models of delicacy and lightness which were shown to me. The masks, if need be, may contain a dressing and are indestructible; if the wounded is careful they will last indefinitely. They are made at the expense of the American Red Cross, and the painting upon them has been rendered completely unalterable.

I approached another soldier who was seated in the center of the room. Standing beside him an artist, a colleague of Mrs. Ladd’s. was moving a paint-brush across his cheek with a light, gracious movement that would have seemed a gesture in a game if one had not known, as I had just learned, that this motion on the wretched wounded face represented the height of art and love. At this moment the painter was giving the finishing touches to the indefinable bluish tone that the razor leaves upon a close-shaven cheek. It was unbelievably natural, and one would have to be informed that it was not a face fresh from the hands of a careful barber, but rather an extraordinary imitation of a human visage.

“Oh, it is fine; it is splendid! How they should bless you, these young men!” I cried, considering by turns the soldier beaming with pleasure and the artist, who stood there as modest as though she had accomplished the most ordinary work. “Certainly they will never forget you; you make them again the lovely boys they were before their wounds; you give them back all the joys of life, all the possibilities of happiness.” Ah! how he looked at me, the poor poilu so terribly disfigured. I am sure this boy, tried beyond human endurance, was upheld in his adversity by the tenderness of a dream, and for him this mask, which hid so admirably his fearful and glorious misery, was the Mask of Love!

I was delighted with this sudden thought that came to me; then I smiled, for what I had believed to have been an inspiration was only a memory. The Mask of Love is the title of one of the most famous books by Daniel-Lesueur.

“These masks,” I said to those about me, “are a glorious achievement, indeed, and one can never sufficiently realize how much patience and talent is spent here to lessen the heroic suffering of our soldiers. However, it seems to me that the using of this mask implies a real vanity upon your part; for one should not hide a glorious wound, but wear it proudly. …”

They smiled, flattered, because in the depths of their simple souls they had sincerely thought themselves too disfigured to appear in public. A little farmer of Châlons expressed the humiliation that indiscrete looks cause our wounded. “Oh! you know, Madame, one does not like to be conspicuous. …”

Still filled with my idea. I continued, “Listen, I have an inspiration. I owe it, moreover, to your modesty. I shall call the article which I am to write concerning you the Mask of Glory, because it is, indeed, your glory you mask!” There were many exclamations around me, and Mrs. Ladd’s collaborators approved heartily.

Later, talking with Mrs. Ladd herself concerning the zeal expended and the difficulties conquered, Mrs. Ladd smiled gently and said, “We are amply rewarded by the joy of our mutilés. They write me very lovely letters; would you like to see them?” I accepted her offer eagerly and quote here two of the most affecting:

Dear Madame: I am so greatly satisfied with my mask that I cannot wait to come to thank you again. My parents, too, are very happy to see me as I am. When I arrived they scarcely recognized me as the same wounded man. Also the neighbors wondered how it is possible for one to make such a beautiful nose in so short a time! Briefly, it is a tremendous success. If I return to Paris, as I hope, I will certainly come to see you.François Gorall, September 6, 1918.

Madame: I surprised my parents with my mask and I can find no words to paint their delight; they could hardly believe it was I! You have done so much for me that I do not know how to express my gratitude, for it is thanks to you that I will be able to have my own home. My fiancée finds me not unpleasing and has not refused me as she would have had the right to do. She will soon be my wife.Marc Maréchal.

“All who enter here leave hope behind” was inscribed upon the portal of Dante’s Inferno. I would that a poet of genius might find the fitting inscription for Mrs. Ladd’s studio, where so many beings, secretly despairing, have found and will find supreme comfort. And once more the homage of our gratitude goes out to the American Red Cross, which has discovered here an incomparable and almost divine means of soothing one of the most poignant forms of human suffering.

The New France, Vol. 3, 1920: p. 544

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: On this Armistice Day we remember the service of veterans everywhere, and especially the wounded, who bear scars both visible and hidden.

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.

 

At the Pharmacy Blanc: 1875

V0011779 Voyage to eternity; pharmacy scene with Death at work. Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images images@wellcome.ac.uk http://wellcomeimages.org By: Jean-Ignace-Isidore GérardPublished: - Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons Attribution only licence CC BY 4.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

V0011779 Voyage to eternity; pharmacy scene with Death at work.
Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images
images@wellcome.ac.uk
http://wellcomeimages.org
By: Jean-Ignace-Isidore GérardPublished: –
Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons Attribution only licence CC BY 4.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Most people know from experience how long it takes to get a prescription put up at an apothecary’s shop when the occasion is pressing, but deliberate as are the clerks of pharmacists on this side of the water, they must yield the palm to their French brethren. The following translation of a little sketch by M. Charles Monselet illustrates our remark: The Pharmacy Blanc is one of the handsomest in Paris. In the first place, it is situated in a central quarter, that is to say, in proximity to the greater part of the accidents. The shop is large and airy, its windows are adorned with curiously shaped bottles filled with variously colored spirits; the interior is decorated with undoubted good taste; there were urns wherein serpents are coiled, dark green busts of Aesculapius and Galen, and copper sphinxes support the counters. I can never explain it to myself, but pharmacies have always a fascination for me, possessing. as they do, a methodical aspect and an exceptional atmosphere. From the powders, minerals, roots, plants, herbs, dried flowers, the unguents, patés, elixirs, there exhales an odor singularly pleasing to me, and amidst which I fancy I should like to live.

All at once, while I was examining all those jars, so alike in appearance and so diverse in contents, a woman pushed open the door of the shop violently, and entered. She had hardly strength enough left to speak; her countenance was convulsed; she could only hand to the pharmacien a prescription which she held clutched in her trembling fingers.

Her husband has just received a fearful wound in the head; he is now lying on his bed unconscious. The doctor, called in haste, has written rapidly a few lines upon the paper she has brought. It is these few lines that she has passed to the pharmacien, who is calmly and gravely unfolding them, for a pharmacien should never cease to be grave. He is slowly deciphering the writing, for a pharmacien should, before all, make himself well acquainted with the details of a prescription. When he has finished reading it, he says to the woman, “Be good enough to take a seat. Sit down! sit down!”

“But, sir,” she cries, “do you not understand that my husband is in the greatest danger? Give me quickly what is required!”

“It will only take an instant ; please to sit down.”

The poor woman sinks into a chair, her arms hanging listlessly on each side, and her face expressionless from anxiety and fatigue.

During this time the pharmacien sets to work. He takes a small vial, places it in the beautiful scales before him. He goes to a row of the jars arranged like books in a library. He pours from one a few drops into the small vial. He then weighs it, and adds more from another jar. All this with the care and system recommended by the “Codex.”

From time to time the woman jumps from her seat suddenly. Her husband, pale and covered with blood, haunts her, and she turns to the pharmacien and joining her hands in supplication, she says,—

“Oh! sir! sir!”

“Patience—”

“My poor husband!”

“It will soon be ready, madame.”

Saying this, the pharmacien corks hermetically the little vial, which is at last full; he takes from a drawer a piece of green paper, with which he covers the cork, arranging its folds with a tedious neatness and regularity; he ties it with a bit of red twine, and trims the paper with a pair of scissors; then he plunges a stick of sealing-wax in the gas jet, and deposits upon the summit a lighted drop, in which he affixes the ends of the twine.

“Oh! Sir! Sir!”

Our pharmacien has not yet finished; he has now to find a label and paste it upon the bottle, then to write in a plain hand the number of the prescription, the name of the mixture, and whether for internal or external use, not forgetting the hackneyed phrase, “shake before using.”

“Sir! Sir!”

“It is finished, madame.”

In point of fact, after having accomplished all these indispensable formalities, the pharmacien rolls up the vial in an elegant quality of paper, and presents it to the woman.

“How much? how much? ” stammers she, feeling for the money in the pocket of her dress.

“Pay at the desk.”

At the desk sits enthroned the proprietor of the pharmacy, with a majestic air, dreamily perusing the latest livraison of pharmaceutical literature; he detains the poor woman several minutes more, and at last she receives her change; then she precipitates herself towards the door, when she encounters again the clerk, who politely opens it for her, in the midst of a deafening rattling of the bell attached thereto. Such is the scene, dear neighbor, which I accidentally witnessed the other day. May Heaven preserve you from ever going to procure anything else in the Pharmacy Blanc than an agreeable sirup or some perfumed pastilles.

The Opelousas [LA] Journal 2 July 1875: p. 1

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  A very trenchant “slice-of-Parisian-life” anecdote. Mrs Daffodil knows that she will shock her readers by acknowledging that such delays may also happen in England, particularly if the unhappy widow-in-waiting has the misfortune to be behind a pretty nurse-girl ordering a soothing syrup for her charges from the elegant young pharmacy clerk. If such is the case, she might as well abandon the notion of curative potions and go straight to Black Peter Robinson’s.

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.