Dr. Lushington had been employed in the inquiry which ensued, and had personal knowledge of all he narrated. I must record one more story which he told me—in his words:—
“I had a great-uncle, and as I am a very old man, you may imagine that my great-uncle was alive a very long time ago. He was a very eccentric man, and his peculiar hobby when in London was to go about to dine at all sorts of odd places of entertainment, to amuse himself with the odd characters he fell in with. One day he was dining at a tavern near St. Bride’s in Fleet Street, and at the table opposite to him sat a man who interested him exceedingly, who was unusually amusing, and quaint, and agreeable. At the end of dinner the stranger said, ‘Perhaps, sir, you are not aware that you have been dining with a notorious highwayman?’—‘No, indeed,’ said my great-uncle, not the least discomposed. ‘What an unexpected pleasure! But I am quite sure, sir, that you cannot always have been a highwayman, and that your story must be a very remarkable one. Can I not persuade you to do me the honour of telling it to me?’—‘Well,’ said the stranger, ‘we have had a very pleasant dinner, and I like your acquaintance, and I don’t mind if I do tell you my story. You are quite right in thinking that I was in early life as free as you are, or indeed, for that matter, as I myself am now. But one day, as I was riding over Hounslow heath, I was surrounded by highwaymen. They dragged me from my horse, and then said, “We don’t want your money, and we don’t want your life, but we want you, and you we must have. A great many of us have been taken, and we want recruits; you must go with us.” I protested in vain; I said it was impossible I could go with them; I was a respectable member of society, it was quite impossible that I could become a highwayman. “Then,” they said, “you must die; you cannot be allowed to live, to go out into the world, and tell what has been proposed to you.” I was in a terrible strait, and eventually I was obliged to promise to go with them. I was obliged to promise, but I made such difficulties that I was able to exact two conditions. One was that at the end of seven years I should be allowed to go free, and that I should never be recognised or taken by them again. The other was that in the seven years I was with them, no deed of actual cruelty should ever be committed in my presence.
“‘So I rode with the highwaymen, and many strange things happened. I saw many people robbed and pillaged, and I helped to rob and pillage them, but no deed of actual cruelty was ever committed in my presence. One day, after I had been with the band four years, we were riding in Windsor Forest. I saw a carriage approaching down the long avenue. It was sure to have ladies in it; there was likely to be a disagreeable scene; it was not necessary that I should be present, so I lingered behind in the forest. Presently, however, I was roused by so dreadful a scream from the carriage that I could no longer resist riding forward, and I spurred on my horse. In the carriage sat a lady, magnificently dressed, evidently just come from Windsor Castle, and the highwaymen had torn the bracelets from her arms and the necklace from her neck, and were just about to cut off her little finger, because there was a very valuable diamond ring upon it, which they could not otherwise get off. The lady implored me to have pity upon her, to intercede for her, and I did. I represented that the highwaymen had made me a solemn promise that no deed of personal cruelty should ever be committed in my presence, that on that condition only I was with them, and I called upon them to keep their promise. They disputed and were very angry, but eventually they gave in, and rode off with the rest of their booty, leaving me alone with the lady.
“‘The lady then said she owed me everything. She certainly owed me her life, for she was quite sure that she should never, never, have survived the loss of her little finger. She was quite sure, she said, that I could not like being a highwayman, and she entreated me to abandon the road and reform my life. “I can get you a pardon,” she said, “I can set you up in life—in fact, I can do anything for you.” Then I told her my story. I told her how the highwaymen had made a promise to me, and they had kept it; and I told her how I had made a promise to them, and I must keep it also. I had promised to go with them for seven years, and I had only been with them four; I must go with them for three years more. “Then,” said the lady, “I know what will happen; I know what stringent measures are going to be enforced for the suppression of highwaymen. I am certain you cannot escape for three years: you will be taken, and you will be condemned to death. When this happens, send for me, and I will save your life. I am Mrs. Masham.”
“‘It was indeed Mrs. Masham, the great favourite of Queen Anne.
“‘Before the expiration of the three years I was taken, I was tried, and I was condemned to death. While I was lying in Newgate under sentence of death, I sent to Mrs. Masham, and Mrs. Masham flung herself at the feet of Queen Anne, and the Queen spared my life.’”
This was the story of Dr. Lushington’s great-uncle’s friend.
Story of My Life, Vol. 2, Augustus Hare, 1896: pp. 306-309
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: One rarely thinks of highwaymen replenishing their ranks by impressing innocent passers-by in the manner of the Royal Navy. Given the glamour of the profession and highwaymen’s status as folk-heroes, celebrated in ballad and broad-sheet, Mrs Daffodil would imagine that there were scores of young apprentices, toiling away at their trades, who would have given much to join the ranks of the Gentlemen of the Road.
Augustus Hare tells us that he heard this story from Dr. Stephen Lushington, an eminent Judge and MP. Hare, a travel writer, gifted storyteller, indignant complainer, and semi-professional invalid, had a life more interesting than the title of his book would suggest. As a child he was given away by his parents to be adopted by his aunt, as casually as one would hand over a parcel. Throughout his life he was neglected, browbeaten, and misunderstood by those from whom he had a right to expect kindness and consideration. For example, certain foods made him ill. He was told that he was being singular and forced to eat them, then berated for being sick. Despite his delicate health and his selfish family, he travelled widely and became a writer with a superb ear for dialog, a deadpan delight in eccentricity, and a gift for telling the ghostly tale.
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 anecdote
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.
“When [“The King’s Conjurer” Louis] Comte was in the zenith of his success, [Jean-Eugène] Robert-Houdin appeared upon the scene and became the greatest and most original fantaisiste of his time and the founder of a new and unique school of conjuring. He started out as a watchmaker and attracted the attention of the Count de l’Escalopier and a strong friendship grew up between them.
Soon Houdin confided to the count his burning desire to become a great magician. Poverty, however, prevented him from gratifying his desire, and, although the count repeatedly offered to back him in this undertaking, he refused this generous offer. Later he devised an apparatus for detecting the thief who was systematically robbing his friend the count. An account of the capture is thus given:
“While Houdin was placing his apparatus in position, the count frequently expressed his wonderment at the heavy padded glove which the conjurer wore on his right hand.
“’All in good time, my dear count,’ said Houdin. When everything was arranged, the mechanician began his explanation of the working of the secret-detective apparatus.
“’You see, it is like this,’ he remarked; “the thief unlocks the desk, but no sooner does he raise the lid, ever so little, than this claw-like piece of mechanism, attached to a light rod and impelled by a spring, comes sharply down on the back of the hand which holds the key, and at the same time the report of a pistol is heard. The noise is to alarm the household, and …“
“’But the glove you wear!’ interrupted the nobleman.
“‘The glove is to protect me from the operation of the steel claw which tattooes the word Robber on the back of the criminal’s hand.’
“’How is that accomplished? ‘ said De l’Escalopier.
“‘Simplest thing in the world,’ replied Houdin. ‘The claw consists of a number of very short but sharp points, so fixed as to form the word; and these points are shoved through a pad soaked with nitrate of silver, a portion of which is forced by the blow into the punctures, thereby making the scars indelible for life. A fleur-de-lis stamped by an executioner with a red-hot iron could not be more effective.’
“‘But, M. Houdin,’ said the count, horror-stricken at the idea, ‘I have no right to anticipate justice in this way. To brand a fellow-being in such a fashion would forever close the doors of society against him. I could not think of such a thing. Besides, suppose some member of my family, through carelessness or forgetfulness, were to fall a victim to this dreadful apparatus.’
“‘You are right,’ said Houdin. ‘I will alter the mechanism in such a way that no harm can come to any one, save a mere superficial flesh-wound that will easily heal. Give me a few hours.’ . . .
“The count did everything possible to excite the cupidity of the robber. He sent repeatedly for his stock-broker, on which occasions sums of money were ostentatiously passed from hand to hand; he even made a pretense of going away from home for a short time, but the bait proved a failure.
Each day the nobleman reported ‘No result’ to Houdin, and was on the point of giving up in despair. Two weeks elapsed. One morning De l’Escalopier rushed into the watchmaker’s shop, sank breathlessly on a chair, and ejaculated: ‘ I have caught the robber at last.’
“‘Indeed,’ replied Houdin; ‘who is he?’
“’But first let me relate what happened,’ said the count. ‘I was seated this morning in my library, when the report of a pistol resounded in my sleeping apartment.
“The thief!“ I exclaimed, excitedly. I looked around me for a weapon, but finding nothing at hand, I grasped an ancient battle-axe from a stand of armor nearby, and ran to seize the robber. I pushed open the door of the sleeping-room and saw, to my intense surprise, Bernard, my trusted valet and factotum, a man who has been in my employ for upwards of twenty years. “What are you doing here?” I asked; “what was that noise?”
“‘In the coolest manner he replied: “I came into the room just as you did, sir, at the explosion of the pistol. I saw a man making his escape down the back stairs, but I was so bewildered that I was unable to apprehend him.”
“’I rushed down the back stairs, but, finding the door locked on the inside, knew that no one could have passed that way. A great light broke upon me. “Great God!” I cried, “can Bernard be the thief?” I returned to the library. My valet was holding his right hand behind him, but I dragged it forward, and saw the imprint of the claw thereon. The wound was bleeding profusely. Finding himself convicted, the wretch fell on his knees and begged for forgiveness.
“’How long have you been robbing me?”’ I asked.
“’For nearly two years,”’ he said.
“’And how much have you taken?”’ I inquired.
“‘Fifteen thousand francs, which I invested in government stock. The scrip is in my desk.”. . .
“’And now,’ said the count to Houdin, ‘ I want you to take these fifteen thousand francs and begin your career as a conjurer; surely you can not refuse to accept as a loan the money your ingenuity has rescued from a robber.’“
Houdin, after much hesitation, accepted the loan and started out upon his career, the crowning event of which was his embassy to Algeria to counteract the influence of the Marabout priests over the Arabs. How well the famous French wizard succeeded is a matter of history.
The Argonaut. Vol. XLII. No. 1090. San Francisco, January 31, 1898.
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Rober-Houdin used the 15,000 francs to open The Théâtre Robert-Houdin, where he performed illusions such as “The Light and Heavy Chest,” and “The Marvelous Orange Tree.”
The Algerian adventure called for all of Robert-Houdin’s ingenuity. The Marabouts were a religious group using magic to incite the Arab tribes to break with the French in Algeria. Robert-Houdin was sent by Napoleon III to demonstrate that the magic of the French was superior. Here is Mrs Daffodil’s favourite trick performed in the course of his mission, as the result of a unexpected challenge. Robert-Houdin had performed a variety of tricks and a Marabout, whose watch the conjurer had taken during his act, said:
“I now believe in your supernatural power,” he said, “you are a real sorcerer; hence, I hope you will not fear to repeat here a trick you performed in your theatre;’ and offering me two pistols he held concealed beneath his burnous, he added, “Come, choose one of these pistols; we will load it, and I will fire at you. You have nothing to fear, as you can ward off all blows.”
I confess I was for a moment staggered; I sought a subterfuge and found none. All eyes were fixed upon me, and a reply was anxiously awaited.
The Marabout was triumphant.
Bou-Allem, being aware that my tricks were only the result of skill, was angry that his guest should be so pestered; hence he began reproaching the Marabout. I stopped him, however, for an idea had occurred to me which would save me from my dilemma, at least temporarily ; then, addressing my adversary:
“You are aware,” I said, with assurance, “that I require a talisman in order to be invulnerable, and, unfortunately, I have left mine at Algiers.”
The Marabout began laughing with an incredulous air.
“Still,” I continued, “I can, by remaining six hours at prayers, do without the talisman, and defy your weapon. To-morrow morning, at eight o’clock, I will allow you to fire at me in the presence of these Arabs, who were witnesses of your challenge.”
Bou-Allem, astonished at such a promise, asked me once again if this offer were serious, and if he should invite the company for the appointed hour. On my affirmative, they agreed to meet…
I did not spend my night at prayers, as may be supposed, but I employed about two hours in ensuring my invulnerability; then, satisfied with the result, I slept soundly, for I was terribly tired.
By eight the next morning we had breakfasted, our horses were saddled, and our escort was awaiting the signal for our departure, which would take place after the famous experiment.
None of the guests were absent, and, indeed, a great number of Arabs came in to swell the crowd.
The pistols were handed me; I called attention to the fact that the vents were clear, and the Marabout put in a fair charge of powder and drove the wad home. Among the bullets produced, I chose one which I openly put in the pistol, and which was then also covered with paper.
The Arab watched all these movements, for his honor was at stake.
We went through the same process with the second pistol and the solemn moment arrived. Solemn, indeed, it seemed to everybody—to the spectators who were uncertain of the issue, to Madame Houdin, who had in vain besought me to give up this trick, for she feared the result—and solemn also to me, for as my new trick did not depend on any of the arrangements made at Algiers, I feared an error, an act of treachery—I knew not what.
Still I posted myself at fifteen paces from the sheik, without evincing the slightest emotion.
The Marabout immediately seized one of the pistols, and, on my giving the signal, took a deliberate aim at me. The pistol went off, and the ball appeared between my teeth.
More angry than ever, my rival tried to seize the other pistol, but I succeeded in reaching it before him.
“You could not injure me,” I said to him, “but you shall now see that my aim is more dangerous than yours. Look at that wall.”
I pulled the trigger, and on the newly whitewashed wall appeared a large patch of blood, exactly at the spot where I had aimed.
The Marabout went up to it, dipped his finger in the blood, and, raising it to his mouth, convinced himself of the reality. When he acquired this certainty, his arms fell, and his head was bowed on his chest, as if he were annihilated…
The spectators raised their eyes to heaven, muttered prayers, and regarded me with a species of terror.
This scene was a triumphant termination to my performance. I therefore retired, leaving the audience under the impression that I produced. We took leave of BouAllem and his son, and set off at a gallop.
The trick I have just described, though so curious, is easily prepared. I will give a description of it, while explaining the trouble it took me.
As soon as I was alone in my room, I took out of my pistol-case—without which I never travel—a bullet mould.
I took a card, bent up the four edges, and thus made a sort of trough, in which I placed a piece of wax taken from one of the candles. When it was melted, I mixed with it a little lamp-black I had obtained by putting the blade of a knife over the candle, and then ran this composition in the bullet-mould.
Had I allowed the liquid to get quite cold, the ball would have been full and solid; but in about ten seconds I turned the mould over, and the portions of the wax not yet set ran out, leaving a hollow ball in the mould. This operation is the same as that used in making tapers, the thickness of the outside depending on the time the liquid has been left in the mould.
I wanted a second ball, which I made rather more solid than the other; and this I filled with blood, and covered the orifice with a lump of wax. An Irishman had once taught me the way to draw blood from the thumb, without feeling any pain, and I employed it on this occasion to fill my bullet.
Bullets thus prepared bear an extraordinary resemblance to lead, and are easily mistaken for that metal when seen at a short distance off.
With this explanation, the trick will be easily understood. After showing the leaden bullet to the spectators, I changed it for my hollow ball, and openly put the latter into the pistol. By pressing the wad tightly down, the wax broke into small pieces, and could not touch me at the distance I stood.
At the moment the pistol was fired, I opened my mouth to display the lead bullet I held between my teeth, while the other pistol contained the bullet filled with blood, which bursting against the wall, left its imprint, though the wax had flown to atoms.
The Memoirs of Robert Houdin: The Great Wizard, Celebrated French Conjurer, Author, and Ambassador, Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin, Translated from the French, with a Copious Index, by Dr. R. Shelton Mackenzie,1859: pp. 410-413
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 anecdote
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.
Wedding rings have been worn in all ages; but no information respecting their origin can be discovered. It is known they were used by the ancient Greeks and Romans; but their use was then at the ceremony of betrothal, and not marriage. Pope Nicholas, writing of the ninth century, says that the Christians first presented the woman with espousal gifts, including a ring, which was placed on her finger; the dowry was then agreed on ; and afterwards came the nuptial service. These rings of the Romans were made of various metals, as iron, brass, copper, and old; and while betrothal and marriage were distinct, the rings were ornamented; but when formal betrothal became obsolete, the marriage ring took a plain shape, as at present.
The ancients wore the betrothal ring, as now, on the next least finger of the left hand. Many reasons are assigned for this, as the erroneous idea that a vein or nerve went direct to the heart, and therefore the outward sign of matrimony should be placed in connection with the seat of life: the left hand is a sign of inferiority or subjection: the left hand is less employed than the right, and the finger next least the best protected. At one time, it was the custom to place the wedding ring on the right hand of the bride. The Anglo-Saxon bridegroom at the betrothal gave a wed or pledge, and a ring was placed on the maiden’s right hand, where it remained till marriage, and was then transferred to the left.
During the times of George I. and II. the wedding ring, though placed upon the usual finger at the time of marriage, was sometimes worn on the thumb, in which position it is often seen on the portraits of the titled ladies in those days. It is now absolutely necessary to use a ring at the English marriage service. The placing of the ring on the book is a remnant of the ancient custom of blessing the ring by sprinkling holy water in the form of a cross. This is still done by the Roman Catholic priest. The Puritans attempted the abolition of the ring. The Quakers don’t use a ring at the service because of its heathenish origin; but many wear them afterwards. The Swiss Protestants do not use a ring either at the service or afterwards.
Rings have not necessarily been made of gold, in order to be used in the English service. They may be of any metal or size. At Worcester, some years ago, a registrar was threatened with proceedings for not compelling the use of a gold ring. At Colchester, at the beginning of this century, the church key took the place of the ring; and this has been the case elsewhere. A story is told of a couple going to church and requesting the use of the church key. The clerk, not thinking it lawful, fetched a curtain ring, which was used at the ceremony. The Duke of Hamilton was married at Mayfair with a bed curtain ring. Notes and Queries of October 1860 relates the cutting of a leather ring from the gloves of the bridegroom and the use of it at the service. An Indian clergyman stopped a wedding because the ring contained a diamond; and in Ireland all rings except plain gold ones are rigidly forbidden.
One of the earliest forms of rings was the gemel or gimmal ring. It was a twin or double ring composed of two or more interlaced links, when the two flat sides were in contact, the links formed one ring. Mottoes and devices were often engraved on the inner or flat side. At the time of betrothal, it was customary for the man to put his finger through one hoop, and the woman through the other. They were thus symbolically yoked together. The links were then broken, and the two kept a link until the marriage. Some gimmal rings with three links were made for the purpose of a witness keeping the middle one. There is a gimmal containing nine links still in existence. A old one given by Edward Seymour to Lady Katharine Grey had five links and a poesy of his own composition.
The Exeter Garland, written in 1750, contains:
A ring of pure gold she from her finger took,
And just in the middle the same then she broke;
Quoth she: ‘As a token of love, you this take;
And this is a pledge I will keep for your sake.’
Wedding rings, also, were not always worn plain, the common emblem being clasped hands or hearts. Two silver-gilt rings were used for the marriage of Martin Luther and Catherine von Borga. Luther’s ring is still in Saxony, and bears the following: ‘D. Martino Luthero, Catherine v. Borga, 13 Junii 1525.’ The other is in Paris, and has a figure of Christ upon the cross, and the Latin inscription as above. On the ring given by Henry VIII. to Anne of Cleves was inscribed, ‘God send me well to kepe,’ in allusion to the fate of Anne Boleyn. Lady Cathcart, on her fourth marriage in 1713, had the following: ‘If I survive, I will have five.’ Dr John Thomas, Bishop of Lincoln, 1753, had a similar inscription.
Many superstitions attach to the wedding ring, probably arising from the Roman Catholic custom of its receiving the blessing of the priest before putting it on. In Ireland, the rubbing of the ring on a wart or sore was sure to cure it; also, the belief still remains that by pricking a wart with a gooseberry-bush thorn through a wedding ring it will gradually disappear. In Somersetshire they say that a sty on the eyelid may be removed by the rubbing of the ring. The Romans believed a peculiar virtue lay in the ring finger, and they stirred their medicines with it. Another superstition is that if a wife lose her ring, she will also lose her husband’s love; and if she breaks it, the husband will shortly die. Many married women would not remove their rings, for fear of the death of their partners. As old saying is, ‘As your wedding ring wears, your cares will wear away.’
Chambers’s Journal, 6 February 1892: p. 95-6
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: To be Relentlessly Informative, the more common spelling of the rings pictured is “gimmel,” from the Latin gemellus or twin. And Frau Doktor Luther came to her marriage as Katharina von Bora, rather than a member of some cadet branch of the Borgias.
Let us have a few more wedding ring superstitions:
In Northumberland, the young girls prepare for the May feast the May syllabub, made of warm milk from the cow, sweet cake and wine. Into this a wedding ring is dropped, for which the girls fish with a ladle. Whoever gets it will be married first. Encyclopaedia of Superstitions, Folklore, and the Occult Sciences, Cora Linn Morrison, Daniels, Charles McClellan Stevens, 1904: p. 1541
A Wedding Ring Superstition.
A Yorkshire lady told me that, having lost her wedding ring from her finger, she had been told by the wise people of the place that she must on no account permit her husband to buy her a new one, but that her nearest male relatives must pay for the fresh ring and give it her. Notes and Queries 1 July 1882: p. 9
It is regarded as most unlucky is the wedding ring slips off the finger of the newly married wife either through accident or carelessness; another superstition is that when the wedding ring has worn so thin as to break in two, the woman or the husband will die, that the wedding ring and married life wear away pari passu. [“with even step.”] Perhaps, we have here an answer to the often-asked question of modern days, ‘Why do ladies encumber themselves with such heavy wedding rings?’ Traces of the Elder Faiths of Ireland, William Gregory Wood-Martin, 1902: p. 45
And, finally
HE FORGOT THE WEDDING-RING
A story has come to light regarding a former Earl of Crawford, Colin by name, who married a relative of the Prince of Orange. The lady, Mauritia de Nassau, was a very beautiful woman, and having fallen in love with the then-Earl of Crawford a marriage was arranged. But when the wedding day arrived and the bridal party were assembled at the church no bridegroom was forthcoming. A messenger was despatched in hot haste to fetch the missing earl, who was found at his house enjoying a late breakfast, attired in dressing gown and slippers, completely oblivious to the fact that it was his wedding day. Hurriedly dressing, the earl rushed off to the church, and the service began. In the middle of the ceremony he discovered he had forgotten the ring. This want being hastily supplied by one of the guests the marriage proceeded.
At the end of the ceremony the bride, glancing at her hand, saw to her unutterable horror that the ring with which she had been wedded was a mourning ring with skull and cross-bones on it.
“I shall be dead within a year!” she shrieked, and fainted dead away. Her words came true, and the earl himself had a most unlucky life. North Otago Times, 31 July 1909, Page 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 anecdote
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.
When Queen Ulrica was dead, her corpse was placed in the usual way in an open coffin, in a room hung with black and lighted with numerous wax candles; a company of the king’s guards did duty in the ante-room. One afternoon, the carriage of the Countess Steenbock [Stenbock] , first lady of the palace, and a particular favourite of the queen’s, drove up from Stockholm. The officers commanding the guard of honour went to meet the countess, and conducted her from the carriage to the door of the room where the dead queen lay, which she closed after her.
The long stay of the lady in the death-chamber caused some uneasiness; but it was ascribed to the vehemence of her grief; and the officers on duty, fearful of disturbing the further effusion of it by their presence, left her alone with the corpse. At length, finding that she did not return, they began to apprehend that some accident had befallen her, and the captain of the guard opened the door. He instantly started back, with a face of the utmost dismay. The other officers ran up, and plainly perceived, through the half-open door, the deceased queen standing upright in her coffin, and ardently embracing the countess. The apparition seemed to move, and soon after became enveloped in a dense smoke or vapour. When this had cleared away, the body of the queen lay in the same position as before, but the countess was nowhere to be found. In vain did they search that and the adjoining apartments, while some of the party hastened to the door, thinking she must have passed unobserved to her carriage; but neither carriage, horses, driver, or footmen were to be seen. A messenger was quickly despatched with a statement of this extraordinary circumstance to Stockholm, and there he learnt that the Countess Steenbock had never quitted the capital, and that she died at the very moment when she was seen in the arms of the deceased queen.
The Haunters and the Haunted, Ernest Rhys, 1921
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Queen Ulrika Eleanora of Denmark, consort of King Charles XI of Sweden, died in 1693, age 36, weakened by seven pregnancies in as many years and mourning the loss of four sons. The painting at the head of this post shows her with her lost children. She was universally beloved; her husband said at her deathbed: “Here I leave half of my heart.” He never remarried.
Maria Elisabeth Stenbock (died 1693) was Mistress of the Robes to Queen Ulrika Eleanora of Denmark 1680-1693. Portrait by David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl
A variant of this legend states that, while the queen was dying at Karlberg Palace, her favorite lady-in-waiting and Mistress of the Robes, Countess Maria Elisabeth Stenbock, lay sick in Stockholm. On the night the queen died, Countess Stenbock was seen to arrive at Karlberg and was admitted alone to the room containing the remains of the queen. The officer in charge, the splendidly-named Captain Stormcrantz, looked through the keyhole and saw the countess and the queen speaking by the window of the room. He was so shocked by the sight that he started coughing up blood. The countess, as well as her carriage, was gone in the next instant. It was found that the countess had been gravely ill in bed that day and had not left Stockholm. The King ordered that the affair be hushed up. Countess Stenbock died of her illness several weeks later, and Captain Stormcrantz also died shortly after seeing the ghostly Queen.
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 anecdote
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.
Diplomacy ranks next to tact in social ethics, and to be a successful hostess with limited means nowadays In New York requires almost the brains of a Machiavelli. How little Mrs. Z.–who lives in a bandbox of a house, with only a parlor maid to serve at her dainty table–manages to get the smartest people to dine with her en petit comité, whenever she will, apparently is a constant source of amusement and irritation to her rich neighbor, Mrs. Midas. The latter, despite her chef and her millions, sometimes finds it hard work to collect enough guests for her heavy entertainments twice or thrice during the season, and her own invitations are few and far between, whereas Mrs. Z. drives out whenever she is not entertaining at home.
“What do you suppose is the secret of her success?” exclaimed one of her friends. “Certainly she seems to have very few substantial advantages. She is comparatively poor, she is hardly even pretty, though It must be admitted she is very chic, but no more so than many others, She is certainly ‘sympatica,’ but so are a score of people I could name. Her house is a dear, but as a man said the other day, there is ‘hardly room in it to swing a cat,’ while her dinners, which are, of course, perfect in their way, are simplicity itself. What is her especial attraction is absolutely inexplicable, and yet it is there. or she could not pick and choose among the most exclusive people as she undoubtedly does.”
“My dear,” answered her companion, “it is tact combined with diplomacy and I will give you an instance of the latter quality, which is, of course, only one out of many. She told me this herself, so I need not hesitate to repeat it. Wishing to secure, for a special occasion, Mr.—, the celebrated author, who is a somewhat surly lion, and seldom condescends to roar at any one’s table except at that of Mrs. B., the pretty widow he wants to marry, Mrs. Z. cast about in her mind how she could engage him, by letting him know, before he had time to write a refusal, that Mrs. B. was invited, without directly saying so, which would, of course, be impossible. Suddenly an inspiration seized her: she wrote an invitation to Mrs. B. and put it into the wrong envelope, which, by an odd coincidence, happened to be addressed to Mr.—. Of course, as soon as the letters had gone to the post, she discovered her mistake, and wrote another note of explanation. Needless to say that both guests came and her dinner went off as her dinners always are sure to do, with the most perfect success.”
The Indianapolis [IN] Journal 6 December 1895: p. 3
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Tact and diplomacy, indeed! Mrs Daffodil must make a note of the hostess’s mixed-envelope scheme; she can think of several occasions on which it might be useful. Indeed, it has often been used as a plot device for stage, screen, and fiction. Comic valentines are particularly susceptible to being placed in the wrong envelopes, often with disastrous consequences.
The situation gave rise to much mirth in the joke columns of newspapers.
REMEDY FOR MEASLES.
A lady who had two children sick with the measles wrote to a friend for the best remedy. The friend had just received a note from another lady, inquiring her method of making pickles. In reply the lady unfortunately placed the notes in the wrong envelopes, so that the person who inquired about the pickles received the remedy for the measles, and the anxious mother of the sick children read with horror the following: “Scald them three or four times in hot vinegar, and sprinkle them with salt, and in a few days they will be cured.”
The Osage City [KS] Free Press 3 May 1878: p. 3
AMUSING MISTAKE—A MINISTER ASKED TO LOAN A HOOP SKIRT.
A well-known minister in Chelsea, Mass., was greatly surprised, some time since at receiving an epistle from a lady friend at Cape Ann, containing sundry and divers female confidences relative to her approaching marriage, and an urgent request to send immediately a “hoop skirt.”
The minister was completely dumbfounded. It was a strange epistle for him to receive, but there was the superscription, Rev. ___, as plain as could be. In the course of the day, however, the mystery was cleared up, and it appeared that the fair correspondent had indicted two letters, one to the reverend gent requesting his presence to tie the marriage knot, and the other to a female friend, enlarging on the anticipated occasion, and requesting her services in procuring that highly useful article a hoop skirt. By some hocus-pocus the letters were placed in the wrong envelopes, but luckily the rightful owners exchanged letters, and the minister and hoop skirt were both there! Bangor (Me.) Times.
The States and Union [ Ashland OH] 16 May 1860: p. 4
The lady of rank in this last anecdote was singularly lacking in tact and diplomacy. She was also fortunate that she did not live in the days when Royalty could say “Off with her head,” with impunity:
A NOTE IN THE WRONG ENVELOPE.
A lady of rank had received the honor of an invitation to dinner from the Princess Mary of Teck, [Mother of Queen Mary, the present Queen’s grandmother.] for a day when she was engaged to dine with an old friend. She wrote two letters—one to the Princess in her sweetest manner, acknowledging the honor, &c.; another to her friend, beginning: “Such a bore, dear! Fat Mary has invited me to dinner on our day, and of course I must go.” To her horror, she learned by the next post that her friend had got the letter for the Princess in her friend’s envelope. The mischief was done, and she went prepared to throw herself at the feet of her royal hostess, when the Princess met her with open hands and smiling face as she said: “Fat Mary is very much pleased to see you, and hopes you won’t find her a bore.”
London Truth.
The Press Herald [Pine Grove PA] 22 October 1880: p. 1
Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes
You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.
Clad as a Christmas tree and ready to distribute the presents.
This post was previously published in December, 2013.
As we have seen, it isn’t enough to merely purchase and wrap presents in the traditional snowy tissue paper. To meet the newly-elevated standards, which, frankly, Mrs Daffodil finds rather nouveau-riche, one must disguise those presents in ingenious wrappings and, further, distribute them in unusual ways. The Queen of Italy, for example, distributed her Christmas presents in 1886 by lottery, The Prince of Naples and the Queen held satin bags—one filled with names and the other numbers. Mrs Daffodil imagines that the prizes on that occasion were far more lavish than the beef and blankets distributed to English estate workers. Here are several other instances of up-to-date present distribution:
A LIVING CHRISTMAS TREE
An animated Christmas tree would prove the greatest possible success. The part of the Christmas tree should be played by a tall child of twelve or thirteen, dressed to represent a fir tree. A white princess petticoat makes a good foundation, upon which wide flounces of dark green crinkled paper can be tacked. Several stiff white muslin petticoats should be also worn to stick out the dress at the bottom.
The “tree” must be hung with strings of silver tinsel, very light Christmas tree ornaments, strings of small gaily coloured crackers and a variety of bright penny toys, which should be lightly sewn onto the dress right through to the princess lining, for the weight of them would tear the paper.
The “Christmas tree” must have a cap adorned with a Christmas star and must stand in a red earthenware bread pan to represent the pot, the heavier presents being piled up round her feet.
A tiny brother clad as a wee Santa Claus with a red flannel dressing gown, adorned with bands of cotton wool spangled with hoar frost, wearing a cotton wool bear; or a wee sister as a Christmas tree fairy, in a frilly pink crinkled paper frock, with wings of silver paper and a twinkling Christmas tree star in her hair, armed with a pair of scissors, may be introduced into the scheme to cut off and distribute the gifts.
THE POSTMAN HIMSELF
“Postman’s Knock” has a delightfully Christmassy sound, and if well carried out is the greatest possible success.
The part of Postman should be played by father, uncle, or big elder brother, though, failing these, a feminine postman, providing she wears the traditional postman’s cap and a man’s overcoat and a sprig of holly in her buttonhole.
The one absolute essential is that the postman should bring with him a big bag filled with stamped and addressed parcels.
If the present distributing is to take place immediately after tea at a small Christmas party, a lively game, such as Hunt the Slipper or Blind Man’s Bluff, should be started and when the fun is at its highest a double postman’s knock comes at the door—the game stops abruptly and as the children glance wonderingly at one another, the hostess, having answered the knock, returns to say, “A parcel for Miss Mary Dash. Go out to the postman, dear, and fetch it.”
Out goes the small recipient to return a moment later with a fully addressed parcel, which he or she proceeds to unwrap, to the intense interest of the other children. A second knock heralds the return of the postman, who this time asks for Master Harold Dash, and so the game goes on, until each member of the company has been outside.
In order to make the parcels thoroughly realistic looking used stamps should be collected for some little time beforehand and a few gummed onto each parcel which, having been wrapped up in brown paper and string, may be further adorned with one or two Christmas seals.
A MAGIC COAL BOX
A magic Christmas coal box creates much amusement. For this small-sized presents must be chosen, in order that they may be wrapped up in black paper to resemble lumps of coal.
The “coal” is now piled into a big brass coal scuttle, or round witch’s cauldron, before being carried into the room, and the children are invited to come forward one by one to take a knob of coal with a pair of tongs provided for the purpose.
When they discover that each one contains a wee Christmas gift their delight knows no bounds, and one dare predict that such a novel form of “lucky dip” would prove an equal success at a grown-up evening party.
London Evening News 19 December 1911: p. 7
Distributing the Gifts
Going to the post-office is a jolly method of distribution. Pasteboard and brown paper, aided by judicious grouping of chairs and tables, easily transform a room into a post-office, and a wisely selected postmaster may make the collection of mail an occasion of much merriment. Have general delivery and lock boxes, and at the general delivery window see that each person is properly identified.
A Christmas hunt is always exciting. The clue, given at the breakfast table, is written on a slip of paper in some such words as these: “Pass the parlor, shun the hall, seek the summer kitchen wall.” In that vicinity the gift will be found, wrapped and addressee. It adds to the fun if the directions lead first to other rhymes, three or four being followed up before the hidden treasure is found….
Still another hunt takes the form of a polar expedition and is great sport in the country when there is snow enough for it. Immediately after breakfast the entire party sets out for a walk. When they turn toward home, the host or someone selected as guide informs them that supplies are hidden along the way in various caches and they will do well to look out for them. Each cache is merely a mound of snow covering lightly a quantity of gift packages, securely wrapped. There need be only three or four mounds and the gifts should be divided promiscuously among them. If the walk has been long, the first cache to be found—that is, the one farthest from home—may hide a box of cookies, which will be haled joyfully and will make the gifts in the next cache an even greater surprise.
The last cache to be reached may be the centerpiece on the dining table. Here it should be of cotton glittering with diamond dust with the pole rising from the middle of it, a fat, squatty pole with a jolly Santa Claus top.
Small gifts may be concealed in a Jack Horner pie, brought to the table when dinner is finished. Choose a deep, round pan of a size to fit the number of the party and put into it the present, each daintily wrapped and marked with the name of the one to receive it. The Herald [Algiers, LA], 1921
One might also call upon a conjuror to hand out the Christmas gifts:
Next comes the conjuror, and especially the old-fashioned conjuror—he who produces hens from tea canisters, doves from beneath flower pots and yards of orange-coloured satin ribbon from his mouth. The “pocket conjuror,” whose skill lies in his fingers, is the one most generally met with, and all his apparatus, as his name implies goes into his pockets. He occasionally finds himself in a somewhat awkward situation, as hostesses have hit upon the idea of distributing presents through the medium of the conjuror. At a recent party the unfortunate entertainer was made responsible for the production of a large elephant and a wheelbarrow.
London Standard 27 December 1912: p. 3
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Here in the Servants’ Hall, we do not require a conjuror or “lucky dip” to distribute his Lordship’s Boxing Day bounty: a dress length wrapped in tissue paper for the females and tobacco for the men. Mrs Daffodil is anticipating a length of black taffeta and a little extra in the pay envelope in token of his Lordship’s appreciation of her handling a delicate affair for one of his cousins, which, without her, would have been a matter for assisting the police with their inquiries. If the truth were told, Mrs Daffodil knows of several individuals who deserve to receive large lumps of genuine coal instead of cleverly wrapped gifts.
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.
POSING FOR NUDE STATUES—THE MARBLE FAD GROWING IN FAVOR AMONG REPRESENTATIVES OF FRENCH SOCIETY.
[Copyrighted, 1903, by W.R. Hearst.]
Paris, Dec. 20. The marble fad is a new fashion set by women who are beautiful, titled, cultured. Those who have assisted them to make the fashion successful are sculptors of note. They present their subjects in white marble exquisitely—a Venus rising from the sea, a lily of the valley against the green of mountains, an angel with head bent in thought.
The rounded limbs, the unhidden curves, the undraped lines of Mme. La Duchesse d’Aosta, of Mme. La Duchess d’Uzes, of Mme. La Comtesse Bela Zichy are being discussed from end to end of Paris. At first everyone gasped. What! the Duchess d’Uzes, wife of the premier Duke of France, whose family has been of uninterrupted prominence since the days of the Crusades, daughter-in-law of the famous Dowager Duchess who was born in De Mortemart, daughter of the De Luynes, a family only second in antiquity to the Uzes? What!
They blinked their eyes only to be dazzled by the marble form of the Duchess d’Aosta, formerly the Princess Helene of Orleans, a Bourbon, daughter of the Count of Paris and sister of the Duke of Orleans, chief pretender of the throne of France. She, the wife of one of the royal princes of Rome, oldest cousin of the King of Italy and his heir should Victor Emmanuel have no sons—she to pose as a Venus—A Venus rising, untrammeled by draperies, out of the sea!
They gazed in amazement next to behold the American Countess Zichy, she who was once the wife of Fernando Yznaga, a sister-in-law of the Dowager Duchess of Manchester, and before that Mabel Wright—the famously beautiful Mabel Wright, of Ward McAllister’s Four Hundred. She is now the wife of Count Bela Zichy of Hungary. She is a beauty of renown, blond as the angel for which she has posed in wings—and a bit of gauze.
She is lovely, but Paris gasps all the same at the exhibit.
Conventionality At A Discount.
One of the sculptors who have assisted in the modeling of much aristocratic loveliness was asked to explain this latest fad. He though deeply for a moment. Then he said: “It is quite comprehensible, even commendable when you consider the strict conventions of our absurd fashions. Among aristocrats, women of race and pedigree, we find the finest limbs, the most tapering extremities, the purest outlines. All praise to those among them who defy the decrees that command them to keep such charms hidden. A woman who has beautiful feet, for instance, has no opportunity to show them in their natural beauty, not even when she bathes in the ocean, for the dullard fashion has decreed that the hideous stocking should cover them. She may have such ankles as an artist dreams of—they may be her only beauty, and one may only have a glimpse of them. Ah, it is enough to drive a woman to suicide—or to marble.”
The Duchess d’Uzes, the Duchess d’Aosta, the Countess Zichy have defied conventions, as Pauline Borghese, the sister of Napoleon I, did nigh upon a century ago. She commanded the assistance of Canova, the great Italy sculptor, and you may see her today in the Borghese collection perpetuated in all her natural loveliness as a marble Venus. When she condescended to give an excuse, she said, with all the insolence for which her family was famous: “I am a Bonaparte—I may do as I please.”
Asked if she were not uncomfortable, she replied nonchalantly: “No, there was a stove in the room.”
It is the excuse that our modern duchesses and countesses may give. Nevertheless, the people gasp, and nevertheless, as people will the world over, they gaze and gaze and gaze to the full satisfaction of the aristocrats who have said “Bah” to the conventions.
The original of the statue called the “lily of the Valley” was unveiled last summer at Bagneres-de-Luchon in the Pyrenees. The Duchess d’Uzes was sojourning there, apparently with no purpose but to drink of the warm suphur springs for which the watering place is celebrated. A number of other guests, all more or less fashionable, were there, too, walking, drinking, gossiping, passing their hours as people do who are taking a cure for no very serious ill.
The event of the summer proved to be the unveiling of the “Lily of the Valley.” Cast in whitest marble, it was set before a background of green trees and dark rocks.
The Summer’s Sensation.
The effect was startling. More so was the resemblance.
“What?” “No!” “Impossible! And yet”—
The spectators declared they couldn’t believe their eyes. Day after day they studied intently the Duchess d’Uzes. Between drinks they made mental notes of her lines. During their walks they discussed the striking similarities of figure, of pose, of feature between the lovely, draped duchess and the lovely, undraped statue of the “Lily of the Valley.”
Could it be possible?
Day after day the young Duchess passed them driving, looking the picture of modesty. Day after day she cantered by on one of the horses which she rides so famously. They observed her lies and recalled her reputation for fearlessness. It was she who set the fashion of ballooning for women when the season of gayety threatened to become monotonous. She is original, enterprising, daring, and above all, beautiful—the guests at Bagneres went again and again to look at the now celebrated statue.
There it stood, classically serene, challenging comparison with the old Greek statues, whose models one may never know.
The resemblance was not to be disputed—the “lily of the Valley” was the Duchess d’Uzes. Every day during her sojourn at Bagneses she had visited the studio of the great artist who was to perpetuate her in marble. She had gone secretly and alone. Accused by one of her set of cowardice, she explained:
“To pose for an undraped statue is as yet considered unconventional; therefore, one does not announce it to the world. But if one is beautiful…”
The Duchess D’Uzes.
The Duchess’ excuse found an echo in the heart of the Duchess d’Aosta, who is of the daughters of the late Count of Paris is the loveliest. It has been said of her that even if she were not of royal blood she would be considered handsome. She might, in that event, however, be more rudely censured. As it is, she shocks society and still remains in it, a maneuver, by the way, not confined to Italy or France alone.
The Duchess is clever, restless, courageous and not in love with her husband. Only a few years ago she startled all Europe by announcing her intention to leave him. He had done nothing wrong, and was undeniably attached to his handsome wife, but she was tired of him that was all there was against him. It was enough until her ambition came to the rescue. The possibility of giving an heir to the throne of Italy persuaded her to retain her position of Duchess d’Aosta. This is history, so too are the Duchess’ love affairs, so too are. the duels that have been fought by the Duke on her account.
Vanitas Vanitatum.
And now comes the episode of the statue. This time the Duchess has shocked profoundly. Her mother, the Countess of Paris, who is a lady to her finger tips, is in despair; the King of Italy is furious; the Duke is at his wits’ end. There is no one he can challenge. He does not dare to denounce those who point to the lovely Venus as his wife’s portrait, because above the graceful figure her features are too plainly sculptured. Photographs of the statue are for sale everywhere, and the Duchess is calm in the midst of a tremendous family row. To prove this they tell the following anecdote of her:
One of her intimate friends sympathized with her deeply. “Poor woman,” she said, “with your beauty they want you to remain forever in obscurity. But tell me, was it not very uncomfortable posing—without–well, as the statue is?”
The Duchess looked at her from under her wealth of golden hair and firm but clear, steady blue eyes. “Oh, no,” she answered reminiscently of the Borghese princess, “the studio was well heated. I was most comfortable, I assure you.”
The fad to have your friends see how charming marble may make you grows. In its progress it has claimed the Countess Bela Zichy. Of her the sculptor D’Epiny [Prosper D’Epinay] says: “She is, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” He has done his best to prove this to the world in the statue he has made of her.”
However some dozen or more years ago, when she was Mabel Wright, a girl designing calicoes to assist her father, who was at work in a print factory, her beauty was recognized without the aid of either painters or sculptors. Without fame or fortune she made her way into the heart of Mrs. Astor’s “Four Hundred,” and there met and married Fernando Yznaga, brother of Consuelo, the present Dowager Duchess of Manchester, for whom the present Duchess of Marlborough was named.
How The Nude Craze Has Grown.
Unhappiness, divorce and all the things that lead to a second marriage followed in quick succession, and the American girl became a Hungarian Countess. Since then she has lived much in the great world abroad. Naturally she has made its fashions here.
But the end is not yet. It has Just been said that King Victor. Emmanuel is furious. He has read the riot act to his cousin’s beautiful wife, and has forcibly reminded her of the fate of that other beautiful Duchess of Aosta, Laetitia. The unconventional and dashing Laetitia, when she persisted in her flirtatious conduct with army officers and riding astride in public on a bicycle was sent to prison to do penance and was threatened if she did not cool down the King would take away her allowance and she could shift for herself.
The younger Duchess, more intrepid than her young mother-in-law, has snapped her fingers in the face of the King and has announced if he tried any such summary punishment on her she would scandalize Italy at this very ticklish point in the affairs of the country by suing for a divorce. This has made the King even more furious, and he has retaliated by saying if she did such a thing he would see to it that her position in any court of Europe would be forfeited.
And so the situation now stands. In the case of the Countess Bela-Zichy another royal rumpus has been aroused. While the Count stands by his wife and insists that the statue is an exquisite expression of purity, the court ladies of Austria, with the Emperor in sympathy with them, have made, it.is said, a secret compact to completely ostracize the lovely blonde countess if it is really proved beyond dispute that she posed as a diaphanous angel. The Austro-Hungarian court is one of the stiffest in Europe for etiquette, and if the case is decided against the Countess Bela Zichy her social position will be ruined.
The row in the D’Uzes family has become so intense over the nude posing of their young Duchess that nobody quite knows yet what the family council will decide to do.
Consequences Of This Folly.
However daring these aristocrats may be, the setting of conventionalities at defiance in statuary or paintings is not original with them. We can recall, for Instance, when Cleo de Merode, the lovely ballet dancer, posed for the sculptor Falguiere; also the sensation that followed the announcement that Mme. du Gast was the model for Gervex’s painting of “The Nude Lady With the Black Mask.” It is true that Mile, de Merode denied that she had posed for anything but the head of the statue called “The Dancer.” It is also true that Mme. du Gast sued those who had dared to say she was the original of the lady who might be just about to slip into her bath.
The fad for being photographed, painted, hewn in marble, grows. Is it due to vanity? Apropos, here is a story told of a woman well known in the world of society. It happened at a time when she had been admired immensely, but, being very young, had been seen but little. She was strictly chaperoned everywhere by her mother, who superintended also the cut of her gowns. She was permitted to wear what might be described as a very modest décolleté to parties or dinners. On a certain occasion she was visiting at a country house without her mother. It was night. She was alone in her room, undressing. In a mirror her figure, girlish, charming, graceful, was reflected. She moved and smiled; she moved and sighed. Then she looked at herself intently and took note of her charms. It seemed to her a pity that no eyes should see them but her own. It seemed such a pity that she sallied forth to the library below, with a lighted candle In One hand and her eyes tightly closed.
She encountered her host and some of his guests–judges of beauty. They said she had walked in her sleep. She encountered her hostess, who declared her guest was wide awake. Either way, a record of her loveliness flew through society. Her defenders said she was so exquisite, endowed with such purity of line, that it would have been a shame to keep it hidden always–forever under drapery. The girl thought so, too. This was before Madame la Duchesse d’Aosta, Madame la Duchesse d’Uzes and Madame la Comtesse Zichy had set their approval upon the marble fad as the very latest artistic solace for woman’s vanity.
The Baltimore [MD] Sun 27 December 1903: p. 11
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Obviously Mr William Randolph Hurst warmed to his theme, no doubt with the aide of a stove in the room.
While we do not often see Duchesses and Countesses posing as nature made them for exquisite expressions of purity in marble or bronze, reality TV stars and athletes more than fill the void with lingerie “selfies” and ESPN’s “The Body” issue. Plus ça change…
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.
Marie Antoinette walking with two of her children in the park of the Trianon, Adolf Ulrik Wertmüller, 1785 Nationalmuseum Stockholm
Walking one day in the park of the Trianon, gay and exquisite, the queen came unexpectedly upon a rough-looking man, totally unknown to her. A woman of high and unbreakable courage, Queen of France and full of confidence in her charmed destiny, she was seized, nevertheless, with a sensation of inexplicable terror. The man was the brewer, Santerre. Later, at the time of her execution, he was in charge of the National Guard of the City of Paris. . . .
Madame Campan [the Queen’s friend and lady-in-waiting] related the following anecdote: “Four candles were placed upon the queen’s dressing- table; the first one went out of itself; I soon relighted it; the second, then the third also, went out. At this the queen, pressing my hand with a movement of alarm, said to me, ‘Misfortune makes one superstitious; if that fourth candle goes out, nothing can keep me from regarding it as an evil omen’; the fourth candle went out.
“Someone remarked to the queen that the four candles had probably been made in the same mould, and that a defect in the wick was naturally to be found at the same place, since they had gone out in the order in which they had been lighted. The queen would listen to nothing; and with that indefinable emotion which the bravest heart cannot always overcome in momentous hours, gave herself up to gloomy apprehensions.
La reine se couchait très-tard, ou plutôt cette infortunée princesse commençait à ne plus goûter de repos. Vers la fin de mai, un soir qu’elle était assise au milieu de la chambre, elle racontait plusieurs choses remarquables qui avaient eu lieu pendant le cours de la journée; quatre bougies étaient placées sur sa toilette; la première s’éteignit d’elle-même, je la rallumai : bientôt la seconde, puis la troisième, s’éteignirent aussi ; alors la reine, me serrant la main avec un mouvement d’effroi, me dit: “Le malheur peut rendre superstitieuse; si cette quatrième bougie s’éteint comme les autres, rien ne pourra m’empêcher de regarder cela comme un sinistre présage….” La quatrième bougie s’éteignit.
On fit observer à la reine que les quatre bougies avaient probablement été coulées dans le même moule, et qu’un défaut à la mèche s’était naturellement trouvé au même endroit, puisque les bougies s’étaient éteintes dans l’ordre où on les avait allumées.
Memoires sur la vie de Marie-Antoinette, Reine de France et de Navarre, Mme. Campan, 1886
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: On Bastille Day one’s thoughts often turn to the doomed Queen of France. Hindsight is, of course, keenly precise and there were many stories told in retrospect, of the omens presaging the fall of the Ancien Regime. We have previously read of the Queen’s terror at the mysterious prophecy of a cartomancer. One wonders a little wistfully what would have happened had the Royal family successfully made their way to safety at the fortress of Montmédy. Would the Revolution have failed or was their rendezvous with Madame Guillotine written in the stars?
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.
Queen Victoria of Spain and her son, Infante Alfonso, Prince of Asturias
In honour of Mother’s Day, which is being celebrated to-day in the States, a rosy look at the nursery lives of the royal families of Europe just before the Great War.
Royal Mothers Fond of Nursery
It is generally supposed that royal mothers are able to devote very little time to their children, but this is far from being the case.
Royal children nowadays see quite as much of their parents as the children of wealthy families, writes a London correspondent of the New York Sun. Most of the queens and crown princesses in Europe at present are domestically inclined and have no yearning for banquets and functions, preferring the nursery and its pleasures.
Queen Mary of England will of course go down to posterity as a model mother, if a somewhat severe one. She keeps in such close touch with her children and their interests that she has no time for personal friendships and really divides her life between her family and the state.
The czarina [Alexandra] of Russia, until her health broke down recently, had no thought outside her children and spent whole days with her four daughters and the adored czarevitch. Even now that she has become a confirmed invalid and it is thought wiser that she should not have them with her so constantly, her one desire is to know what they are doing and her one happiness in the day, the few moments when they come and talk with her.
The Queen of Italy [Elena of Montenegro] is still another mother who has watched over her little ones since their infancy, personally directed their lives, nursed them through childish ailments and taught them their first games.
Real Home Life
These royal mothers, however, rarely parade their maternal devotion. They are seldom photographed with their sons and daughters, nor are they seen much with them in public. The opposite is true of the queen of Spain [Victoria Eugenie]. She goes about with her children constantly, drives through the streets with them to the great joy of the Spanish people, and is eternally being pictured with one or all of her small family.
This does not mean any less devotion in private, though, for Queen Victoria of Spain is a most careful mother, always supervising the diet and daily regime of the little princes and the princess and taking her greatest pleasure in devising new games for them or surprising them with wonderful toys.
As a girl she was devoted to children and always declared Queen Mary, then Princess of Wales, her ideal mother. In fact, she used to announce that she intended to have just as many children as her royal cousin and would bring them up in the same way and it would seem that she is on the road to that achievement.
But, unfortunately, while Queen Mary’s children are hardy and healthy, Queen Victoria’s little ones are not. The oldest boy, the Prince of the Asturias, is far from robust, while Don Jaime, the second, is practically dumb from a disease of the glands of the throat, and the little Infanta Beatrice, too, needs the most incessant care and attention.
The crown princess of Sweden, who was Margaret of Connaught, is another much photographed royal mother. She is tremendously proud of her sturdy youngsters, cannot bear being separated from them and manages always to take at least one with her even when she goes on state or private visits.
No Swedish Prejudice.
She brings up her children on the simplest of foods, the airiest of nurseries and the daily walk or drive in rainy or sunshiny weather. But she has never had to struggle against prejudice, as did her cousin of Spain. Sweden was quite prepared to believe in English methods of child rearing, whereas Spain was horrified at all Queen Victoria’s nursery innovations and thought it was shameful that children of the royal blood should be treated in such wise. [The Queen dismissed the nursery nurse. The horror!]
The queen of Holland [Wilhelmina] is one of the proudest and most adoring mothers in the world. Upon Princess Juliana rest all her hopes and all the hopes of the Dutch people and never was a baby more idolized. She is too young as yet to be spoiled, but even now she realizes her power and rules her father and mother and the entire palace kindly, but firmly.
The crown princess of Germany [Cecilie of Mecklenburg-Schwerin] is more fond of life and gayety than the other royal mothers mentioned. She lives in a perfect whirl of pleasure and excitement, is famous as the best-dressed princess in Europe and loves horses and sport, yet she finds time to be much with her boys. When they are all in the country she takes long walk with them and has taught them croquet and tennis.
She does not personally supervise their diet and general nursery regime, but she knows at once if all is not going well, and woe betide the person to blame.
In the Palace at Athens.
Prince and Princess George of Greece are a very devoted father and mother. In fact they are most domestic anyway and lead the quietest of lives. The princess bathes her children herself and goes about with them in the palace grounds or has them with her when she takes her afternoon drive.
Queen Maud of Norway and her son, Prince Olaf, are inseparable companions. They ride in the early mornings and after lessons are over for the day Olaf has two hours with his mother and in that time they read aloud or talk or play games and are perfectly happy.
The king [Albert] and queen [Elisabeth] of Belgium are training their children very carefully and they spend much time with their boys and their one girl. Their home life is very simple and quiet and Belgium finds it a relief to have a domestic royal family after the excitements and scandals of King Leopold’s reign.
Anaconda [MT] Standard 21 March 1913: p. 13
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:
King Leopold was dubbed “The Belgian Bull” for his many indiscretions. Mrs Daffodil will not describe his vile wickedness in the Congo; it would cast a pall over the day. What the article above omits is the haemophila of the young Spanish Prince of the Asturias and his brother’s deafness, the repeated miscarriages of Queen Wilhelmina, the badly spoilt Prince Olaf, the unhappy marriage of Princess Cecilie and her sons’ alliance with the Nazis, the unfortunate character of Queen Mary’s eldest son, the dreadful death of Queen Elena’s daughter at the hands of the Germans, and Empress Alexandra’s sorrow over her son’s illness. Although shielded from the frets of daily life by their wealth and power, these were not proof against the many worries and sorrows of motherhood.
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.
Mrs Daffodil joins the entire Empire in welcoming the newest Little Stranger of the Royal family, the as-yet-unnamed son of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex. There is, of course, much interest in what the new baby prince will be called. History shows that whatever name the proud parents select, it will instantly become the nom du jour.
BOOM IN ROYAL NAMES.
Names, according to Carlyle, are the most important of all clothings. His Majesty the King may, therefore, be looked upon as Master Clothier to the rising generation, for without doubt “Albert Edward” is the most popular name of the hour (says a London paper).
A study of the baptismal registers of several famous churches reveals this interesting fact. Within the last few weeks the registers of such typical middle-class churches as St. Pancras, St. Mary, Whitechapel. St. Clement Danes, in the Strand, and the pro-cathedral at Liverpool have been scanned, and at each of these the register bristles with Albert Edwards. Fluctuations of national sentiment are reflected as in a looking-glass in the registers of the churches named. At the time of the Coronation several girl babies were christened Corona, while on the declaration of peace quite a number of little Misses Peace confronted the clergy. When Queen Victoria died many thousands of mothers christened their newly-born children after that illustrious monarch. One loyal mother called her child Victoria Alexandra. There is quite a run on Alexandra in the parish of St. Pancras…
Particular periods of our history have invariably brought forth fashions in names. Perhaps the most striking instance on record of this curious, but inevitable, influence is that of the Puritan period, when such names as Prudence; Mercy, Faith, Hope, Charity, and so on came into vogue, to say nothing of such extravagances as Love-not-the-World, Original Sin, and the notorious name of Praise-God Barebones’ son —to wit, If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned-Barebones. The register at St. Clement Danes Church shows that among the educated and professional classes simple names are favored, while the less refined indulge in far more pretentious nomenclature. “Marys and Anns and Susans are going clean out of fashion with the lower classes,” said one parish clerk, “and Irenes and Penelopes and Gladiolas are all the rage. “Only,” he added pathetically, “they will call them Irons and Penny-lopes.”
Oamaru [NZ] Mail 11 October 1902: p. 4
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: “Albert Edward,” was the birth name of King Edward VII. Although Queen Victoria had wished him to be crowned as “King Albert Edward,” he declared that he did not wish to “undervalue the name of Albert” and diminish the status of his father with whom the “name should stand alone.”
British history records many unusual appellations such as the Sitwell brothers, Osbert and Sacheverell, Sir Cloudesley Shovell, artist Inigo Jones, and Sir Kenelm Digby. And, of course, one thinks of the many “aesthetic” boy’s names so popular in late Victorian or Edwardian fiction: Algernon, Cecil, Vyvyan, Cyril, Ernest, or Clovis.
Traditionally, royal infants are saddled with a string of names, causing difficulty at the font or the wedding altar. Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex was christened “Henry Charles Albert David;” while his father, Charles, Prince of Wales, started life as “Charles Philip Arthur George,” which a nervous Lady Diana Spencer reassembled as “Philip Charles Arthur George,” while taking her wedding vows.
ROYAL NAMES
It is unusual for a Royal baby to be christened with a single name, as Prince Harald of Norway was recently. His father, Prince Olaf, has five names, and English Royalties have generally run to about the same number. King George V had eight, but four of them—George, Andrew, Patrick, David bore a territorial significance. Queen Victoria had only two; the choice was a matter of dispute at the font, and the Prince Regent grudgingly sanctioned Victoria—”to come after the other” (Alexandrina). But in the matter of plenitude of names the Bourbon-Parma family seem to take precedence. The Empress Zita, mother of the deposed Austrian Emperor, Karl, has 10 Christian names, and her 11 brothers and sisters distributed 63 among them.
Otago [NZ] Daily Times 1 June 1937: p. 16
There is some suggestion that the new parents will choose an “unusual” or (the horror!) an American name. Political battles have often been fought over the name of an infant, who slumbers on, blissfully unaware of the controversy.
NAMING A ROYAL BABY.
London, January 4.— Reynolds newspaper says that the Royal personages at Sandringham are quarrelling over the name to be given to the latest grandson of King Edward. Those who are swayed by German influences want the new Prince called William, after the Kaiser, while another party wants him called George, and still others favour the name of Nicholas, after the Czar of Russia.
Three hundred and twenty-two British subjects have written to the Prince of Wales giving him interesting suggestions as to the naming of his baby.
New Zealand Herald 21 February 1903: p. 9
Punch, of course, had something to say on the question of what to call a newly hatched Prince:
Mr. Punch thinks that the most appropriate title for the little Prince [Albert Victor] would be “Duke of Cornwall,” seeing that he must necessarily remain so long a minor (miner.)
Cheshire [England] Observer 23 January 1864: p. 2
Mrs Daffodil supposes that the only way to satisfy everyone will be to simply string together a plethora of Royal names, perhaps in alphabetical order: Albert, Andrew, Charles, David, Edmund, Edward, Frederick, George, Henry, Patrick, Philip, William. Or possibly, in the way celebrity couples’ truncated names are joined by the media, the child will be christened “Harry-ghan.”
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.
British Association for Victorian Studies Postgraduate Pages, hosted by Carys Hudson (Queen's University Belfast) and Hollie Geary-Jones (University of Chester)
Mrs Daffodil Digresses 