Category Archives: Victorian

The Theatrical ‘Bus Driver: 1881

THE THEATRICAL ‘BUS DRIVER

Herbert Standing

“Will any gentleman get outside to ‘blige a lady?” asked the conductor. I have always regarded this question with a certain amount of distrust and suspicion, for I have felt that I am really obliging the conductor; but upon this occasion I complied with the request, and “got outside to ‘blige a lady.”

I found myself on the box-seat, the only occupant with the coachman, the hero of this little story. “Kiver it over yer knees,” he said, giving me the strap of the apron, “for it’s rather chilly to-night, sir.” I did so, lighted my pipe, and endeavoured to make myself as comfortable as I could under the circumstances, for it was raining fast.

As we drove past the gas-lamps I noticed that the driver looked at me rather curiously, and as he pulled up either to let down or take up a passenger, he leaned over towards me and, lowering his voice to a mysterious whisper, said: “You’ll excuse me, you’ll excuse me, sir, but ain’t you wot they calls one o’ the perfeshun?I confessed that such was the case.

“Ah!” said he, ” I thought you wuz. I’m wonderful fond o’ the perfeshun myself, sir, wonderful fond. I takes, as you may say, a reg’lar interest in it, and I’ll tell yer why, sir. You see, sir, my uncle, my mother’s brother, kept a theayter, leastways it warn’t ‘xacly a theayter, but wot they calls a gaff, down the Whitechapel Road, about thirty-four year ago, and afore I tuke to drivin’ I used to be with this ‘ere uncle a ‘elpin’ ‘im in the show. Mind yer, I didn’t do no actin’,” and he chuckled to himself. “Lor’ bless you, no, I warn’t no good at that, I was too nervous. My business consisted of ringing up the curtain and ringing it down agin; and werry orfen I used to hev to do it, for we used to have three shows a night. There was one piece as tuke my fancy special. There warn’t no chatter in it, but it was what they calls a tabbler wax or tabbler something, sir.”

“Tableau vivant?

“That’s it, sir, tabbler wewong, sir. I knowed it was a furrin’ word. It was a piece where three young females comes on all dressed in white, when on comes a chap dressed up with a lot o’ roses and flowers round ‘is ‘ed—they warn’t real, sir—paper ‘uns; a sheepskin tied round ‘is lines, and his nose werry red. He was a bloke as was fond o’ ‘is drop o’ somethin’ short, he was. He was carryin’ what they calls a goblet in ‘is ‘and, and he offers these ‘ere young females a drink out of this ‘ere mug, but they “wouldn’t ‘ev nothin’ to say to him, they was reg’lar teetotalers. I forget the name of the party, my memory ain’t so good as it was, but I think they calls it something like the name o’ the chap who puts ‘is money on hosses, sir. Backer or somethin’.”

I suggested Bacchus.

“That’s it,” said he, with a shout of delight; “Backus and the three Graces, sir, or somethin’ like that. Lor” bless yer soul, sir! fond o’ the perfeshun?—I should think I am. Why there ain’t a night as I gets off this ‘ere work as me and my old woman don’t go to see some piece or other. Lor” bless yer soul, sir! I remember seeing old Phelps” (he called it “Phelips “; and here I must remark that my friend, the driver spoke in a familiar—a very familiar—way of the “perfeshun” for which he professed to have such a great regard). “I remember seeing him in a piece in Droory Lane, sir. It wuz a werry gloomy piece, but werry good. It wuz wrote by that there lord who wuz rayther a goer in his time, sir—I b’lieve Lord Byron. In this ‘ere piece that Phelips— ‘Manfried,’ I think it wuz called, sir—used to go to the top of the mountain and slyoquises to himself, like; werry good piece it wuz, sir—beautiful langwidge. Often thinks about it when I’m sittin’ on this ‘ere seat, and I always finds somethin’ noo in it, sir. I took my old woman to see it, she was pleased too.”

He announced this fact as a sort of confirmation of his own idea— that there was no doubt that the piece was good, if his old woman agreed with him on the subject.

“It’s wonderful what a lot of clever people there is about. Why I was readin’ a harticle the other day in ‘The Daily Telegrarf,’ and I see some remarks as pleased me very much. Well, the follerin’ Saturday night I gets off, and I goes to the Surrey to see a play, and it wus a Roman piece, sir, where they wears toggers, and things like that—long white dresses. It wuz a piece where two blokes ‘as a row in the marketplace ” (“Julius Caesar”), “and, bless my ‘art, if they didn’t go through all the words as I see in the paper! Wonderful lot o’ learnin’ about, sir, and wonderful things is plays—leastways to me. There’s another reason, sir, that I’m fond o’ the perfeshun,” and the old man lowered his voice and coughed once or twice before he went on again.

“You see, sir, me and my old woman ‘ad been married for some time, and we ‘ad two children—two boys—and we was wonderful wishful for a little gal. Not that I’ve a word to say agin the boys, they wuz good enuff for anybody, my boys wuz, and werry good to their old father they have been; but as I wuz a-sayin’, we wuz wonderful wishful for a gal, and at last she comes, sir—our little Ally, a blue-eyed fair-‘aired little thing, as ever you saw, sir. You wouldn’t b’lieve, to look at me, that I could her ‘ad such a darter, for I ain’t ‘ansome. Well, when she wuz about seven or eight years old, I ‘ad a job to take a pleasure party down to ‘Ampton Court; comin’ back, sir, a werry ‘eavy storm come on, and I got soaked, and about four or five days after it, sir, I wuz laid up with the roomatick fever, and uncommon bad I wuz, too, reg’lar dilurus, orf me ‘ead; and when I got better, the missus wuz a sittin’ by my bedside a-holdin’ me ‘and, and she ees, ‘Jim,’ she ses to me —that’s my name, sir, Jim. And she ses, ‘Jim, how would you like our little Ally to be a fairy?’ ‘Fairy!’ I ses. ‘Yes,’ ses she, ‘in a pantomime.’ ‘No, Lizzie,’ I ses, for I thought o’ the cold nights, and I didn’t like the hidear of the blue-eyed little darlin’ comin’ out of the ‘ot theayter into the cold. But times wuz bad, and money wuz short; so the next mornin’ she takes little Ally down^to the theayter—the Lane, sir— and she comes back in about two hours’ time, and says, ‘Ally’s engaged, she’s to be a little fairy.’ I felt uncomfortable like, and yet a bit proud, sir, to think my little gal was in the perfeshun. I often, now and then, as ye may say, curse myself for that bit of pride, sir, for it pretty nearly broke my ‘art. But, there, God knows wot’s best for us, and it don’t do for me to complain. Well, to make a long story short, sir, I went back to work, and got a job a’ drivin’, and every night, when I used to finish, I used to ‘urry off to the theayter to fetch Ally; and one night I noticed as she didn’t run up to me, eager like, aa she used to do. I ses, ‘Ally, what’s the matter?’ and her anser seemed to ‘it me, and give me a sharp pain underneath my westkit, sir. ‘I don’t feel well, dad,’ she said, ‘my face is burnin’, and my ‘ead feels, oh so big.’ I took her up in my arms and ‘urried off ‘ome across the bridge with her as fast as I could go, and me and my old woman put her to bed. I went for a doctor, but afore mornin’ my little gal was in a ragin’ fever.

“Well, sir, I was obliged to go off to work next mornin’, and the day seemed terrible long, and directly I finished my job I used to ‘urry orf ‘ome to my little Ally, and the thing as pleased her most was picture of pantomimes and theaytres; and money being a bit short, I’ll tell you what I used to do: on my way ‘ome I used to tear the pictur’ advertisements with the pantomime off the walls (and uncommon rough I was on them advertisements), to take ’em ‘ome to my little gal, and as I used to ‘urry upstairs (for though we was low in pocket we was high in the attic), I’d listen for her voices ‘Mother,’ she used to say, ‘I hope father’s got another pictur’ for me,’ and when I opened the door, her eyes used to stare out of her head eager like to see what sort of a pictur’ I’d brought her.

“She lay ill like that for weeks, sir, and I used to notice (and it give me a pain over my heart, as if I’d draw this ‘ere ‘bus over it) that her eyes seemed to get bigger and her face smaller and smaller.

“One night, sir, I ‘urried ‘ome, for I had a kind o’ feelin’ on me all day that somethin’ was a-goin’ to ‘appen, and as I went upstairs, for the first time I didn’t hear my Ally’s voice—I felt myself hang back a bit as I opened the door. ‘How’s my __?’

‘Hush,’ my wife said, ‘Ally’s sleepin’.’ I walked up to her bed, and I suppose the noise roused her a bit, for she opened her eyes and looked at me. ‘I ain’t got no picture to-night, Ally.’ She didn’t say nothink, only smiled, and put up her little thin hand and stroked my face. ‘Never mind, daddy dear,’ she said at last, in a little feeble voice, ‘I don’t think I shall want any more pantomime pictures. I’ve had such a lovely dream, daddy, just like a transformation scene at a theayter, only more beautifuler ladies with long white dresses and wings like on their shoulders. I’m glad you’ve come home, daddy, for the ladies seemed to want to take me up in the clouds, like they do in the pantomimes, and I’m—oh—so glad you’ve come! You won’t have to wait for me out in the wet at the stage-door any more, daddy.’ And then she seemed to go a bit queer in her head, and talked about the theayter. She lay quiet for a short time, then gave a kind o’ start, raised herself up and said, ‘Father, they’ve come for me,’ stroked my face with her hand, put her little head down on my shoulder, sir, went off to sleep, never to wake no more.”

And as we passed the lamps I saw the tears rolling down the cheeks of my friend the driver; and, to tell the truth, I felt very choky myself.

“Good-night,” I said, as I shook hands with the old fellow.

“Good-night, sir,” he answered, gazing straight in front of him. I got down without another word, for I felt that “his eyes were with his heart, and that was far away.”

The Theatre, A Monthly Review and Magazine Vol. 1, 1 November 1881: pp. 265-68

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: After a moment to collect herself, to avoid getting “choky,” Mrs Daffodil will be Relentlessly Informative and explain that a “Gaff” might be a freak show (what the Americans call a “side-show” or it might be a cheap theatre for the working-class, especially a musical one.  The so-called “Penny Gaff Theatre,” not unlike the theatres of Shakespeare’s time, played to the Pit.

At the first penny gaff to which I came in the London Road, there was the usual crowd of working people and unemployed who are soon to be civilized and elevated to a private-theatricals standard by Beaumont trustees, and according to Mr. Besant, but who as yet have not risen above the penny-gaff level. Talking to them from steps that served as a platform was a Mephistopheles, who, like Mr. Irving, had borrowed the red dress, cock’s feather, and sword from the puppet costumer, and, unlike him, but perhaps more sensibly, had retained the moustache and forked beard of the operatic Mephisto. As in the old drama, Mephistopheles laid a wager in the court of Heaven before the real play began, so his penny-gaff successor bargained with the people before the curtain was drawn. “What’ll you see insoide, gen’lemen?” he cried; “people suspended in midair! Yes, gen’lemen. At other places a guinea’s charged, and people’s wisibly supported by one stick. But ‘ere all sticks is taken away and I’m only chargin’ you a pinny. We don’t ask a shillin’, gen’lemen, but only a pinny. What I promises outsoide, I performs in. My show is sciointifik and respectable, and a ten minutes’ respectable and sciointifik show’s better’n a hour’s rot, which is all you gets in some of your guinea theatres. Your own consciences’Il prompt you to recommen’ my show!” I give his patter, since it points out what he considered to be the principal feature of his performance.

Child labour laws did not bar children from working at all hours on the stage. As an 1862 report on the English theatrical economy remarks: “It is a well-known fact that little boys and girls of six and seven years often support a whole family by their slender earnings.”

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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Ladies Who Collect Diamonds: 1888

 

DIAMOND COLLECTIONS

A Fashionable Fad That Is Uniquely Profitable as Well.

Jewelers’ Weekly

A jeweller says: “I saw a very handsome collection of diamonds a few days ago; not that there’s anything particularly surprising in that statement, but it was where I saw them that surprised me. They lay in soft little nests of cotton wool in the depths of a pretty Indian box, and to me, used to seeing them upon the tables in my own and other dealers’ offices, they looked rather strange when displayed in a prettily furnished drawing room. The diamonds in question rested upon an antique, spider-legged table, covered with quaint and delicate carvings.

“My hostess showed me the stones in a way which let me see she fully appreciated their value, and I ventured to ask her what on earth she was doing with such a quantity of unset gems, and whether she had any intention of opening an office in opposition to myself.

“’Why,’ said she, ‘is it possible that you don’t know it’s fashionable to make a collection of diamonds or precious stones?”

“I blushingly confessed my ignorance of fashion’s decree, and handing me a cup of tea, she bade me sit down and proceeded to enlighten me.

“’Every woman who can afford the hobby,’ said she, ‘now has a collection of diamonds. They are often bought under a guarantee that the jeweller who sells them will take them back at a certain percentage of the cost, and in my estimation they are better than stocks and bonds anyway as an investment, because their value doesn’t fluctuate to any extent and—because they are. That’s why!’

“I ventured to suggest that the latter reason was rather a feminine one and asked for further particulars.

“’Well,’ she continued, ‘there isn’t much more. A great many ladies of my acquaintance have snug little sums laid away in gems, but you may be sure they don’t let everybody know it, and it’s only their most intimate friends who have seen them. We who haven’t quite so valuable a collection, however, frequently meet at friendly tea parties, where we show our treasures and sometimes do a little trading; just enough to make us feel like business women, you know.

“I mentally blessed these ‘friendly tea parties,’ and ever since my visit have indulged in the wish that the number of their fair participants may multiply and prosper.”

The Saint Paul [MN] Globe 26 February 1888: p. 14

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  It is a pity that some enterprising lady did not start the “Gem of the Month Club” in support of the jewel collectors. Mrs Daffodil considers that those persons who host parties for their friends where they attempt to sell plastic storage pieces and cosmetics are missing a lucrative opportunity.

The narrator’s condescending attitude towards ladies and their jewels was, alas, universal. A lady was happy to accept gems and jewellery from her husband or any other interested gentleman party, but would trust him to secure them at the vault and provide adequate cover in case of loss or theft. She was expected to adorn herself in the fruits of her husband’s industry (or the forbidden fruits of her personal affairs) and was told not to worry her pretty little head over her jewels’ safety or value. This perceived ignorance came in useful when ladies needed to have paste replicas made so that the genuine necklace or tiara might be put into the hands of some discreet pawnbroker for a little ready cash.

A YEAR TOO LATE.

A nobleman went to a pawnbroker to borrow a thousand pounds upon his wife’s jewels, and said, “I want you to take the stones out of the settings and put false ones in their stead, as I do not wish her to know that I have pawned them.”

“You are too late,” said the pawnbroker,” “for I purchased the real stones of my lady last year.”

2,000 Jokes and Jests: Wit, Humor and Anecdote, Native and Foreign, Classic and Otherwise, 1893  P. 32

 

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.

Suffering from Bazaars: 1867

Collinson, James, 1825-1881; At the Bazaar

CONCERNING BAZAARS.

I wonder who “got up” the first bazaar? “The world knows nothing of its greatest men” we are told, but if the inventor of bazaars can lay claim to greatness on account of having invented bazaars, I think it is just as well for him, or her, that the world knows nothing of them. The temptation of those who have suffered either as buyers or as sellers to curse their memories would be terrible in the extreme; in fact, awful as might be the consequences of indulging in a fierce string of invective, I do not think that the temptation so to indulge could be resisted; and then consider, not only the quality, but the quantity of vituperation, for who has not at least once during their life-time suffered from bazaars?

There is a society [in aid of the deserving poor] and all the ways of collecting money from said society have been “played out” as the Yankees say, and if something is not done the society will be “played out” too…

The “Meetings in Aid” talk to empty benches, and the plates at the door have only a few coppers upon them, the collecting cards show a nil return, the clergymen will not lend their pulpits, and at last some one as desperately energetic upon the subject of the [charity]… proposes the getting up of a bazaar!

How easy it is to write those words, with what volubility they slide from our tongues; but oh the difficulty, practically and actually, to “get up” a bazaar! Have any of you experienced it? Have you been surfeited with dolls, smothered with mats, plagued with pen-wipers, hung over with anti-macassars, and found your life a burden to you with pincushions? Have you ever known the torment of not only having to collect these things among your friends, but of having to make them up yourself? Every table in your drawing-room is strewn over with bits of cloth, shreds of silk, ends of ribbon, strings of beads, pieces of braid, and squares of cardboard! These are a small portion of the raw material waiting to be made use of; but besides these there are on other tables, and on chairs, on the top of the piano, on the chimney piece, everywhere and anywhere, undressed dolls of all sizes and shapes—from the large wax with the flaxen curls and the terribly vacant blue eyes, to the doll of wood with the stiff joints, and the hair and-the boots put on with a paint-brush!

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Then in the drawers, or upon the shelves of your wardrobe, there will surely be stored articles contributed by friends, and of course ready for the bazaar. A twin-sister of the blue-eyed flaxen-haired doll, which you have to dress, is here, brilliant in white muslin over pink calico, with a gipsy hat and a scarlet opera cloak—congruity is seldom remembered in doll’s attire. Then there is the nun-doll, and the Normandy peasant doll, and the Newhaven fishwife, and the buy-a-broom girl, and Red riding-hood, and a bride and a bridesmaid, and an old grand-dame. The gentlemen dolls are comparatively scarce, but we have the negro minstrel…and we have a sailor, a collegian, a soldier and a policeman, and that is, I think, the sum-total of our “Mr. Dolls,” to quote Eugene Wrayburn, in “Our Mutual Friend.”

puppies pen wiper.JPG

And then the pen-wipers! There is the cocked-hat shape and the flat-bottom boat, and the set of melon-shaped leaves worked with beads, and the other set of leaves, with a thing stretched upon them intended to represent a dog—it is like no dog that I ever saw—and dozens of others all equally ingenious and useless.

cms 744974

The pincushion family is even more numerous: they begin with the ambitious “Box”—that which once held fragrant ” Havannahs” is now trimmed with lace and ribbon—and the round affair, with the little glass in the centre for flowers, and go down to the smallest thing which can be made and stuffed. We have the Wellington boot and the Blucher boot, and the high-heeled slipper! we have the church-steeple, the belfry bell, and the kitchen-bellows! we have balls, hoops, and croquet mallets—these last are quite a new invention; we have pincushions for the workbox, for the pocket, and the belt; we have pincushions into which it is impossible to put pins, and pincushions from which it is impossible to take pins out! We have hard pincushions and soft pincushions, and pincushions which are neither hard nor soft—in short, pincushions enough to set you mad, and to make you wish that there were no such things as pins in the world!

And then the mats. Of all the rubbish which a bazaar collects together defend me from the mats! Mats of worsted-work and mats of beads, mats of crochet and of knitting, mats of shaded wool crimped to represent moss, and mats of shaded paper crimped to represent leaves! Mats of every size, shape, and colour; mats for the tea-kettle and the tea-urn, the lamps, and the jugs! Mats made of steel rings and—yes I have seen them—mats made of shirt buttons!

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When I add to these the handsome pieces of worsted and patchwork (which rarely sell), cushions, slippers, tea-pot “cosys,” fender-stools, foot-stools, chairs, borders for table-covers, borders for chimney pieces, banner screens and hand-screens, sachets, what-nots, carriage-bags, travelling-bags, bags for nothing at all—when I enumerate the “anti-macassars” —why not call them “anti-trotter-oil pomades?” —in knitting, netting, tatting, and crochet, in braiding and applique, in everything that is possible and impossible—when I try to give even a faint idea of the assortment of children’s clothes, and of the hundred and one knickknacks for which I could not find either a name or a use, you will have some idea, if you have no personal experience, of the “matter” which accumulates when a “bazaar” is about to be got up!

But far be it for me to say that a bazaar is all work and no play; on the contrary, it is generally considered “delightful” and “great fun,” except perhaps by “papa,” who never can find a chair to sit upon while the bazaar mania lasts; and also by “mamma,” who, after the first few days, begins to think that the “girls” are wasting their time, and that the bazaar gives Mr. Verdant Green, the curate, too many opportunities for “dropping in.”

bazaar apron with leaves

But “girls,” as a rule, like fancy work, they have a positive genius for slippers, and are in their element among mats; besides, won’t it be nice to appear in pretty new muslins and becoming hats on the day of the bazaar; and “won’t it be fun to act shop-maids!” Such a good excuse for a little “innocent flirtation.” Oh, yes; the young ladies are all sympathy for the [deserving poor]!

But the really hard work begins when it is announced that enough of dolls have been dressed, pincushions stuffed, and rubbish generally collected; then the day for the sale has to be fixed, placards have to be drawn out, printed, pasted, and posted! the room has to be swept and garnished, the tables have to be set and ornamented, and the wares have to be spread out! How joyfully the young ladies assemble the day before the bazaar to do the work of decoration, and how fagged they are before evening, how weary of the sight of pink and blue glazed calico of laurel branches and paper flowers, of hammers and of nails! But there are not—more is the pity—any fairy wands now-a-days, and if we don’t like looking at bare walls while we are dining or dancing in public, or while we are selling dolls for charity, we must just buy the hammers and the nails, the glazed calico and the paper flowers, and set to work to make the bare walls look smart. Indeed, a great deal of what I may collectively call “hammering and nailing” goes on in the world before we can dine or dance, or get married, or even see our friends in a quiet way: yes, and even when the child is born, and the man dies, we have the frosted christening cake, and the plumes upon the hearse.

But the decorations are finished at last, and the tables are arranged, and how difficult it was to arrange them in the most effective manner, and so to dispose the dolls, the pincushions, the pen-wipers, and all kinds of rubbish so as to prevent Mrs. Smith from fancying that her contribution was not thought so much of as the contribution of Mrs. James. The sale begins at one o’clock, and by half-past twelve the fair shopwomen, in the new muslins and the becoming hats, are in their places, with little cash boxes beside them, and little piles of small silver for change, and a little pencil to jot down accounts.

female members of charity bazaar 1885

Lady workers at a charity bazaar, including a fortune teller in the front row, 1885

There is a great deal of variety about these amateur shopwomen: there is the timid seller, who either sits down behind her counter, or else shields herself behind a screen of antimacassars, or pinafores, which she has ingeniously suspended for the purposes of fence; she is always changing the position of her wares, and hoping that they look well from the outside; after everything she sells she counts her money, and she is the only one from whom, on the first day of the sale, any article can be got a bargain. She never asks any one to buy anything, but when people come up to her stall she gently puts some little thing that she fancies they may be looking for, more prominently in view. It is to her that children who have small sums, varying from one penny to six, to invest in behalf of the [charity], invariably resort; she is almost certain to cheat herself rather than disappoint the eager little buyers, and to give a shilling doll for sixpence; indeed I think it may be said that the timid seller does not make much.

Then there is the worrying seller: she is generally a “fast” young lady, and she keeps shop as though she had served her time to a “fancy business.” Her wares are arranged to the best advantage, she knows where everything is, and if she have not exactly what you ask for, she will give you something far nicer and prettier, she says, in every way; she is never at a loss for anything, from a sharp answer to a penny top; it is very hard to escape from her without buying: you feel that you are being taken in, but you have no power to resist; she tells you that the article you are looking at is really “ridiculously, shamefully cheap! that you never saw so pretty a “cosy,” so “lovely a fender-stool,” or such a “love” of a smoking cap; and then, if you are a gentleman, you probably buy the three articles, although perhaps, strictly speaking, you have no tea-pot for the “cosy,” no fender for the stool, and no head for the cap, for you don’t smoke! and having paid for them you are about to “move on,” trying to feel that you have not thrown away your money, when the worrying seller again attacks you to take a ticket for a raffle— “A splendid cushion, worked in beads, for sixpence! fancy that cushion for sixpence!”

lily cushion

Well, you think it would be cheap at the money, and although you never won anything at a raffle in your life, you give your sixpence, and you are allowed to escape for the present.

Then there is the quiet, lady-like seller, about whose table I think the steadiest trade is carried on; she does not force you to buy whether you like it or not, neither will she allow people who really want to buy to pass on to other tables, as the timid seller would do. She is generally a pretty girl too, and of course the gentlemen crowd about her, and the gentlemen attract the ladies, and so the world goes round!

Then there, is the seller great at expedients by which to get off the large unsaleable articles, and the small rubbishy articles, and from whom, especially on the second day, you can get the most wonderful and unexpected bargains. For the large articles, such as worked chair-covers, cushions, banner-screens, &c, &c, she gets up raffles, she charters unwary young gentlemen, and giving them the articles to be raffled for, and a piece of paper and a pencil, she sends them about through the room to collect names and shillings. Then, with the smaller things, actual rubbish, which no one in their senses would buy, she makes up a raffle in which there are no blanks! The name of the particular chiffon is written on a slip of paper, the slips are put into a “wheel of fortune,” you give your sixpence and draw your slip, and get your doll, your pincushion, your pen-wiper, or your mat!

There is always a great deal of excitement round this seller’s table; she is so full of fun, and tells you so pleasantly, if you lose in one of the large raffles, “to try again, and you will have better luck!” that you do try again, and if, as is very probable, you have not better luck, she will perhaps console you by telling you that “everyone can’t win.”

charity bazaar peddler doll.JPG

And among the buyers there is quite as much variety as among the sellers. I have often thought that if, of the people who go to an exhibition—say of pictures—those who go to see and to be seen, those who go to meet their friends, those who go because everyone goes, those who go because they may as well kill time by staring at pictures as kill it by not staring at them, were all turned out, the people who go to see the pictures from the pure and simple love of art, would be few indeed. And so with bazaars—of those who go for amusement, from curiosity, and from idleness were all turned out; those who go to buy, and especially those who buy for the sake of charity, would be a decided minority.

But among the actual buyers at a bazaar there is, as I have said, a great variety. There is the gentleman who declares that he intends to lay out exactly half-a-crown, and who lays out five pounds before an hour; there is the hard-to-be-pleased buyer, who is also determined to lay out a certain sum, who is equally determined not to be imposed upon, and not to be inveigled into putting in for a raffle, this buyer (generally a rich old maid) turns a deaf ear to the worrying seller, while she coolly examines almost every article upon the table, and probably ends by walking off to another stall without having opened her purse; she finally expends her money upon useful frocks and pinafores for her little nephews and nieces at home.

Then there is the reckless buyer—by far the more numerous class—who buys the most absurd and utterly useless things, and who, moreover, carries them about for the rest of the day, and finds them dreadfully in the way. And there is the buyer who is watching and waiting for bargains, and always asking “What is the lowest you will take for this?These buyers disarrange the table sadly and take up the different articles and pinch them and pull them and squeeze them in a most tormenting way; they open everything in the shape of a box, and generally smell them too; they examine into the mysteries of the doll’s attire in a very impertinent, I might almost say indelicate, manner; they turn the “cosies” inside out, and count the needles in the needle-books; but the way in which they maltreat the mats is really shocking. Indeed mats generally at a bazaar have a bad time of it, there is no respect for them, dolls sit upon them, and they are flattened out of all shape by cushions.

1871 charity bazaar for consumption hospital

Charity Bazaar in Aid of the National Hospital for Consumptives, 1871

I think the grand mistake of all in connexion with bazaars is in making them to last two days; when the second day comes the sellers are tired, the wares are tossed, and the whole affair is as flat as stale champagne. Of course there are exceptions, and I have myself been at bazaars which were better the second day than the first.

Finally, it has always been a perplexing question to me to know what becomes of the things which are not sold at bazaars! Do the dolls emigrate? do the pincushions and the pen-wipers and the mats melt? or is there a “Hades” for fancy work—a “Happy hunting ground” for Chiffons, into which they vanish and are heard of no more? Or are they returned to their original owners, or makers rather, to be pulled out of workboxes, or writing-desks after many years, and contemptuously thrown aside with the remark—”Look at that dreadful old thing which I made for the [Charity] Bazaar!” S. G.

The Ladies’ Cabinet of Fashion, Music & Romance, 1867

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Mrs Daffodil has been reluctantly involved with several charitable jumble sales. Not only was it painful to see the waste of time and materials expended in inadequate fancy-work, one had existential questions about why someone would have deliberately dressed a pair of taxidermied rooks in 18th century costumes and posed them under a glass bell as if dancing a minuet. The misguided horrors that had once been the ornament of  some suburban villa were truly shocking to contemplate. It is often said that one man’s meat is another man’s poison. Mrs Daffodil fears that a great many people required a stomach-pump.

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.

 

Twelve Golden Rules for Women Cooks: 1838

the cook hints to servants 1843

The Cook, from Hints to Servants, 1843

TWELVE GOLDEN RULES FOR WOMEN COOKS.

[Extracted from that excellent work, “Essays on Good-Living.”]

Never get drunk—until the last dish be served up.

Never be saucy—unless you happen to be in your airs and can’t help it; but then, take care to have the last word.

Never be sulky—unless you have a great dinner to dress; your mistress will then be sure to coax you.

Never spoil a joint—unless you have been unjustly found fault with, (which must be the fact if you have been accused at all); in which case, if complaint be made of its having been under-done, you may, next time, roast it to a cinder; and, if that should not give satisfaction, you may, the following day, send it up raw.

Never get dinner ready at the time it is ordered—unless you know that the family are not ready for it; in which case, send it up to a moment; if it be cold and spoiled, that, you know, will not be your fault.

Never admit that you are in the wrong—unless the devil will have it so that you cannot help it. If you should transgress your orders, stand stoutly to it, that they were such as you have followed; and, if you have not brass enough for that, say, you thought they were.

Never take snuff –unless when you are mixing a stew, or stirring the soup. Nor never examine the latter without holding a lighted tallow candle obliquely over the pot; if it should not enable you to see quite to the bottom, what drops from it will at least enrich the contents; and when you taste it, be sure to throw back what remains in your spoon.

 Never wash your hands—until you have made the pies; you must do it then, and to do it sooner is only wasting time and soap.

Never give warning to quit your place—until you are quite sure that it will put the family to the greatest inconvenience, and then, be off at a moment; say, “your father’s dead, or your mother’s dying, and you cannot stay if it was ever so.” If warning be given to you, from that moment you may spoil every thing that comes under your hands.

Never tell tales of the family you are with—unless they should be to their disadvantage; nor never speak well of your last mistress, unless it be to contrast her with the present.

Never cheat—unless you can do it without being discovered; but, if you don’t yourself cheat, never prevent others—“Your master can afford it;”— “Service is no inheritance;”—and “poor servants and tradesfolk must live.”

Never tell a lie —when you can get as much by telling the truth; nor ever tell the truth, when you can get more by telling a lie.

Never support a sweetheart out of the house—unless you can’t get one in.

The London Jester; Or, Museum of Mirth, Wit, and Humour, 1838: pp. 100-101

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Of all the domestic plagues, the Cook was believed to be the worst. Complaints were heard on all sides about cooks who were ill-tempered, dishonest, dirty, and intemperate. A truly good cook knew that her value was above rubies and a potential employer would have a job to impress her. Cook’s whims and fancies were Law. And when a gem of a cook was found, other ladies conspired to lure her away.  This rarely ended well:

STOLE HER COOK.

Red Bank, N.J.  Because Mrs. C. B. West stole her “jewel of a cook,” Mrs. G.E. Poulson built a “spite fence” and threatened to horsewhip. West had her arrested. The Evening Sun [Baltimore MD] 9 May 1913: 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.

Left-Over Laundry: 1889

 

laundry 1901

LEFT-OVER LAUNDRY

Novel Business of a Smart Young Boston Man

“Those bundles,” said he, “which that young man took off with him were what would be called left-over laundry. That is, they have lain upon our shelves for several months since they were washed and have never been called for.”

“Do you have many such bundles?” “Well, yes, we do. That young man who just went out calls here about once a month and he gets just about as many bundles every time. You see there are a great many forgetful people in this world, and many of them will take a bundle of clothes to some laundry office, and then, before it comes time to take them out, will have forgotten where they left them, and so the stuff is left on the agent’s hands. Then again many of the bundles are left by drummers and other travellers who are called away from town before their clothes are washed, and either do not come back at all or have forgotten the place when they do come.

“Then there is still another class: Young men who have money one day and are broke the next. These fellows will often leave large bundles and then will not have money enough to spare to get them out for some time and when they do get them the laundry has been in the office so long that they feel ashamed to call for it. From these and some other causes we have many bundles which would never be called for it they laid on our shelves for ten years. Until within a few months all of these bundles have been a dead loss to us, as we are obliged to pay the laundryman for washing the clothes and then get nothing for them.

“As they are all second-hand clothes we could not sell them until this young man came long and he takes all we have off our hands. What does he do with them? Why, he sells them, of course, he makes a business of it, and goes all over the city and suburbs, collecting this uncalled-for laundry. Of course he has to buy it blind, as he is not allowed to examine the bundles before purchasing them, and so he gets all sorts of things in all sorts of conditions, but as, for instance, he only has to pay ten cents for a shirt, and often gets one which is nearly new and costs perhaps $2, he can afford to get stuck on a few of the things.

“He has made it his business to get acquainted with poor young men and women, to whom he sells articles for about a quarter of what they would cost in the stores and still manages to clear from 300 to 500 per cent on his sales. Not a bad profit, if the sales are big enough, is it? And the business is an easy and a clean one to handle. Altogether it is one of the most novel methods of making a living that I have heard of for some time.”

Denver [CO] Rocky Mountain News 29 December 1889: p. 17

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Mrs Daffodil is always interested to hear of ingenious entrepreneurs who find ways to re-use clothing—an idea which is attracting new interest these days. We have heard of the lady who renovated silks, and of the widow who cleverly restyled outworn fashions.  Second-hand clothing was a lucrative business, either as clothing or even as rags. Certainly it would have been a more cleanly trade than handling the clothes at slop– or pawn-shops. One wonders if the young man kept a store-front or if he went door-to-door to those poor young men and women, peddling the contents of the bundles.

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 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.

 

A Lady’s Coolness Upon a Trying Occasion: 1838

the robber and his child 1832

The Robber and His Child, Karl Friedrich Lessing, 1832 https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/the-robber-and-his-child/TQEZjvDA3qdUXw

THE DANGER OF GIVING WAY TO FEELING IN COMMITTING A HIGHWAY ROBBERY.

At Wandsworth Petty Sessions on Tuesday, John Wood, who described himself as a plumber, and who appeared in a very wretched state, was charged with a highway robbery upon the person of Mrs Chevalier, the wife of a respectable tradesman living in Yardley street, Wilmington square, Clerkenwell. lt appeared from the evidence of the prosecutrix, that on Monday last she left home by a stage-coach on a visit to a friend in the neighbourhood of Wimbledon. On her return, being too late for the coach, she was compelled to proceed on foot to Fulham, across the common: it was then about six o’clock. After she had proceeded a short distance the prisoner sprang upon her and demanded her money; at the same moment he presented a pistol at her head, and threatened that he would at once blow her brains out if she did not deliver up to him what money she had about her; adding, that he was reduced to the last extremity, that he had a wife and family at home in a starving state, and he did not care what became of him. She then, under the fear of his threat, gave him what money she had, which amounted to about £3, which consisted of nine half-crowns, a half-sovereign, and the remainder in silver and copper. After the prisoner had robbed her he put the pistol in his pocket. She then remarked to him that she had to go to London, and as he had taken from her all the money she had, perhaps he would let her have two shillings to pay for the omnibus to London, and a halfpenny to go over the bridge. He gave her what she required. She then remarked to him that she would be obliged to him if he would accompany her within a short distance of Fulham, to protect her, as, being alone, she might be again stopped, and if she were stopped, the person would not believe but that she had money about her. The prisoner agreed, and they walked together some distance. They passed two or three men who were walking singly. The prosecutrix, however, however, did not think it prudent to alarm them; but, on coming up to a policeman, she instantly acquainted him, and at the same time seized the prisoner, who, having used great exertions, extricated himself from her grasp and ran away. He was pursued by the police-officer, who speedily apprehended him. The prisoner did not deny the charge, but stated that he had a wife and five children at home, who were in a state of the most deplorable destitution. He was committed for trial. The bench highly praised the conduct of the prosecutrix, who had displayed such coolness and intrepidity upon the trying occasion in which she was placed.

The Examiner [London, England] 25 March 1838: p. 12

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Mrs Daffodil confesses that, while she admires the impressive coolness the lady displayed on this trying occasion, she still feels a certain, possibly unwarranted, pity for the plumber with the large family in such a deplorable state of destitution. What he did was certainly wrong; yet instead of running away, he gave Mrs Chevalier omnibus fare and agreed to “protect her.” The Poor Laws were pitiless; tearing families apart to send them to the Workhouse with cold charity, indeed. One hopes that the Parish gave the starving family some relief and that the prosecutrix pleaded for mercy for the hapless man.

 

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.