Category Archives: Wonders and Curiosities

Miss Fannie Harley’s Trousers: 1919

Miss Fannie Harley, magazine writer and traveler, in her chic walking costume. It was in this costume that Miss Harley recently appeared in a New York street and attracted considerable attention. Miss Harley in her house costume of blue and white plaid gingham. The suit is trimmed with plain blue gingham bands and with white cords and tassels. Street costume of which yachting serge with a girdle of cerise taffeta and cuffs trimmed with cerise buttons. Marabou around the neck and the skirt. The French parasol is of cerise.

‘Harleys’ for Housewives and Business Girls

Wear ‘Em to Work, Walk Instead of Hobble, Get Around Better, Have Comfort and Ease and Health—And Put Skirts on Bow-Legged, Knock-Kneed and Pigeon-Toed Men.

By Fay Stevenson.

New York, Oct. 8 Young ladies of the business brigade, stop wearing décolleté blouses and tight skirts. Be modest and wear trousers! Now, don’t all blush and gasp until you finish reading what sort of trousers they are.

Miss Fannie Harley 1910-1915 in the street costume that caused a sensation in New York.

Dr. Mary Walker wore men’s clothes several years ago, but they were so very, very masculine that no typically feminine woman wanted to don them. Now we have Miss Fannie Harley, who has come on from the West and dazzles us all by walking down Fifth avenue in a costume of white serge trousers, or harleys, as she prefers to call them, spelled with a small “h.” But call them what you please, there is absolutely nothing masculine about them, for they are made of silks, cretonnes and challis, and trimmed with marabout, chiffons, buttons and roses.

“I don’t advocate trousers for all other women,” Miss Harley told me, as we sat in her room at the McAlpin, surrounded by the most feminine materials you can imagine, even if they were cut in two pieces instead of one at the base. “I can see how the woman who has worn skirts all her life would find it very embarrassing to jump into a pair of harleys and walk right out before the public. But at the same time I think my harleys twice as modest with their round-necked smocks and coatees as the décolleté blouses and ridiculously tight skirts I see. For instance, if I were a business girl, say a stenographer in an officer where there were a number of men, I would much rather appear in a pair of harleys and one of my smocks than in the sleeveless, backless, ankle-binding dresses so many young women wear. Is there any immodest about me?”

Keeps Touch of Feminine.

Miss Harley stood up and let me survey her form head to foot. She is tall and slender, with the firm and supple form of one who has lived much in the open. She wore what she termed her “utility” harleys, which are made of khaki soutache and reach clear to her ankles.

While not the Utility Suit mention in the article, this is the walking suit pictured at the head of the post, with matching hat, 1919

A little white linen smock very similar to our middies came just over her hips and over this she slipped a khaki jacket with a belted effect. Her feet were clad in tan, round toed shoes with a military heel. But Miss Harley’s love of the feminine, despite her preference for trousers, displayed itself in a touch of blue. The harleys were bound with blue braid and trimmed with big blue bone buttons. All of Miss Harley’s clothes match in color schemes. Her smock also bore traces of the same shade of blue in embroidered initials.

I was forced to admit her harleys do not display her figure as much as the present-day tight skirts would. They are loose over the hips and shirred along the outer seam. At the base they measure sixteen inches.


“Your modern skirts are one-legged trousers, mine are two,” she laughed as she strutted about the room in a free and lively manner unhampered by swaddling clothes. “Now see how much better a business girl could get on and off cars and elevators and go back and forth from desk to desk and corridor to corridor.

And the housewife could be so much more efficient about her work if she could walk instead of having to hobble. Nurses and waitresses, all women who work, could get about their work so much better in harleys. Oh, how I hate skirts!

Not Limited to Khaki.

“Of course this would be a perfectly appropriate rig for the business girl,” she continued, walking about the room, “but I know right well it is not dressy enough for her. However, she need not choose khaki for her materials; she may have serge or broadcloth, satin or silk, or any of the new fabrics. And as to blouses she may have cerise or any color she loves. I believe in every woman keeping her feminine love of color and frills and furbelows, but I hate to see her incase her limbs in skirts as the Chinese used to bind their feet.

“Now when a woman wants to go to the matinee or to an afternoon reception or just to take a stroll down Fifth avenue, what prettier gown can she desire than this?” asked Miss Harley, making a lightning change from her khaki harleys to a pair of peacock blue silk ones. These harleys are shirred in even more artistic designs than the others. And they are trimmed in fancy silver-toned buttons which are heirlooms of Miss Harley’s. Her blouse is of crepe meteor with a band of Venise reaching to the hips and a dainty ruche of maline at the rather high V-shaped neck. Over this Miss Harley slipped a charming little coatee all shirrs and ruffles with a delightfully long cape collar. It, too, is trimmed with the heirloom buttons. A dainty pair of black velvet pumps and a walking stick complete this frock, giving it a decidedly Parisian touch.

Hats to Match.

If you are wondering about Miss Harley’s hats, they are all the same shape, and she has a different one for each pair of harleys. She is her own milliner as well as her own designer and dressmaker. And the reason she always wears her hats and gowns made from the same model is because she insists that when a woman finds that she looks well in a certain style of hat or suit she should always keep that standardized style for herself. She may change in material and color scheme as much as her nature demands, but she should appreciate what lines and angles belong to her.

One time I met a lady whom I thought was perfectly beautiful,” said Miss Harley, “but the next time I met her I wondered why my first impressions were that she was so beautiful, for this time she was positively ugly, and then it dawned upon me, ‘she is wearing a different hat and gown.’ The first time it was in the spring and she wore a chic little mushroom shape which hid an enormously large nose and brought out her best lines, the next time it was in midsummer and she had changed to a large flat hat which openly displayed all her worst points, especially the large nose. Now, if that woman had only clung to that little mushroom shape, no matter whether she changed it to felt or straw or what shades she selected, she would have always passed for a beautiful woman. Personally I prefer the tam style, only I look well with my tam slightly trimmed. I know that is my style of hat and I shall always cling to it.

“And now if I want to be a real dandy and go to a dance or a social affair I have this.” Another lightning change and Miss Harley stood before me in a pink chiffon over pink satin.

The harleys were not only shirred but slit just the tiniest bit and lace inserted. The smock was trimmed with cabochon and strands of pearls in motifs: in fact, there were fifty feet of pearls and seventeen of cabochon. So you see harleys, or trousers, can be worn and one still retain an enormous portion of femininity.

“But what about coats for cold weather?” I asked. “Those little coatees to your khaki and peacock blue silk suits would not be warm enough.”

“A large cape or a big overcoat with an artistic cape collar is what I always wear,” was Miss Harley’s immediate reply. “I think the dolman and cape about the only graceful garment that women of today wear.

“If I had my way from an artistic point of view I would put all slender willowy women in harleys and many men in skirts!”

“But why in skirts?” “Well,” continued Miss Harley between her giggles, “once I stood on a public corner and watched the men file by and of all the knock knees, bow legs and pigeon toes that were displayed I decided that they ought to hid under petticoats and give us a chance to don trousers.

“But there is one thing I don’t like about the woman who slips into a pair of trousers,” added Miss Harley, “And that is she must avoid all masculine attitude, keep her hands out of her pockets and not smoke cigarettes. My idea of harleys is for comfort and ease and health, but I think every woman ought to be as feminine as she can always.

The Weekly News [Denver CO] 9 October 1919: p. 7

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Miss Fannie Harley (and Mrs Daffodil assumes that small boys and young men snickered privately at her Christian name in this sartorial context) was well-known as a travel writer, and although she disliked the term “lecturer,” she did the circuit, speaking on dress reform and “The Irony of Fashion,” as well as  “Mexico, Anti-capital Punishment, Prison Betterment, Bird Protection, Anti-vivisection, Muzzling Hat Pins, etc.”

She was much in the news between 1915 and 1919, and, possibly due to her youth and beauty, was treated with less mockery than most dress reformers. She also repudiated that name:

“Do not say I am a reformer for I am simply trying to give the fruits of my labors to the world that all may profit by my efforts.”

“My costume consists of two pieces, an upper garment and a bifurcated lower garment which I always designate by the name of harleys. The upper garment is always worn over the harleys and fitted at the shoulders, falls in graceful and natural lines to a point between the hips and knees and does not define a waistline. The harleys fitting easy around the waist and about the hips, slightly taper to the ankles, and cover each leg separately. The corset is absolutely eliminated. Ridges and rigidity would spoil the whole thing.”

Miss Harley survived into the 1950s, seeing her bifurcated costumes vindicated as working women adopted them during the Second World War.

One of Miss Harley’s house costumes

A gentleman makes the case for short skirts for both sexes in this previous post.

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

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



An Imperial Secret: 1903


Tsar Nicholas and Tsarevich Alexei



[From Our Own Correspondent.)


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


The Spook Party: 1897: To Celebrate National Ghost Hunting Day

spook party

Since it is, Mrs Daffodil is reliably informed, “National Ghost Hunting Day” in the United States, here is an encore presentation of a popular post on fashionable “spook parties” held in Paris.


An X Ray Diversion for the Paris Fashionables.

They Produce All Kinds of Fearful Shudders.

Curious Effects of the Roentgen Rays on Porcelain

And Crystal and Humans Coated With a Fluorescent Substance.

Paris, March. 30. Ghost parties are the latest diversion of fashionable folks who have money and brains in sufficient quantities to manage them. The Roetgen rays make these society functions possible, and their originators say that the amusement is only in its infancy. If this be true, it is difficult to picture what form the ghost parties will take when they are fully developed, for even in their present stage they are calculated to send every known variety of shiver and shudder and chill through the marrow of the spectator. Certainly new emotions of the shivery kind will have to be developed to keep pace with the growth of the ghost party.

The first essential of a spook function is a drawing-room of fair dimensions, containing a quantity of porcelain, glass, crystal and enamel bric-a-brac. Large vases should be numerous, and if the hostess is well supplied with diamonds, additional effect can be obtained if her faith in the integrity of her guests permits her to scatter the gems about in conspicuous places.

In a corner of the apartment should be the X ray apparatus, enveloped in black cloths. This machine only occupies as much space as the ordinary magic lantern, and as the lights in the room are extinguished before the guests enter, its presence is not apparent. An operator skilled in management of X rays should be engaged, also a couple of assistants, one of them a woman, to render various services.

The explanation of the need of the porcelain vases and bric-a-brac of various material rests in the fact that these articles being of fluorescent substance, become phosphorescent at a certain distance behind the X ray apparatus

At the first function of the kind held here the guests were greatly startled, and two or three of the women guests fainted from terror. No explanation of the mysteries were vouchsafed beforehand and the guests imagined that they were in the midst of the occult.

The host had secured form a maker of physical apparatus several glass hands, glass legs and other paraphernalia of the human body, and these, under the careful manipulation of the X ray operator and his assistants, were made to appear especially weird in the darkened room.

When the guests had assembled in the drawing-room the tinkling of a tiny bell sounded, and then appeared what seemed to be a human hand of dazzling brightness. It waved about and circled over the apartment and then disappeared. It was merely a glass hand, made phosphorescent by the action of the penetrating X rays, but it was ghostly enough to satisfy the cravings of the mightiest Mahatma in the love of theosophy.

Then a table in the corner of the room, loaded with dainty cups and saucers, suddenly blazed up out of the darkness. Only the cups and saucers were visible, they seeming to be resting on air. Then they faded away and a huge vase in an opposite corner loomed up with bewildering brilliancy. Next the scores of bits of porcelain in a cabinet were illuminated, each piece standing out separately in the darkness, all other objects and the cabinet itself being invisible.

A dazzling ball of fire then descended slowly from the ceiling, and swung back and forth over the heads of the guests. It was simply a glass sphere, which had been hung on wire prior to the coming of the guests; and was easily operated by one of the assistants standing in a corner of the apartment.

The most interesting and ghostly exhibition of them all came last, when the parting of a pair of portieres at the end of the room revealed a human form all in a blaze of light. The apparition moved slowly forward, and then it was seen that the figure was that of an unusually tall woman.

The phantom at first held her hands so that they shielded the face, and when they were lowered the sight of that face caused the men to move back nervously, nearly all of the women screamed, and two or three fainted. The face had a greenish pallor, and instead of eyes, there were two black holes. The mouth was closed and the hair streamed about, lit by phosphorescent flame. Every few seconds the spook raised her hands and seemed to scatter bouquets of flame about the room. Then when the bell tinkled the phantom receded slowly, and gradually faded from view.

This ended the party, the lights were turned on and the hostess explained how she had managed the mysteries. Everything was soon made clear, except the mystery of the human figure, and this, too, was easily explained. A clever figurante was engaged from a theatre and was concealed behind some draperies. She was enveloped in a veil which had been covered by a fluorescent substance, and her face and hair were glazed with a phosphorescent sulphate of zinc powder. This preparation, of course, could not be applied to the eyes, hence the black holes when the phantom appeared under the X rays.

Nannette du Bignon.

Times-Picayune [New Orleans, LA] 11 April 1897: p. 22

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Like the radium given as Christmas gifts by the Smart Set, x-ray “spook parties” were all the rage. And although some scientists warned of the dangers of x-rays almost from the moment of their discovery in 1895, others pooh-poohed the scientists as alarmists. Ironically the lethal rays were discovered by Wilhelm Röntgen using the “Crookes tube.” This was invented by Sir William Crookes, a distinguished scientist and credulous Spiritualist who championed medium Florence Cook, materializer of the winsome spirit of “Katie King.” How strange that Sir William’s invention should come back to haunt by association at “spook parties.” One wonders if the “figurante” suffered any ill-effects from the phosphorescent sulphate of zinc powder or from those entertaining x-rays.


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 Man Who Saw The Sea Serpent: 1883

The announcement that the first sea serpent of the season is only eight feet long shows that the summer resort romancer is not yet in first-class condition.

 State Ledger [Topeka, KS] 26 July 1902: p. 2

It is, Mrs Daffodil is given to understand, “Sea Serpent Day,” and time to share a story of a fearsome saurian creature of the Deep.

He Saw A Sea-Serpent

“Say” ejaculated a man as he rushed up and grabbed a Herald reporter by the arm, “have you interviewed the man that saw the sea-serpent?”

The reporter replied that he had not, and asked to be immediately taken to the fortunate individual.

Now, if there is anything which Chicago has been backward in it is the production of sea-serpents, and while such towns as Boston and New Bedford and Cincinnati and St. Louis have been giving out tales of monsters of the deep, Chicago, with ample lake facilities and any quantity of the breed, has been strangely silent. The reporter consequently made haste to interview the gentleman who, it being a story, will be hereafter referred to as “a gentleman of undoubted veracity.” The man who had seen the monster was interviewed by the reporter in the not over commodious quarters which he occupied. He had a wild, startled look, from which the reporter surmised that he had not recovered from the terrible sight. His name was James Smithington, and on being requested to detail his experiences, he at once proceeded to business, first casting a furtive glance around to make sure that the animal was not in the apartment with him.

“I left the lake front about 7 o’clock last evening, in company with a friend. When about two miles off the north end of the Government pier at the entrance to the Chicago River, my attention was called to a singular looking object which was advancing upon me at a terrible rate of speed. When within a few thousand feet of us it seemed to raise its immense body, or neck, some ten foot out of the water, and at the same time twenty feet in the rear, its tail was seen to rise up, and at times lash the water. All at once the fish or serpent vanished from sight.”

At this point in the narrative the gentleman of undoubted veracity suddenly stopped, and, pulling off his boot, shook it, and then grasping it by the straps he suddenly sprang forward and crushed an inoffensive tobacco quid which lay upon the floor.

“It had become quite dark by this time,” he resumed, “and when I returned I again saw the terrible thing advancing upon me at a great rate of speed. When about twenty-five yards from me it stopped, but in an instant it shot ahead with a ringing and rumbling noise. Its single eye, of a blood-red color, was directed upon me, and I was powerless to move from beneath its baleful glare.”

The reporter shuddered a first-class shudder.

“The rumbling noise increased, the glare of its single eye became fiercer, and I seemed paralyzed. Its body was about ten feet high and equally wide, and it was nearly fifty feet long. It was a bright yellow, and the head resembled that of a bull-dog. A large flat prong extended out from either side of its jaws, and it was terrible! terrible!”

At this point in the narrative, which corresponded exactly with that of the New Bedford sea serpent, a man tapped the reporter on the shoulder and drew him aside. He wore a star upon his left breast.

“Well, young feller, I guess I’ll have ter take him along. He’s got ’em pretty bad, hasn’t he?” remarked the facetious personage with the twinkle on his coat.

“I found him a-wrestling wid the red llght on the grip-car last night. Ole Wallace gave him sixty days at the House”

The reporter silently folded up his notes and stole away, and the last thing that he saw when he looked back was the “gentleman of undoubted veracity” extracting an imaginary sea-serpent from the back of his neck. The reporter wonders if the men who saw the New Bedford serpent are getting better.

Chicago Herald.

Alpena [MI] Weekly Argus 24 January 1883: p. 4

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  Sea serpents were a recognised attraction of the American summer resort. One properly deployed story of a sea serpent was worth hundreds of pounds to sea-side establishments, so journalists became adept at creating stories about leviathans of the deep—each larger and scalier than the previous ones—for what came to be called the Silly Season. Some of the monsters were very silly indeed and were almost always narrated by a “gentleman of undoubted veracity.” See this post over at the Haunted Ohio blog for some vintage images of sea-serpents. And this thrilling tale of a “sea serpent” in a Kansas river.

To be Relentlessly Informative, the illustration below is of a “grip-car.”

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 Hyde Park Belle: 1851

Portrait of a Young Lady, John Emery (1802-1893) The Potteries Museum

Portrait of a Young Lady, John Emery (1802-1893) The Potteries Museum


[The interest excited by the details of the manner in which the London Poor don’t get their living, about the streets, has induced us to send a Commissioner forth to study the habits of an equally interesting and hard-working class of people—the- London Rich. We now have the satisfaction of placing his first experiences before our readers.]

No. I.—The Hyde Park Belle.

By the term ” Hyde Park Belle,” I mean to define a young lady living in the neighbourhood, rather than an habituee, of the Park. For the Hyde Park district is vast, and difficult to he defined; inasmuch, as new streets and squares are called Such and such a place, ‘ Hyde Park,’ which common people of practical minds would have denominated Paddington. But it is more agreeable to be associated with a patrician locality than a plebeian one; and therefore although ‘Westbourne Terrace,’ Edgeware Road, would be a correct address, yet ‘Hyde Park’ certainly has a prettier sound. In the same spirit, Mrs. Brown selects a godfather for her little boy with a good name. For John would answer all legal and social purposes, but Cleveland carries with it more ennobling thoughts.

In this pleasant region are produced charming young ladies: it is the realm of nice girldom. The one introduced to me, to give an account of her position and herself, was of middling stature, with oval face, chestnut hair, dark eyes, and very white and regular teeth. She had on a white transparent bonnet, and light muslin dress, all en suite. In answer to my questions, she replied as follows :—

“I shall be nineteen in August, and have been out two years and a half. Have I ever been engaged? Only once, and that was broken off, because I went on a drag to Richmond, with the officers of the —th. Lady Banner was inside,—it was all perfectly proper. She is a very nice woman—always ready to chaperone anybody anywhere, at a moment’s notice, if her share is paid; only sometimes she bores me dreadfully. Edmund went to India. I don’t know where he is now. I have not heard. I dare say he is somewhere. He bored me dreadfully at last. I work very hard,—oh, very hard indeed; that is, in the season. My maid always sits up to make tea for me when I come home. Her hours are very regular considering. She goes to bed every morning about four; but then she does not have to dance half the night. Yes, I like the Crystal Palace;—oh! I get so tired there—walking, and walking, and walking, you can’t think how far. I know the Crystal Fountain, and Dent’s Clock, and the Stuffed Animals, and the Envelope Machine. I don’t think I have seen anything else. I have never been out of the nave and transept. Nobody goes anywhere else. I did not know that there was anything to see upstairs, except large carpets. I am sure they would bore me dreadfully. We are engaged every night. Yesterday, after my singing lesson, I was at the Botanical Fete, and there were no seats; and mamma stood by the band for nearly two hours, because Lord Downless was there ordering the tunes. It was his regiment. He did not see us, and mamma was so cross. I am sure I did not want to see him: I was dreadfully bored. We had scarcely time to dress for the Grapnel’s dinner party; and then we went to Mrs. Crutchley’s, to meet the Lapland Ambassador. We could not get into the room, and stood for two hours more on the landing. Old Mr. Tawley was there, and would keep talking to me: he bores me always dreadfully. He is going to take mamma and me to see some pictures somewhere. I hate seeing pictures; they bore me dreadfully! After Lady Crutchley’s we went to Mrs. Owley’s amateur concert, which was nearly over. She only has classical music. I don’t know what classical music is: I only know it bores me dreadfully. Ashton Howard says, the same people who like classical music buy old china, and wear false hair. All the ice had gone, and the room was like a furnace. The ice had gone, because Mrs. Owley never has too much, and there was a new servant who did not understand her odd ways, and put large pieces in the plates at first. I had a dreadful headache. I wish people would give up classical music. It never amuses anybody—that is, anybody worth amusing. They played nothing but things they called Ops. There was Op 42 and Op 16, and something in F, but I don’t recollect what. It lasted half-an-hour, and began all over and over again. I don’t know whether the Huguenots is classical music or not, I only know, when they give it at the Royal Italian Opera nobody seems bored then. I don’t know that I am exactly.

“Do I like anybody better than another? I do not see what that is to you. I wish you would not ask me so many questions: it bores me dreadfully. I think Ashton Howard very agreeable; but they do not like him at home. I have seen mamma actually rude to him, but then he is a younger brother. No, I cannot dance with those I like when I go to a party. I always know by mamma’s manner to say whether I am engaged or no. Ashton waltzes beautifully, but he has never waltzed with me. I say ‘valse’ as often as ‘waltz.’ I should like to waltz with him very much. I think he sent a bouquet on the evening of the Cooper’s ball. Mamma would not let me wear it—she took it herself; and I don’t think I danced three times all the evening. Mamma said she never saw so few good parties—(the word was given with the French pronunciation, which is a small but essential difference)—I am sure I don’t know what she would have. Ashton was there, but he never looked at me after he saw mamma with my bouquet.

“I go into the Park every day with mamma, but it bores me dreadfully. I see nothing but the same people, and I know all the trees and rails by heart. I like Jouvin’s gloves as well as Fiver’s; they have got dearer lately—I don’t know why—there is not more in them. I ride sometimes: I like it better than the carriage; but papa don’t ride very often, and if he don’t I can’t, except with the Pevenseys and their brothers. John Pevensey is very stupid, and talks to me about farming. I get very tired, but I am obliged to go, because the Pevenseys know so many receivable people. But they bore me dreadfully;—in fact, I don’t know who or what does not. I long for the season to be over, and when I go into the country I long for it to begin again. And I am always tired; and I wish I could go about, and do as I pleased, like Marshall—that’s my maid—when she has a holiday. She is going to marry the man at the hair-dresser’s; and last Sunday they went down all by themselves to Gravesend. I see mamma’s face if Ashton Howard was to propose taking me to Gravesend next Sunday, and without Lady Banner! I wish sometimes I was Marshall. Now and then I would give a good deal for a good cry. I can’t tell you why—I don’t know; only that everything is a trouble, and bores me dreadfully.”

“I give seven-and-sixpence for a pair of satin shoes. I have worn them twice—oh! more than that, if there has been no dancing. A wreath costs a guinea, and gloves are three and sixpence. Do I have them cleaned? Certainly; but not for evening parties: the men’s coats blacken them in an instant. They do very well for the opera and evening concerts—nothing else. The Pevenseys wear cleaned gloves; everybody knows it; and Ashton Howard always asks, out loud, if a camphene lamp has not gone out, when they come into the room. You can get a nice bouquet for five or six shillings. Old Mr. Rigby, in the Regent’s Park, told me I might cut any flowers from his conservatory, but I don’t care for that—I would sooner buy them: he bores one dreadfully. I hope you are not going to print all that. I am always afraid of you authors.”

From the above particulars, we find that a young lady’s shoes, wreath, gloves, and bouquet, for an evening party, cost one pound seventeen shillings. Admitting that two thousand young ladies go out every night, we have the sum of three thousand seven hundred pounds spent daily, during the season, for these accessories.

The Month, A View of Passing Subjects and Manners, Albert Smith & John Leech, 1851

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: While gently conceding that the young lady’s education may have been somewhat neglected, Mrs Daffodil cannot help but think of an expression often overheard from Nannies to their young charges: “Only bores are bored.”

To be Relentlessly Informative, Dent’s Clock was built by E. Dent & Co., who built the great clock at Westminster. Its dial was 40 feet in diameter; the dial of the Westminster clock was a mere 23 feet. The Crystal Fountain was the centrepiece of the main building of the Great Exposition. It was 27 feet high and consisted of four tonnes of pink glass.  The stuffed animals were in the vein of Mr Potter’s whimsical taxidermy: kittens taking tea, &c. &c.  They were the rather odd contribution of the German Customs Union.

This satirical series, by the way, was inspired by Henry Mayhew’s 1851 publication, London Labour and the London Poor.

An excellent overview of the Exhibition, with illustrations, may be had here.

Mrs Daffodil has previously written about the arduous life of Society Beauties here.

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 Clever Collie: 1891

A Border Collie, Thomas Sidney Cooper, 1838, Canterbury City Council Museums and Galleries

A Border Collie, Thomas Sidney Cooper, 1838, Canterbury City Council Museums and Galleries

A Clever Collie.

Sidney Cooper, the English animal painter, say that he often made valuable studies in Cumberland, at places where Scotch drovers halted with their cattle for the night. On such occasions he often had a chance to see illustrations of an animal’s intelligence, as well as of its physical perfection.

“One day, when there was a pouring rain, a man consented to sit for me at the inn where I was staying. He brought his collie with him, and both of them were dripping wet, so he put off his plaid and laid it on the floor by the dog.

“I made a very successful sketch of the man, but before I had finished it the dog grew fidgety with the wet plaid, and his master said, “Tak’ it awa’, mon, tak’ it awa’!”

“The dog took the end of it between his teeth and dragged it out of the room.

“After I had finished the drover’s portrait I asked him if he thought his dog would lie quiet for a time, as I wished to sketch him.

“’Oh, yes, mon,’ he answered, ‘he’ll do anything I say to him. Watch! Watch!’ he called, and then ‘whustled’ for him as the Scotch say.

“As the dog did not appear, we went together to look for him, and found him sitting before the kitchen fire with the end of the plaid in his mouth, holding it up to dry. I expressed my admiration of his intelligence, and the master replied.

“’Ah, he’s a canny creature, sir! He knows a mony things, does that dog, sir. But come awa’, mon, the gentleman wants to mak’ your picture.’

“So we returned to my room, and the handsome collie sat for his portrait.”

The News-Herald [Hillsboro, OH] 26 March 1891: p. 7

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Collies, whose name comes from the old Celtic word for “useful,” are, indeed, one of the cleverest dog breeds.  American readers will perhaps remember one collie in particular, called “Lassie,” who was able to successfully communicate the dire tidings every time (and there were many) that his little master, Timmy, fell down a well or a mine-shaft.

Mr Andrew Lang, the folklorist, felt that some collies were too clever by half: “The self-consciousness and vanity of dogs.” he says, “might disgust even a minor poet. I have known a collie — certainly a very handsome collie — to pass his days in contemplating his own image in the glass. I know a dog dandy which actually makes eyes, being conscious that he possesses organs very large, brown, and decorative.”

Let us have one more instance of the sagacious behaviour of these intelligent animals:

A collie dog is in the habit of fetching from his master’s room slippers, cap, keys, or anything he is sent for. One day, sent on the usual errand, he did not reappear. His master followed, and found that the door of the bedroom had blown to, and that the dog was a prisoner. Some days later he was again told to fetch something; and, as the wind was high, his master, after a few minutes’ delay, followed him. He found him in the act of fixing the door firmly back with a door-mat, which he had pulled across the landing for the purpose, and, having taken this precaution, the prudent animal proceeded to look for the slippers. Hawera & Normanby Star, 1 February 1906: p. 2 

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

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


The Cowman and the Witch: 1915

milking cow


By Sydney H. Kenwood (B.A. Cantab, et Londin.).

The following story was told by an ignorant Sussex labourer, whom I knew well, and who had, as far as I know, never been more than a few miles from the remote village in which he was born. The tale is so startling that few will think it true; but it is incredible to anyone who knew him to suppose that the hero invented it. He was, as I have said, an ignorant labourer; he might even have been called extremely ignorant; and imagination is not one of the gifts common among the Sussex peasantry. I have set down the facts as told to me, the name being the only fiction as far as I am concerned.

Henry Hogbin was a cowman on a farm in Sussex. He was a man of excellent character and well known as a sober, industrious and efficient hand. Having been associated with cow-keeping all his life, he was well acquainted with the peculiarities and perversities of cattle, and well able to deal with such difficulties as they arose. No one was more convinced of his competency than Hogbin himself, and it was a rude shock to the honest fellow when he found himself powerless to remedy the refusal of his best cow to give milk.

Naturally, he was at first full of hope, and even of assurance, that his rustic science would soon put matters right; but he tried in vain all the remedies known to him. Then Hogbin stooped to ask advice—not of neighbours, for he had his own peasant pride; but of distant farmers and their cowmen. Whatever they recommended he duly tried, and to no good effect.

Despair began to invade the heart of Henry Hogbin. Men of his breed and training do not easily give in: some of us would as soon have Sussex men by in the hour of danger as the most reliable and canny Scots ever sung of by gushing poets. But here he was up against the most unyielding thing in nature, a fact: and the fact was that he was beaten, and with the proverbial slowness of his race he was beginning to know it.

He was going rather sullenly about his work one day when a quavering voice hailed him. It was the oldest inhabitant, a person of extreme debility and questionable reputation, who was leaning on the yard gate.

“Mornin’,” piped the old man; “how’s dat dere cow?”

“Oo told you about the cow?” said Henry ungraciously. No business of youm, I rackon.”

“’Taint none o’ yourn nuther, seems so!” retorted the village elder, “seein’ as you can’t do ‘er no good.”

Hogbin was silent, crushed by truth and the lack of suitable repartee.

“If you bain’t a fool you’re purty bly of one, not to come an’ ax me,” continued the old man; “an’ it’s only because yer grandad and me was friends, like, that I’ve come to you. Now you do what I say. You go into dat dere cow-shed with dat cow and stay dere all night, an’ whatever you see” (this with tremendous emphasis) “pick it up an’ stick it in the maxin. Mind you, whatever you see.”

The “maxin ” is the Sussex manure-heap. So much, of course, Hogbin fully understood; but the rest of the old man’s meaning was Greek to him. He ran after his aged adviser and begged, even humbly, for further light; but he could extract nothing more.

Hogbin walked slowly back to his work, reflecting on his failure and its probable effect on his reputation. After all, he thought, he had exhausted all orthodox resources, and nothing remained but to try the strange advice of a doddering old man. Strange advice it was, indeed; but though plenty of people could be found to call the oldest inhabitant a “bad lot,” none had ever been heard to suggest that he was a fool. The prevalent idea was, in fact, that he was “leery ”—which term suggests a rogue, but a clever one.

When night fell Hogbin fell also—to the temptation of following the apparently absurd counsel and putting it to the test of experience. He made his way to the shed in which was the rebellious cow, and took his seat on a milking-stool. As yet the night was dark, and in the gloomy byre he could see nothing; but presently the moon rose, and he was able to make out the dim shape of the animal, the window, and some few other objects. This seemed to be all he was likely to see. The old man had said “whatever you see.” Did he mean him to pick up the cow, the shed, and any other articles lying to hand, and stick them in the maxin? Hogbin laughed rather bitterly at his own joke. At any rate, it would do to twit old “grandfer” with on the morrow. He got up stiff, disgusted and sleepy. He would have no more of this nonsense. How could he have been such a fool? What would—–


What on earth was that? An unaccountable sound, evidently out in the yard. It was continuing, too, and coming nearer. Hogbin stole to the door and looked out.

The moon was shining brightly now, and but for the mysterious ting-ting, the yard looked normal. There was nothing to account for the noise, which, however, did not cease.

Ah! what was that?—something moving, certainly, in the shadow, moving towards him and the cow-shed. Soon, if it came nearer, it would be in the moonlight, and he would see.


It was nearing; it was coming into the light; now it was there!

It was a manure-fork walking!

Hogbin would have run if he could, but terror held him spellbound for a while. Then he acted, impelled probably as much by a dim feeling that this marvel had some connection with his trouble as by personal bravery. He ran forward, seized the fork, which struggled like a live thing in his grasp, and stuck it deep into the “maxin.” Then he turned and ran to his home, some distance away.

Next morning he went to the yard with a deep conviction that he had fallen asleep in the cow-shed and dreamt the whole thing.

Not so. Waist-deep in the maxin was an old woman. Hogbin recognized her as an inhabitant of his village.

The cow, he said, thenceforward gave milk as usual.

The Occult Review: April 1915

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  But what happened to the old lady in the manure? Was she alive or dead? To be Relentlessly Informative, the word “bly” may be defined as “a resemblance.” [A Dictionary of the Sussex Dialect, William Douglas Parish.] That same Dictionary tells us that “maxon” is the term for a manure heap, from “meox,” the Anglo Saxon word for “dung.”  Mr Kenwood, B.A. Cantab, so contemptuous of the Sussex labourer whose ignorance he belabours, seems to have incorrectly transliterated this word, the key to breaking the witch’s spell. But Mrs Daffodil will not stoop to the vulgarism of slinging muck.

There are a few instances of dung used as an anti-witch specific. For example: The buckthorn, made into little crosses and stuck in manure, will, according to a Bohemian superstition, keep one safe from all pranks of witches on their Walpurgis-night. One imagines that this particular Sussex witch, if she found herself alive and in the unpleasant position of being thorax-deep in the maxon, needed no buckthorn to induce her to reverse the spell on the cow.

Witches, of course, were known for turning themselves into hares, cats, and other animate creatures. But the walking manure-fork, is, Mrs Daffodil confesses, a novelty in the annals of witchery despite its resemblance to a pitchfork.

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.