Tag Archives: honeymoon

Three Husbands at Breakfast: 1853

Singular Wedding Party.

A correspondent of the Placer Herald, is responsible for the following: ” “A marriage took place on the night of the 15th Dec., at the Nevada Hotel–a lady not unknown to the California public, to a gentleman from Kentucky now a citizen of this State, he being the fifth upon whom she had conferred Hymenal honors, and the third whose heads are yet above the sod. By a strange concatenation of circumstances, her two last husbands, between whom and herself all marital duties had ceased to exist by the operation of the divorce law, had put up at the Nevada House on the same evening, ignorant of the fact that their former cara sposa had rested under the same roof with themselves, and also that they had both, in former years, been wedded to the same lady.

“Next morning they occupied seats at the breakfast table opposite the bridal party. Their eyes met with mute, but expressive astonishment. The lady bride did not faint, but bravely informed her newly acquired lord of her singular situation, and who their guests were. Influenced by the nobleness of his nature and the happy impulses of his heart, he summoned his predecessors to his bridal chamber, and the warmest greetings and congratulations were interchanged between the four in the most unreserved and friendly manner. The two ex-lords frankly declared that they ever found in the lady an excellent and faithful companion, and that they were the authors of the difficulties which produced their separation the cause being traceable to a too frequent use of intoxicating drinks.

“The legal lord and master declared that his affection for his bride was strengthened by the coincidence, and that his happiness was increased, if possible, by what had occurred. After a few presents of specimens from their well-filled purses, the parties separated—the two ex-husbands for the Atlantic States, with the kindest regards of the lady for the future welfare of her former husbands.

“Not the least singular circumstance attending the above is, that the three were all married on the 15th of December.”

Plain Dealer [Cleveland OH] 15 June 1853: p. 2

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire:  No doubt the lady had a sentimental attachment to that date and, of course, she would not have to struggle to remember her anniversary.

Mrs Daffodil wonders if she also returned to the same clergyman:

Got Used to Him.

Happy Man (to widow of three husbands): “Whom shall I ask to perform the ceremony, darling? That matter, of course, I shall leave to you.”

Widow (hesitatingly): “Well, dear, I haven’t any very particular preference, although I’ve always had the Rev. Mr. Goodman.”

The Stevens Point [IL] Journal 21 January 1888: 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 anecdote

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

A Solo Bridal Tour: 1875


honeymoon couple on moon

A Kentucky Bridal Tour.

[From the Courier-Journal.]

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

“Been getting’ married lately?”

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

“Was that her you put on the train?”

“Yes,” with a sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Home from the Wedding Tour: 1902

The Wedding Tour.

“So you are back from your wedding trip, Beth,” said Beatrice, cordially. “Did you have a pleasant time?”

“An unusual one, at least,” replied Beth. “At least I hope so. I should hate to think my experience could be repeated in every town where my husband ever lived when he was a bachelor.”

“Go on, dear!” exclaimed Beatrice. “This sounds interesting.”

“First,” Beth began, “let me give you some advice. Never visit in a town where your husband, when you have one, is well-acquainted and you are not, especially if you hail from a city like Chicago. The inhabitants never forgive a man who ignores the village girls to marry a non-native—or, rather, they never forgive the designing creature who permits him to throw himself away on her. They always pity him from the bottom of their hearts, for they feel sure that he was deeply attached to Susan Smith or Betsey Jones. There is never any doubt in their minds that the bold, scheming city girl ‘roped him in,’ as they say.”

“Mercy! How could they say such a thing of you, of all girls?”

“Well, one day shortly after we reached this former home of Ted’s we went, just for exercise, down to the railway station with Ted’s brother Jack, who was going to the next town for a day on business. The train was a half hour late, and the boys went outside to smoke and chat, while I was soon deeply interested in a magazine that I had just bought. Presently three pretty, rosy-looking girls came in, all laughing and talking at once. You know every one who happens to be downtown within an hour or so of train time has to go to the station to see the train come in. These girls seated themselves on the bench nearest the window overlooking the platform, and I settled back to meditate loftily on the narrowness of the life those girls led.

“But my meditations were doomed to come to a sudden end, at least along that particular line, for as Ted and Jack sauntered past the window with their heads well down and enjoying a good, old-fashioned visit, one girl, whom the others called Blanche, exclaimed, ‘If there isn’t Ted Fowler!’ I felt a little indignation at the familiar tone she used. That indignation grew steadily for a few moments in view of the fact that those girls sat there admiring and praising him—giggling and blushing over my own Teddy.

“’Did you know he was married?’ asked one of the three, whose name appeared to be Edith..

“’Yes, poor fellow,’ replied the third girl. ‘Too bad, too! You know he was dead in love with Blanche. Wasn’t he, Blanche?’

“I hoped Blanche would deny this and ease my mind, for she was undeniably a very pretty girl and might have been quite a witch in her own way. But she only said, modestly. ‘Oh, yes, I suppose he was. He used to tell me so often enough, goodness knows!’

“‘How ever could you endure it?’ asked Beatrice.

“Endure it! Why I was simply speechless with rage by that time. My Teddy telling any other girl that he loved her and that ‘often enough, goodness knows’ just kept going round and round in my mind. I could have cried with disappointment in Teddy.

“But that isn’t all. Edith volunteered the information that Ted had married, ‘an awful extravagant thing and ugly as mud.’ Then, probably aided by the expression on my face, it seemed to strike them that I was the extravagant, ugly thing. I suppose I answered the description accurately.

“‘Two of them were really very much embarrassed by the discovery, but Blanche tossed her pretty head in a saucy fashion that seemed to maintain that it was true just the same.

“I feel sure I should have said something then had it not been for Teddy, who opened the door and asked me if I was finding it dull. ‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I have just been admiring the only girl you ever loved.’ Ted glanced at the girls, then laughed and said, ‘You must have found a mirror in this dingy old place.’ And, would you believe it, he didn’t even remember Blanche, who claimed to be his long lost love.”

“Ted is wonderfully discreet,” said Beatrice, softly.

The Leavenworth [KS] Times 2 September 1902: p. 7

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: What would a wedding tour be without some sort of misadventure to relate humorously to one’s children and grand-children? See these posts: Shuffling Off to Buffalo, A Honeymoon Adventure, and Pants and All, She’s Still my Wife for more honeymoon calamities.

Mrs Daffodil hopes that “Teddy” continued to be as discreet throughout a long and happy married life with his rage-filled bride.

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 Honeymoon Adventure: 1893

The Honeymoon Couple

The Honeymoon Couple


Bv the Author of “As in a Loofaing-Glass.”

Time. — Five o’clock in the afternoon.

Scene.— Inner hall of the Palatial Hotel. A mixed crowd are discussing one another and afternoon tea. At one of the Japanese tables sit a bride and bridegroom, the former attired in walking costume and the sweetest thing in Parisian bonnets. They have been married three weeks. The lady is convinced she is the luckiest of her sex and her husband the handsomest of his. The man wonders what on earth fellows mean by disparaging matrimony , and reflects that, if everybody displayed his own wisdom in selection, divorce would be as obsolete as the thumb-screw. Their names are Mr. and Mrs. Jack Legion.

Jack— That thing is much too heavy for your delicate little hands — give it to me.

Isabel [obediently relinquishing best Britannia- metal tea-pot, weighing, with contents, quite a pound] — What care you do take of me, Jack!  I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such a darling for a husband.

Jack— Goose! You’re miles too good for me— for any man! You’re an angel, or, what’s better still, the sweetest little woman under the sun.

Isabel— Will you say that when we have been married three years instead of three weeks?

Jack — Sweetheart!

Isabel [dimpling, and lifting the sugar-longs]— One lump, silly boy?

Jack— One. Hang these people, I wish we were alone!

Isabel [softly]— Dear Jack!

[An expressive silence, wherein their hands come in contact under the table.]

Isabel— And really, really. I am the only woman you ever loved?

Jack — You are, really and truly. [Mentally.] And, of course, it’s a fact. Flirtations don’t count–one makes an idiot of one’s self, as one has the measles.

Isabel — Don’t think me an “awful little duffer” for asking, Jack; I do so like to hear you say it. [Smiles and repeats it softly.] “The only woman he has ever loved.”

[Jack spills his tea as a lady enters and strolls toward the stove.]

Jack [mentally] — Great Jupiter! Laura! And I thought she was abroad!

Isabel — What’s the matter?

Jack [with ghastly merriment]— Ha, ha! Nothing, dear. Burned myself, that’s all. [Mentally.] So I did — but two years ago — not with tea, though.

[The new-comer evidently possesses a fearful fascination for him. He regards her with a frozen glare of horror.]

Isabel — And in books they say that men are fickle! How happy it makes me to know that you are different from the rest!  I believe it was the feeling that you were that first made me care for you. [Earnestly.] It may seem girlish to you and absurd, but— but your tenderness would lose half its value to me if I thought that other women had known it, too.

Jack [mentally] — Thank the Lord, she hasn’t seen me yet — if I could only get away before she does! But if I move, I’m lost. [Aloud.] Waiter, bring me that Morning Post. [interposes newspaper as a screen between his features and the stove.]

Isabel [innocently] — Do you find it hot, dear?

Jack— Very. [Mentally.] This is awful! Something must be done. I should have to introduce her to Isabel, and I don’t want to. Laura’s a woman who never forgives, and I got tired first. Is it possible she knows we are here and means to work off old scores by giving me away? [Breaks into gentle perspiration.] If only I were certain she’d burned my letters — if only Isabel were a woman of the world! But a young girl would be sure to take it au grand strieux , and she believes in me so. Poor little wifey!

Voice at his Elbow — How d’ye do, Mr. Legion?

Jack [inwardly] — Run to earth, by gad — she’s got the eyes of a lynx! [Rises stiffly] Mrs. Sparkler—what an unexpected pleasure!

Mrs. Sparkler— I’ve been standing by you for the last ten minutes, I began to think you intended to cut me.

Jack— You’re joking. I’m a little short-sighted, you know.

Mrs. Sparkler — You must be, or you would have recognized me sooner.

Jack [mentally]— Now, what the deuce does she mean by that?

[Awkward pause, in which the two women eye each other curiously.]

Jack [taking the plunge at a rush]— Ah! allow me to introduce you: Mrs. Sparkler— my wife. An old friend of mine, Isabel.

Isabel — How nice I I’m always glad to meet Jack’s friends. Won’t you sit down and let me give you some tea?

Mrs. Sparkler— Thanks. [Sinks into chair,] I had heard you were here. I hoped we might meet. Really.  I believe it was that idea which made me decide to come. You see. Mrs. Legion, I have known your husband so long, it was only natural I should be anxious to make the acquaintance of his wife.

Isabel [flattered]— It was very kind of you. Are your rooms in the hotel?

Mrs. Sparkler— Yes, I always stay here; I came last night.

Jack [mentally] — This excessive amiability is ominous; she means mischief. If I could only get Isabel away— but it’s dangerous to be rude. [The ladies fall to discussing chiffons. For fifteen minutes the Hon. Jack sits on thorns, with the sword of Damocles suspended over his head.]

Mrs. Sparkler [rising]— So good of you— I hate shopping alone. Your husband won’t mind, I’m sure.

Isabel— Jack, Mrs. Sparkler has offered to drive me into East Street. I know you hate shops; you will be glad of the excuse to remain at home.

Jack [quickly]— You forget that driving in an open carriage so late in the afternoon won’t improve your cold. I don’t mind taking you in the least.

Isabel— But surely if I’m well wrapped up…

Jack— I’d rather you didn’t risk it. If it were a closed carriage, of course…

Mrs. Sparkler [with triumph in her eyes)— And so it is; you must be thinking of the victoria. If you’re ready, Mrs. Legion, we’ll start; I told the man to be round at five o’clock.

Jack— You might ask me to go with you!

Mrs. Sparkler— How I wish we could, but unfortunately it’s a single brougham.

[He makes other objections, but is overruled by the ladies, and is eventually obliged to give way.]

Mrs. Sparkler [sotto voce, as he accompanies them to the door]— Do you know the day of the month, my friend?

Jack — The fifteenth. What do you mean?

Mrs. Sparkler— It’s exactly a year since you bade me “good-bye.” [Laughs harshly.] A coincidence, isn’t it, that our next meeting should take place on the anniversary of the date?

Jack [whispering]— You are going to tell her. I knew it. In mercy to her, don’t — she loves me!

Mrs. Sparkler [in the same key]— She is not the only woman who has loved and suffered!

Jack — Laura, for God’s sake!

Mrs. Sparkler [aloud and viciously] — I beg your pardon, Mr. Legion. Did you speak?

Isabel — Good-bye, Jack; I sha’n’t  be long, dear.

[Exeunt ladies.]

Jack—” Your tenderness would lose half its value to me if I thought…” [Groans.] Will she look at me like that when she returns, I wonder? Poor little girl!— to be disillusioned so soon!

[Same scene an hour later. Jack, in evening-dress, is pacing agitatedly to and fro.]

Jack — Good heavens, what a time they are! This suspense is awful. If only they would come back–if only I knew the worst! That woman was always a vixen — and I nearly married her. What on earth I found in her I can’t conceive. She’s got the figure of a haystack I And her hair’s the most primary red I know.

[He is in the act of consulting his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, when Mrs. Sparkler enters hurriedly and alone,]

Jack [going as white as a sheet] — Where’s Isabel?

Mrs. Sparkler— Buying chiffons! It’s all right; I wanted to speak to you, so I discovered I had a telegram to send. Come out here, away from this odious crowd. [They move into the conservatory, which opens out of the hall.]

Mrs. Sparkler [speaking very fast and tracing the pattern of the rug with the point of her shoe] —Jack, you slighted me, and that a woman never forgets or forgives! You made me care for you; you made me think you in earnest; and then you decided a woman like me was only good enough to flirt with, and you left with an explanation that it turns me hot to recall even now. You were a brute, and I meant that your wife should know all about it. But — I’ve changed my mind. She’s so fond of you, and such a child, and — I don’t war with children. It wouldn’t be fair sport— like— like breaking butterflies, you know! And — I was like that myself a century ago.

Jack — Laura!

Mrs. Sparkler [rather husky and flushed]—I shall go back to town to-morrow, so you needn’t be afraid I shall change my mind. Take care of her, Jack; she’s a good little soul. And treat her better than you treated me! Now I must be off, or I shall keep her waiting. Go and have a brandy and soda; you look as if you wanted one. Ha, ha, ha! If any one had told me I could be such a fool! [Exit, laughing hysterically.]

Jack [lighting a cigar and blinking hard]— Her hair isn’t such a bad color, after all; and she is right. I am a brute who doesn’t deserve his luck! — F. C. Phillips in The Sketch, 1893

The Argonaut [San Francisco, CA] 3 July 1893

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: Mrs Daffodil really cannot contradict that last statement.

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.


Shuffling Off to Buffalo: A Honeymoon Goes Awry: 1866


A happy honeymoon couple.

A happy honeymoon couple.

George Jameson and Katie Vaughan had a brilliant wedding. Everything was flawless—from the icing on the cake to the arrangement of the bride’s waterfall. Mrs. Vaughan cried just enough to redden her nose; Vaughan did the dignified pater familias to a charm; and George and Katie were so affectionate as to give the world the idea that here was a match made in heaven.The bridal breakfast over, the white moire, antique lace, and orange flowers were laid aside, and the pretty traveling suit of alpaca, with nazarine blue trimmings was donned—the sweetest love of a thing Madame D’Aubrey had made up for the season. Then there was the little bonnet of gray silk to match the dress, with its blue face trimming to match Katie’s eyes; the golden bird of paradise dropping its plumage over the crown; and it was such a fine morning, and everything looked propitious; and in the midst of congratulations and kisses, George and Katie started for the depot.They arrived just in season. The whistle sounded in the distance. George buckled up his traveling shawl and Katie grasped her parasol.“George, dearest,” said the bride, “do run out and see to the trunks! I should die if when we get to the Falls, my clothes should not be there! It would be dreadful to be obliged to go to dinner in my traveling dress? Go see to them, there’s a darling!”George vanished; the train puffing and smoking, shot into the depot. Conductor popped his head into the ladies’ room, shouting at the top of his voice.‘All aboard for Danville! Come, hurry up ladies! Five minutes behind time and another train due.’

‘Is my husband—”

‘Oh, yes, yes, all right,’ said the official, hurrying on in a way railway officials have. ‘I’ll send him right along,’ and he vanished from view in the long line of moving carriages.

Meanwhile George having seen to the baggage—a proceeding that had occupied more time than he had intended—returned to the ladies’ room to find Katie missing— searched about wildly, inquiring of every one he met, without success.

‘She’s probably already in the train, sir,’ said ticket agent of whom he made inquiry. ‘You are going to Buffalo, I think you said; that’s the train to Buffalo; you’ll likely find her there. Just starting, not a moment to lose.’

George grasped the railing of the hind car as it flew by, and, fling open the door, he rushed through car after car, but seeking in vain for Katie. She was not on the train. ‘Most likely she got on the wrong train and went by Groton,’ said the conductor. ‘Groton is a way station fifteen miles ahead. We stop there fifteen or twenty minutes for refreshments. You’ll doubtless find her there.’

The cars flew over the track. George mentally blessed the man who invented steam engines—he could reach Katie so much sooner. Dear little thing! how vexed and troubled she must be—and George grew quite lachrymose over her desolate condition.

But it seemed ages to George before they whirled up to the platform at Groton, and then he did not wait to practice any courtesy. He leaped out impetuously, knocking over an old lady with a flower pot and a bird cage in her hand, demolishing the pot and putting the birds into hysterics. The old lady was indignant, and hit George a rap with her umbrella that spoiled forever the fair proportions of his bridal beaver, but he was too much engaged in thought of his lost bride to spare a regret for his hat.

He flew through the astonished crowd mashing up a crinoline here, and knocking over a small boy there, until he reached the clerk of the station. Yes, the clerk believed there was one lady who had come alone; she had gone to the Belvidere House —She must be the one.

George waited to hear no more. He hurried up the street to the place, where the landlord assured him that no lady of Katie’s style had arrived; perhaps she had stopped at Margate, ten miles back. George seized on the hope. There was no train to Margate until the next morning, but the wretched husband could not wait all night—he would walk.

He got directions about the roads; was told that it was a straight one—for the most of the way through the woods—rather lonesome but pleasant. He set forth at once, not stopping to swallow a mouthful. Excitement had taken away his appetite. The fine day had developed into a cloudy evening—the night would go darker than usual.

George hastened on, too much excited to feel fatigue—too much agonized about Katie to notice that he had split his elegant French gaiters out at the sides.

After three or four hours hard marching he began to think that something must be wrong. He ought to be approaching the suburbs of Margate. In fact, he ought to have reached the village itself sometime before. He grew a little doubtful about his being on the right road, and began to look about him. There was no road at all, or rather, it was all road; for all vestige of fences and wheel tracks had vanished— there was forest, forest every where.

The very character of the ground beneath his feet changed at every step he took. It grew softer and softer, until he sank ankle deep in mud; and, suddenly, before he could turn about, he fell in almost to his armpits. He had stumbled into a quagmire! A swift horror came over him! People had died before now in places like this—and it would be so dreadful to die thus, and Katie had never knew what had become of him. He struggled with the strength of desperation to free himself but he might as well have taken it cooly. He was held fast.

Thus slowly the hours wore away. The night was ages long. The sun had never taken so much time to rise in; but probably it realized that nothing could be done until it was up, and was not disposed to hurry.

As soon as it was fairly light, George began to scream at the top of his voice, in the hope that someone who might be going somewhere might hear him. He amused himself in this way for an hour; and at the end of that time you could not have distinguished his voice from that of a frog close at hand, who had been doing his very best to rival our hero.

At last, just as George, was beginning to to despair, he heard a voice in the distance calling out—

‘Hallo, there, is it you or a frog?’

‘It’s me,’ cried George, ‘and I shall be dead in ten minutes! Come quick! I’m into mud up to my eyes!”

Directly an old woman appeared, a sunbonnet on her head and a basket on her arm. She was huckleberrying.

‘For land sake,’ cried she, ‘you’re in for it, ain’t ye? ‘Sarved ye right! I’m glad of it! Didn’t ye see the notice that the old man put up, that nobody must come a huckleberrying in this ere swamp?’

‘Huckleberrying!’ exclaimed George angrily. ‘You must think a fellow beside himself to come into this jungle, if he knew it! Huckleberrying, indeed, I am after my wife!’

‘Land sake! Your wife! Well of all things, I declare I never!’

‘She got on the wrong train, and so did I; and I expect she’s at Margate, and I started from Groton last night to walk there, and lost my way. Help me our, do, that’s a dear woman.

The old woman steadied herself by a tree, and being a woman of good muscles, she soon drew George out—mud from head to foot. He shook himself.

‘There, if you’ll show me the way, I’ll go right on.”

‘No you won’t, either! You’ll go right over to our house and have a cup of coffee and something to eat, and a suit of the old man’s clothes to put on while I dry yours; and I’ll send Tom over to Margate with the horse and wagon to bring your wife.’

‘Your’e a trump,’ cried George, wringing her hand. ‘God bless you! You shall be rewarded for your kindness.”

Mrs. Stark’s house was only a little way distant, and to its shelter she took George. Tom was dispatched to Margate to hunt up Mrs. Jameson; and George, arrayed in a suit of Mr. Stark’s clothes—blue swallow tailed coat, home made gray pantaloons, cow hide boots, and white hat with broad brim—for the Starks were Friends—felt like a new man.

They gave him a good breakfast, which did not come amiss; and, while Tom was absent, the old lady made him lie down on the lounge and take a nap.

Tom returned home about noon. He had scoured the whole village, but found nothing, Only one passenger had left the train at Margate on the previous day, and he was an old man with patent plasters for sale.

Poor George was frenzied. He rushed out of the house and stood looking first up and then down the road, uncertain which way to wend his course. Suddenly the train from Groton swept past, and a white handkerchief was swinging from an open window, and above the handkerchief George caught the gleam of the golden hair and blue ribbons! He cleared the fence at a bound and rushed after the flying train. He ran till he was ready to drop, when he came upon some men with a hand car, who were repairing the road. He gave them ten dollars to take him to Groton. He was sure he could find Katie there!

But no. The train had not stopped at all. This was the express for Buffalo. But a bystander informed him that a lady answering the description he gave of Katie had been seen the day before at Danville, crying, and saying she had lost her husband.

George darted off, He caught with avidity at the hope thus held out. It must be Katie! Who else had lost her husband?

A train was just leaving for Danville.— He sprang on board, and suffered an eternity during the transit, for it was an accommodation train, and everybody knows about those horrible delays at every station.

But they reached Danville at last. George inquired for the lady who had lost her husband. Yes, she was all right—she had gone to the American House to wait for him. She expected him by every train, till he came, said the ticket master.

He hurried with all speed to the American.

Yes, she was there, said the clerk; she was waiting for her husband; room 221, right hand, second flight.

George flew up stairs, burst open the door of 221, and entered without ceremony. She was sitting by the window looking for him, with her back to the door. He sprang forward, and holding her in his arms, rained kisses upon her face.

‘My Katie! my darling! my darling! have I found you at last?’

She turned her face and looked at him before she spoke, and then she set up such a scream as made the very hair stand on George’s head.

‘You are not my James! Heaven!— help! heavens! Somebody come, quick! I shall be robbed and murdered! Help!— murder!—thieves !’

George stood aghast. The lady was middle aged, with false teeth, and a decidedly snuffy looking nose—no more like the charming little Katie than she was like the Venus de Medici.

He turned to flee just as the stairway was alive with people alarmed by the cries of the woman. They tried to stop him, but he would not be stayed; he took the stairs at a leap, and landed somewhere near the bottom, among the wreck of three chambermaids, and as many white-aproned waiters.

And before any one could seize him he was rushing down over the front steps. A lady and gentleman were slowly ascending them, and George in his mad haste, ran against the lady and broke the rim of her bonnet.

‘You rascal!’ cried the gentleman with her, ‘what do you mean by treating a lady in this manner?’ and he seized our hero by the collar.

Then, for the first time, George looked at the couple before him.

“Tis Katie! Oh, Katie!’ cried he, for this time there was no mistake; it was Katie and her uncle Charles. ‘Oh, my wife! my darling!’

He tried to take her in his arms, but she fled from him in terror.

‘Take that dreadful man away,’ she cried. ‘I am sure he is insane or drunk! Only see his boots and his awful hat!’

‘I tell you I am your own George! Oh, Katie, where have you been?” exclaimed he.

Katie looked at him now, and recognizing him, began to cry.

‘O, dear! that I should have ever lived to see this day! My George that I thought so pure and good, faithless and intoxicated! Oh, Uncle Charles, what will become of me?’

‘My dear niece, be patient,’ said her uncle. ‘I think this is George, and we will hear what he has to say before condemning him. Mr. Jameson, I met your wife in the cars yesterday, and she informed me that you had deserted her at the Windham depot. Of course I could not believe that your absence was intentional, and I persuaded her to remain here while I telegraphed to the principal stations along the road for information of you. Why did I not receive an answer?’

‘Because the telegraph does not run into old Mr. Stark’s huckleberry swamp, where I had the honor of spending last night,’ said George, losing his temper.

‘But this extraordinary disguise?’

‘My clothes were muddy, and I have got on Mr. Stark’s,’ said George. And though the explanation was not particularly lucid to those who heard it, they were satisfied.

‘My dearest George!’ cried Katie, rushing into his arms; ‘and so you did not desert me, and I shan’t have to be divorced?’

‘Never, my darling! And we’ll never be separated again for a moment.’

‘No, not for all the baggage in the universe! Oh, George, you don’t know how I have suffered.’

The crowd could be kept ignorant no longer, for scores had assembled round the hotel, drawn thither by the disturbance.— Matters were explained, and cheers long and loud rent the air.

The landlord got up an impromptu wedding dinner, at which Kate presided; and George, looking very sheepish in Mr. Stark’s swallow-tail, did the honors.

They proceeded on their tour next day— and soon afterward Mr. and Mrs. Stark were delighted to receive a box by express containing the lost suit of the old gentleman, and the wherewithal to purchase him another, besides the most handsome drawn silk bonnet for Mrs. Stark that the old lady had ever seen.

‘There, old man,’ said she, turning from the glass at which she had been surveying herself in the new bonnet. ‘I allers told you that huckleberry swamp would turn to something, if it was only to raise frogs in. Guess I hit it sometimes.’

 The Vincennes [IN] Weekly Gazette 21 April 1866

Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: With this, the final entry in our June series on weddings, brides, grooms, and courtship, one hopes that the young couple had better luck managing the rest of their life together.

Look for all kinds of informative posts, including some on on summer amusements and the seaside, in the month of July.

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.