Victorian Farm Christmas Reading 'A Christmas Carol'

Enjoy Christmas? Thank A Victorian

Christmas is not what it use to be. Prior to the Victorian era Christmas was hardly noticed and was a small blip on the average person's calendar. You wouldn't think so the way modern people have made such a show of it but much of the way we celebrate the festive season can be linked back to Victorian England.

We all know (or should know) the Christmas tree was a German tradition brought to England by Prince Albert, who was born and raised in Germany. Dr. Peter Ainsley and the Marshall family would have had a table top tree decked out in small white candles, sweets and small presents. Most decorations were handmade like paper fans and dried apple or orange slices. As the young lady of the house Margaret would have invited friends over to create ornaments and trade gossip.

1843 was the year Victorians first saw the Christmas card. Artist J.C Horsely painted a scene of a family around a dinner table. The card included a Christmas message. Distributed by Henry Cole, each card cost a shilling so it remained out of reach for the average Victorian. The Marshall's, however, would have made sure they gave out some to their closest friends. The sentiment caught on amongst the average and lower classes and soon children and adults alike were making their own cards to send to loved ones and friends.

Gift giving was a well thought out endeavour. Victorians would plan their gifts for others many months in advance. It was believed giving gifts would bring good luck and continued prosperity in the new year. Victorians believed the best gifts were handmade. Needlework and useful items were quite popular.

Christmas dinner was an elaborate affair amongst the higher classes, the Marshall's would have spared no expense while hosting notable people and society elite. The average family would have enjoyed beef on the table Christmas Day, but Ainsley's family could expect goose or chicken. Turkey was not popular in England until the late 19th century. Christmas pudding was a annual tradition. First mixed together on "Stir It Up" Sunday (the Sunday before Advent), Christmas pudding is made of beef, raisins, prune and sugar in a pudding cloth and cooked in a pot, usually with other food. Serving Christmas Pudding was often a dramatic, ceremonious affair, presented at the table by the cook who would receive ohh's and ahh's from those gathered. Decorated with a sprig of holly and a brandy sauce set ablaze, Christmas pudding was a highlight of festivities.

Most of Christmas Time was reserved for visiting with family and friends without a lot of emphasis on presents. Traditions like wassailing (carolling door to door) encouraged interaction between neighbours and offering food like treats.

Traditionally Boxing Day was the first weekday following Christmas and was set aside for charity work. Victorians would place money and gifts in small boxes to give to the servants, trades people or the needy. For the affluent family like the Marshalls, it would be viewed as duty to assist the poor.

Want to learn more about the history of Christmas? Check out Jeri Westerson's blog, http://www.getting-medieval.com/ Jeri writes the Crispin Guest medieval noir series and her blog post is quite informative.

Victorian Funeral Rites

If you are fascinated by the dark aspects of history like I am you'll enjoy my guest post over at fellow writer Ally Shield's Blog.


I talk about my initial interest in ghost stories and how CHORUS OF THE DEAD came to in to being.

My Cover Artist

Have you seen my cover for CHORUS OF THE DEAD? It's a work of art. I have to admit the day it arrived in my inbox with my name and title displayed so nicely I cried. It honestly was the most beautiful thing to behold.

While editing CHORUS, I stumbled upon a lovely artist, Claudia at phatpuppyart.com who has a beautiful website filled with all her lovely creations. She works with a lot of publishers and authors and a lot of times when I see a beautiful cover I wonder if she had a hand in it.

Her style of art is alluring with elements of the fantastical. She only has a few covers that could work for a historical and a lot covers for paranormal and fantasy books. Every so often I visit her site and flip through her cover art imagining the stories that would go with her art.

I have narrowed down my choices for my next Ainsley book, titled DEAD SILENT. A gold star for anyone who can guess the art for my next cover.

3, 2, 1...LAUNCH

I attended a launch party on Thursday evening for THE WHOLE SHE-BANG, a Sisters In Crime mystery anthology.

My story, A Ring For Jenny, can be found on page 107. That page number will be forever ingrained in my memory since I completely embarrassed myself in front of all in attendance. As part of the festivities, each writer in the anthology was allotted 3 minutes to read from their submission. Everyone else seemed prepared with either a copy of the book or printed sheets of computer paper. I had none of these and was caught off guard somewhat when someone told me I was expected to read.

Luckily someone lent me a copy of the book when my name was called and I fumbled through pages trying to find my entry. Eyes stared. My cheeks burned crimson. Days seemed to pass as I struggled until someone finally said "107". Of course.

It was my first public reading and despite my nerves, I enjoyed it. Afterwards numerous people asked me to sign their copies and I was beyond thrilled. To think this is how authors start out. Writing words with the unknown reader a distant thought in their mind until one day when writer and reader meet.

I have an audience.

Of course I have an audience. Nameless, faceless buyers of books on Amazon and Kobo. The sales numbers increase and I smile, sometimes broadly. But this, meeting people face to face, being handed a pen and a copy of the story, MY STORY, with eager anticipation, is beyond description. This is amazing.

The Whole She-Bang is available on Amazon Kindle, and Smashwords for other e-reading formats. Print copies can be purchased from Lulu.

Half of all proceeds will be donated to the Children's Book Bank, a non-profit organization in Toronto that puts books in the hands of children. Stay tuned for a future post on this AMAZING charity.

The Bridge of Sighs

If you have read CHORUS OF THE DEAD, or even if you just read the preview, you probably noticed the verses I put at the beginning of each chapter. In the literary world it's called a literary device, when authors use quotes to introduce a chapter or book.

I spent a good deal of time looking for an appropriate literary device for my books. I perused anatomy books of the day (Gray's Anatomy was just published) but nothing seemed to fit. I tried to find information about a prominent surgeon who may have written about his scientific findings or other such useful pamphlet but I had little luck. Nothing was catching my fancy. I was almost resigned to not use anything at all until one week before my book was to go 'live' it hit me. Months earlier, in my research of Victorian England, morgues and the work of a surgeon, I found a poem titled "The Bridge of Sighs" by Thomas Hood. It is a remarkable poem but like most of my findings I had no immediate need of it and kept researching.

While giving the search for a literary device on last desperate try I came across "The Bridge of Sighs" yet again and realized it was perfect. With careful selection I divided the poem up into couplets and/or versus and was amazed how well they fit with my story.

I used the segments in order in the book but here's the poem in it's entirety, unbroken and smooth.




The Bridge of Sighs


One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!


Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly
Young, and so fair!


Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.


Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.


Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.


Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family—
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.


Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?


Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?


Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.


Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.


Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.


The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd—
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!


In she plunged boldly—
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran—
Over the brink of it,
Picture it—think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!


Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!


Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!


Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.


Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.—
Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!


Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!


Thomas Hood

Peter the Wild Boy

History is filled with a countless number of real life mysteries. And nothing stirs the imagination more than gaping holes in the facts. The case of Peter the Wild Boy is one of those mysteries that can never be completely solved.


Peter was found roaming feral in the northern woods of Germany near the legendary town of Hamelin. He walked on all fours, lived off flora and fauna and never learned to speak a language. No one knows where the boy came from, how he came to be living alone in the woods and no parents or family members ever came forward.

At a young age Peter was brought to England under the order of King George I, who had taken a keen liking for the novelty that would become Peter the Wild boy. Peter lived amongst courtiers under a veil of curiosity and amusement. Used as entertainment, the court's interest in Peter wore off and after some unsuccessful attempts to school him, he eventually was placed at Broadway Farm in Axter's End. The British government provided a 35 pound annual pension to the farmer to assist with his room and board.


It was here that Peter could roam amongst the wilderness similar to his youth. Finally free of fancy dress and etiquette rules he spent a lot of time in the woods and would often sleep under the stars. He did happen to wander too far once and ended up in a nearby prison. He was claimed by the farmers charged with his care and they subsequently fastened a collar on him, on which was inscribed his name and address should he ever go missing again.


Peter died at what many believe to be the age of 70, since there is no known record of his birth. He was buried at St. Mary's Church in Northchurch where his headstone remains. Flowers are often seen at his grave site to this day.


Lucy Worsely, a well known British museum curator and television personality, has made a lovely segment dedicated to Peter and his legacy.