University of Virginia Library

HAIR.

Hair is an eloquent emblem. It is the mother's pride
to dress her child's rich locks; the lover's joy to gaze on
the hair-locket of his mistress; the mourner's despair to
see the ringlet stir as if in mockery of death, by the marble
cheek of the departed. How the hue of hair is hallowed
to the fancy! From the “glossy raven” to the “silver
sable,” from the “brown in the shadow, and gold in the
sun,” to the blonde and silken thread, there is a vocabulary
of hues appealing to each memory.

The beautiful economy of nature is signally displayed
in the human hair. The most simple expedient in the
animal frame, the meanest adjunct, as it were, to the
figure, yet how effective!

In this passage, the blind bard of Paradise has interpreted
the natural language of woman's hair before the artifices
of fashion had marred its natural grace. Whoever
has attentively perused one of the pictures of the old masters,
where a female figure is represented, must have perceived,
perhaps unconsciously, that the long flexible ringlets
conveyed an impression to the mind of dependence.
The short, tight curls of a gladiatorial statue, on the contrary,
give the idea of self-command and unyielding will.
There is a poetical charm in the unshorn tresses of a
beautiful woman, which Milton has not exaggerated. I
have seldom received a more sad conviction of the bitterness
of poverty, than was conveyed by the story of a lovely
girl in one of the continental towns, who was obliged to
sell her hair for bread. She was of humble parentage,
but nature had adorned her head with the rarest perfection.
Her luxuriant and glowing ringlets, constituted the pride
of her heart. She rejoiced in this distinction as the redeeming
point of her destiny. Often would a blush of
pleasure suffuse her cheek as she caught a stranger's eye
regarding them with admiration, when at her lowly toil.
The homeliness of her garb, and the poverty of her condition
were relieved by this native adornment. It is wonderful
to what slight tokens the self-respect of poor mortals will
cling, and how the very maintenance of virtue often depends
upon some frail association. A strain of music,

glimpses of a remembered countenance, a dream, a word,
will often annihilate a vile intention, or unseal the fountain
of the heart. A palm tree in England drew tears
from an Eastern wanderer; and the native wisdom of
Jeanie Deans led her to make her first visit to the Duke
of Argyle, arrayed in a plaid, knowing his honor's heart
“would warm to the tartan.” And thus to the simple-hearted
maiden her rich and flowing hair was a crown of
glory—the only circumstance that elevated her in her own
estimation. And when the iron necessity of want came
upon her, and she was a homeless orphan—when every
thing had been parted with, and all appeals to compassion
had failed, the spirit of the poor creature yielded to hunger,
and she sold her hair. Before this sacrifice, she had
resisted, with the heroism of innocence, the temptation to
purchase food at the expense of honor. But when the
wants of nature were appeased, and she went forth shorn
of her cherished ornament, the consciousness of her loss
induced despair, and she resigned herself hopelessly to a
career of infamy.

Abundant hair is said to be indicative of strength, and
fine hair, of susceptibility. In the hair are written the
stern lessons of life. It falls away from the head of sickness,
and the brows of the thoughtful. The bright lot of
childhood is traced in its golden threads, the free buoyancy
of youth is indicated by its wild luxuriance; the throe of
anguish, the touch of age, entwine it with a silver tissue;
and intensity of spirit will there anticipate the snows of
time. The hair of Columbus was white at thirty; and
before that period, Shelley's dark waving curls were dashed

with snow. In the account of the execution of the
unfortunate Mary, the last touch of pathos is given to the
scene when it is stated that as the executioner held up the
severed head, it was perceived that the auburn locks were
thickly strewn with grey.

Associations of sentiment attach strongly to the hair.
Around it is wreathed the laurel garland of fame. Amid
it tremble the flowers of a bridal. Putting up the hair is
the signal of womanhood. The Andalusian women always
wear roses in their glossy black hair. The barbarous
practice of scalping doubtless originated in a
savage idea of desecrating the temple of the soul, as
well as of gathering trophies of victory. The head is
shaven by the monks in token of humility, and the stationary
civilization of the Chinese is indicated by no
custom more strikingly than that of wearing only a single
cue, the very acme of unpicturesque. There were few
more characteristic indications of a highly artificial state
of society than the absurd style of dressing the head once
so fashionable. Even at the present day, no part of female
costume betrays individual taste more clearly than
the style in which the hair is worn. To tear the hair is a
true expression of despair, and the patriarchal ceremony
of scattering ashes on the head, was the deepest sign of
sorrow. How much the desolate grandeur of the scene
on the heath, in Lear, is augmented by his “white flakes”
that “challenge pity,” and what a picture we have of Bassanio's
love, when he says—

The women at the siege of Messina, wrought their hair
into bow-strings for the archers, and on a similar occasion
in the Spanish wars, the females of a small garrison bound
their hair under the chin, to appear like beard, and arranging
themselves on the ramparts, induced the enemy
to surrender.

Sampson's hair was singularly associated with his misfortunes,
and the abundant locks of Absalom wrought
the downfall of his pride. It is often a net to entrap the
affections. The hair speaks to the heart. Laura's flying
tresses haunted Petrarch's fancy:

That the hair may figure to advantage in literature, the
“Rape of the Lock,” is an immortal proof. The Puritans
cut it short and the cavaliers wore it luxuriantly.
Human vanity displays itself nowhere more conspicuously
than in the arrangement of the hair. When Benedict
enumerates the qualifications required in a wife, he says
in conclusion—“her hair shall be of what color it please
God;”—alluding to the common custom of dyeing the
hair. Bassanio, when moralizing on the caskets, utters a
satire upon false hair;

Among the beautiful touches, alike true to nature and
poetry, in Talfourd's Ion, is the language of the dying
Adrastus to his newly-discovered son:—

It is the surviving memorial of our physicial existence:

D'Israeli paints Contarini Fleming, the creature of
passion, after his wife's death, as clipping off her long
tresses, twining them about his neck, and springing from
a precipice. Miss Porter makes Helen Mar embroider
into the banner of Wallace, the ensanguined hair of his
murdered Marion. Goldsmith's coffin was opened to obtain
some of his hair for a fair admirer, and there is a
striking anecdote of a man who was prevented from declaring
love to his friend's betrothed, by recognizing on the
hand he had clasped, a ring, containing the hair of his
rival. With what a pathetic expressiveness does the
“Cenci” conclude:

The dialogue between King John and Constance, is very
significant:—