NOT only was the Beard intended to serve the important purposes just
described; but, combining beauty with utility, to impart manly grace and
free finish to the male face. To its picturesqueness Poets and Painters,
the most competent judges, have borne universal testimony. It is indeed
impossible to view a series of bearded portraits, however indifferently
executed, without feeling that they possess dignity, gravity, freedom,
vigour, and completeness; while in looking on a row of razored faces,
however illustrious the originals, or skilful the artists, a sense of
artificial conventional bareness is experienced.
Addison gives vent to the same notion, when he makes Sir Roger de
Coverley point to a venerable bust in Westminster Abbey, and ask
“whether our forefathers did not look much wiser in their Beards, than
we without them?” and say, “for my part, when I am in my gallery in the
country, and see my ancestors, who many of them died before they were of
my age, I cannot forbear regarding them as so many old Patriarchs, and
at the same time looking upon myself as an idle smock-faced young
fellow. I love to see your Abrahams, your Isaacs, and your Jacobs, as we
have them in the old pieces of tapestry, with Beards below their girdles
that cover half the hangings.” The knight added, “if I would recommend
Beards in one of my papers, and endeavour to restore human faces to
their ancient dignity, upon a month’s warning he would undertake to lead
up the fashion himself in a pair of whiskers.” In reference to this last
allusion it may be as well to state, that the word whisker is frequently
used by earlier authors to denote the moustache, and that in Addison’s
time, a mass of false hair was worn, and the head and face close shaven.
To shew that it is the Beard alone that causes the sensation we have
alluded to, look at two drawings on exactly the same original outline,
of a Greek head of Jupiter, the one with, the other without the Beard!
What say you? Is not the experiment a sort of “occular demonstration” in
favor of nature, and a justification of art and artists? See how the
forehead of the bearded one rises like a well-supported dome—what depth
the eyes acquire—how firm the features become—how the muscular
angularity is modified—into what free flowing lines the lower part of
the oval is resolved, and what gravity the increased length given to the
face imparts.
As amusing and instructive pendants, take two drawings of the head of a
lion, one with and the other without the mane. You will see how much of
the majesty of the king of the woods, as well as that of the lord of the
earth, dwells in this free flowing appendage. By comparing these
drawings with those of Jupiter, you will detect, I think, in the head of
the lion whence the Greek sculptor drew his ideal of this noble type of
godlike humanity.
Since this idea struck me, Mr. John Marshall, in a lecture at the
Government School of Practical Art, has remarked, “that nature leaves
nothing but what is beautiful uncovered, and that the masculine chin is
seldom sightly, because it was _designed to be covered_, while the chins
of women are generally beautiful.” This view he supported by instancing,
“that the bear, the rabbit, the cat, and the bird, are hideous to look
upon when deprived of their hairy and feathery decorations: but the
horse, the greyhound, and other animals so sparingly covered that the
shape remains unaltered by the fur, are beautiful even in their naked
forms.” This argument, it seems to me, applies with greater force to the
various ages of man. In the babe, the chin is exceedingly soft, and its
curve blends into those of the face and neck: in the boy it still
retains a feminine gentleness of line, but as he advances to the youth,
the bones grow more and more prominent, and the future character begins
to stamp itself upon the form: at the approach of manhood, the lines
combining with those of the mouth become more harsh, angular, and
decided; in middle age, various ugly markings establish themselves about
both, which in age are rendered not only deeper, but increased in number
by the loss of the teeth and the falling in of the lips, which of course
distorts all the muscles connected with the mouth. Such, however, is the
force of prejudice founded on custom, that people who sink themselves to
the ears in deep shirt collars, and to the chin in starched cravat and
stiffened stock, muffle themselves in comforters till their necks are as
big as their waists; nay do not demur some of them to be seen in that
abomination of ugliness—that huge black patch of deformity—a respirator,
have still sufficient face left to tell us that the expression of the
countenance would be injured by restoring the Beard!
A word, therefore, on the expression of Bearded faces. The works of the
Greeks,[4] the paintings of the old Masters, but above all the
productions of the pencil of Raphael, justly styled “the Painter of
Expression,” is a sufficient general answer to this ill-considered
charge. It would indeed be strange if He who made the male face, and
fixed the laws of every feature—clothing it with hair, as with a
garment, should in this last particular have made an elaborate provision
to mar the excellency of His own work! Nothing indeed but the long
effeminizing of our faces could have given rise to the present shaven
ideal—to the forgetfulness of the true standard of masculine beauty of
expression, which is naturally as antipodal as the magnetic north and
south poles, to that of female loveliness, where delicacy of line,
blushing changeable colour, and eyes that win by seeming not to wish it,
are charms we all feel, and at the same time understand how
inappropriate they are when applied to the opposite sex; where the bold
enterprizing brow—the deep penetrating eye—the daring, sagacious nose,
and the fleshy but firm mouth, well supported on the decided projecting
chin, proclaim a being who has an appointed path to tread, and hard
rough work to do, in this world of difficulties and ceaseless
transition.
Footnote 4:
Elmes says, “The Beard in Art has an ideal character as an attribute,
and distinguished by its undulating curl the Beard of Jupiter Olympius
from that of Jupiter Serapis (who has a longer and straighter Beard)
the lank Beard of Neptune and the river Gods, from the short and
frizzly Beards of Hercules, Ajax, Diomede, Ulysses, &c.”
So much for the general charge; if we examine the separate features,
there can be no question that the upper part of the face—the most
godlike portion—where the mind sits enthroned, gains in expression by
the addition of and contrast with the Beard; the nose also is thrown
into higher relief, while the eyes acquire both depth and brilliancy.
The mouth, which is especially the seat of the affections, its
surrounding muscles rendering it the reflex of every passing emotion,
owes its general expression to the line between the lips—the key to
family likeness; and this line is more sharply defined by the shadow
cast by the moustache, from which the teeth also acquire additional
whiteness, and the lips a brighter red. Neither the mouth nor chin are,
as we have said, unsightly in early life, but at a later period the case
is otherwise. There is scarcely indeed a more _naturally_ disgusting
object than a beardless old man (compared by the Turks to a “plucked
pigeon,”) with all the deep-ploughed lines of effete passions, grasping
avarice, disappointed ambition, the pinchings of poverty, the swollen
lines of self-indulgence, and the distortions of disease and decay! Now
the Beard, which, as the Romans phrased it, “buds” on the face of youth
in a soft downiness in harmony with immature manliness, and lengthens
and thickens with the progress of life, keeps gradually covering,
varying, and beautifying, as the “mantling ivy” the rugged oak, or the
antique tower, and by playing with its light free forms over the harsher
characteristics, imparts new graces even to decay, by heightening all
that is still pleasing, veiling all that is repulsive.
The colour of the Beard is usually warmer than that of the hair of the
head, and reflection soon suggests the reason. The latter comes into
contact chiefly with the forehead, which has little colour; but the
Beard grows out of the face where there is always more or less. Now
nature makes use of the colours of the face in painting the Beard—a
reason by the bye for not attempting to alter the original hue, and
carries off her warm and cold colours by that means. Never shall I
forget the circumstance of a gentleman with high colour, light brown
hair, full whiskers of a warm brown, deepening into a warm black, and
good looking, though his features, especially the nose, were not
regular—taking a whim into his head to shave off his whiskers. Deprived
of this fringe, the colour of his cheeks looked spotty, his nose forlorn
and wretched, and his whole face like a house on a hill-top exposed to
the north east, from which the sheltering plantations had been
ruthlessly removed.
The following singular fact in connection with the colour of the Beard,
I learnt in chance conversation with a hairdresser. Observing that
persons like him with high complexion and dark hair, had usually a
purple black beard: he said, “that’s true, sir,” and told me he had
“found in his own Beard, and in those of his customers, distinct red
hairs intermingled with the black,” just as it is stated that in the
grey fur of animals there are distinct rings of white and black hairs.
This purplish bloom of a black Beard is much admired by the Persians;
and curiously enough they produce the effect by a red dye of henna
paste, followed by a preparation of indigo.
There is one other point connected with colour which ought not to be
omitted. All artists know the value of white in clearing up colours. Now
let any one look at an old face surrounded by white hair, whether in man
or woman, and he will perceive a harmonizing beauty in it, that no
artificial imitation of more youthful colours can possibly impart. In
this, as in other cases, the natural is the most becoming.
Permit me to conclude this section of my lecture by reminding all who
wish to let their Beards grow, that there is a law above fashion, and
that each individual face is endowed with its individual Beard, the form
and colour of which is determined by similar laws to those which
regulate the tint of the skin, the form and colour of the hair of the
head, eyebrows, and eyelashes; and therefore the most becoming, even if
ugly in itself, to their respective physiognomies. What suits a square
face, will not suit an oval, and a high forehead demands a different
Beard to a low one. Leave the matter therefore to nature, and in due
season the fitting form and colour will manifest themselves. And here
parties who have never shaved have this great advantage over those who
have yielded to the unnatural custom, that hair will only be visible,
even when present, in its proper place, be better in character and
colour, and more graceful in its form.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, as all history we are told grew out of
fable, allow me, as a sort of intermezzo, to preface my history by “a
Fable for the Times.”
An Ape, one day, said to a Goat,
“Why wear that nasty ugly Beard?
I’ll shave you for a quarter groat
Cleaner than Sheep was ever shear’d.”
“Thank you, Sir Ape!” the Goat replied,
“I’ll think of it.” To court he ran,
Where he the foplings busy spied
Effacing ev’ry mark of man:
Thinking to win the softer sex
By making themselves _softer_ still.
“Ah!” says our Goat, “ah! ah! I’feggs,
I’ll be in fashion, that I will!”
He seats himself, the Ape’s not slow,
But tucks the cloth in, and then lathers;
When lo! stalk’d by a goodly row,
A solemn train of old Church Fathers!
With these came Doctors of each Art,
And each one pointed to his Beard!
Our Goat sprang up, with sudden start,
Like one whom conscience makes afeard.
“O Ape! this man’s a creature brave,
To whom we all like slaves submit;
Bearded to-day—t’morrow he’ll shave,
Then where’s the good of his boasted wit!
“There’s your apron! take your basin!
’Tis best to abide by nature’s rule:
His Beard no Goat will see disgrace in,
Whom nature did not make a fool!”