Barbers, by common consent, enjoy a most enviable reputation. Both in
fact and fiction they are the representatives of shrewdness and good
nature; and in some of the choicest literature extant, the sayings and
doings of the brethren of the craft are among the best of their kind.
It would be a dull world without Figaro.
The barber’s shop was for centuries the emporium of gossip, the
idler’s club; and when the young Roman wished to meet with a rake as
pleasure-loving as himself, he sought him at the barber’s, possibly to
contrive how to steal away some old man’s daughter or his money-bags.
And thither came the old miser to get his finger-nails clipped,
taking care, however, to take the parings away with him. All classes
frequented the barber’s shop; and we may suppose the lively satirists
of old visited the spot, as Molière did the barber of Pezenas, to find
material for some of their best sketches of character.
The Roman barbers, it must be confessed, were somewhat garrulous, and
their tongues went as nimbly as their shears. Like the moderns, they
put a rough cloth round the patient, as we are half inclined to call
the customer who submitted to the operation, for we fear their razors
were none of the best, for some preferred to have their beards plucked
out by means of plasters applied to the face, and then those terrible
tweezers completed the work, pulling out the stray hairs the razors
or plasters had left behind. Some wealthy men had the duties of the
barber performed by their own slaves, but the shops were thronged
with customers, and the tonsor was at all times the most obedient and
obliging servant of the public. One of the peculiarities of their art
was the clicking of the shears, to which Juvenal makes allusion:
“He whose officious scizzors went snip, snip,
As he my troublesome young beard did clip.”
Several of these worthies attained to great distinction, and rose from
the shop to the senate.
The furniture of a barber’s shop, to those who are curious in matters
of antiquity, might serve to explain the customs of a very remote
period. The basin is mentioned in Ezekiel: it is the _cantherus_
of the middle ages, which was of bright copper. From a peculiar soap,
_lascivium_, used by the fraternity, we derive the word lather.
Washing-balls were used for washing and softening the beard before
shaving, and the pomatum in use was known as _capillare_. Various
modes of frizzing and plaiting the hair, distinguished by appropriate
terms, are alluded to by archæologists; but we turn a deaf ear to such
traditions--our lode-star glistens near the barber’s pole, Mambrino’s
helmet, bright with sunny memories of golden romance and the adventures
of the knight of La Mancha. There has been some diversity of opinion as
to the origin of the well-known barber’s pole. The prevalent opinion
is probably the true one, that it represents the staff held in the
hand by the patient phlebotomized by the barber-surgeon; and that the
red ribbon coiled round it represents the tape by which the arm was
compressed during the operation. And here, at the threshold, we observe
the mystical union between Barbery and Surgery; and hence the dignity
and professional honours to which the barbers justly lay claim. Lord
Thurlow, in the House of Peers (1797) decorated the barber’s pole with
somewhat different colours when he stated “that, by a statute then in
force, the Barbers and Surgeons were each to use a pole. The barbers
were to have theirs blue and white, striped, with no other appendage;
but the surgeons’, which was the same in other respects, was likewise
to have a galley-pot and a red rag, to denote the particular nature
of their vocation.” Our business is not with the galley-pot, although
we love the golden beard of Æsculapius well. We incline to the belief
that there were no jealousies between the happy couple at an early
period of their union. The fees of both professions were, doubtless,
small, and seldom any but minor operations attempted; while, probably,
the ignorance of both parties was so nearly balanced as to produce the
desired equality so necessary to the concord of the married state. For
many long years we know they jogged on together without complaint of
any kind; that subsequently, if not very loving, they tolerated each
other with due decorum; and that, when at last they got to wrangling
and high words, they luckily obtained a divorce.
The barber’s basin certainly ranks next in importance to the pole. The
basin of the proper form had the usual semi-circle cut out of the brim,
that it might fit into the neck; and, in another part, a hollow place,
like a little dish, to hold the soap: its office was two-fold, and was
in requisition both for bleeding and shaving. To the disturbed vision
of Don Quixote the brass basin glittered like burnished gold. His
adventure with the village barber, mounted on his dappled grey ass, the
renowned helmet, and the part it played in the astounding feats of that
flower of chivalry, are known the world over, and are among the most
pleasant associations connected with the barber’s trade. At a public
festival in Holland, in honour of the Earl of Leicester, Holinshed
says a barber set up some three score of bright copper basins on a
wall, with a wax candle burning in each, and a painting of a rose and
crown, and an inscription in Latin, “this made a faire shew, and was
a pretie deuise.” If the fellow were an honest patriot, he deserved a
pyramid of brass basins for a monument.
Punning inscriptions and quaint devices outside of the shop were
frequently adopted as alluring bait for the lovers of odd whims and
fancies, who thought none the worse of the man for having some spice of
humour in his composition. Over a barber’s shop Hogarth has set up this
inscription, “Shaving, bleeding, and teeth drawn with a touch, ECCE
SIGNUM.” Bat Pigeon, of whom honourable mention is made by both
Steele and Addison, had a curious device of a bat and a pigeon, which,
in its day, attracted much attention. The wig-maker’s sign of Absalom
hanging from the oak by his hair, and the darts of Joab fixed in his
side, is probably of French origin. The story is told of a barber at
Troyes, and the inscription runs thus:
“Passans, contemplez la douleur
D’Absalon pendu par la nuque:
Il eût évité ce malheur
S’il avait porté la _perruque_.”
The English version is more concise:
“O Absalom, unhappy sprig,
Thou shouldst have worn a perriwig.”
The barber’s chair may be regarded as the centre of the system. The
proverb “As common as a barber’s chair” is well known, and Shakspere’s
clown adds “it fits all buttocks”--the word is not ours--the seat
of honour, if you please, reader, furnished with twin cushions to
protect the sacred Luz, out of which the Rabbins say the renewed
mammal is to sprout forth at the resurrection, as you are probably
aware. In old prints, the chattels of a barber’s shop are usually
few and mean enough; but the chair--the descendant of the _sella
tonsoria_--bears some rude flourishes of art, is broad and massive
and well-cushioned, as became the throne of so many grave potentates.
One is as much astonished at the size of the combs, scissors, and
razors of the ancient barbers as at the giant arms and armour worn
by the knights of old. What ponderous blades these artists wielded
it is fearful to contemplate. There is an old joke that some barber
advertised shaving by the acre, and cutting blocks with a razor one
would think not impossible with such weapons. Actius’ razor, which
was of the keenest, must have been after this fashion. As razors are
of very old date, it may interest some one to know that, long before
Sheffield or Sheffield blades were thought of, Palermo did business in
their commodity. The presiding deity was not unfrequently the greatest
curiosity about the place. A certain knack of snapping the fingers
was a common practice among them; tradition says, it recalled to mind
the clicking of the shears used by their great ancestors. Morose, in
Ben Jonson’s “Silent Woman,” so detested this sound, as indeed he did
noises of all kind, that meeting with a barber who was without this
trick of his profession, he thought it so eminent a virtue, that he
made him chief of his counsel, which reminds one of Adrian’s rebuke to
his gossip of a barber, who, in reply to the man’s query how he should
like to be shaved, said--silently! But barber’s were better employed
than in curing the ill-humours of the Morose family. In Stubbes’
Anatomie of Abuses (1583) is a dialogue about old barbers, which we
will in part transcribe:
“There are no finer fellowes under the sunne, nor experter in
their noble science of barbing than they be; and therefore,
in the fulness of their overflowing knowledge, (oh! ingenious
heads, and worthy to be dignified with the diademe of folly and
vain curiositie!) they have invented such strange fashions and
monstrous manners of cutting, trimmings, shavings, and washings,
that you would wonder to see.... Besides that, when they come
to the cutting of the haire, what snipping and snapping of the
cycers is there, what tricking and trimming, what rubbing,
what scratching, what combing and clawing, what trickling and
toying, and all to tawe out money, you may be sure. And when
they come to washing, oh! how gingerly they behave themselves
therein; for then shall your mouth be bossed with the lather
or fome that riseth of the balles (for they have their sweete
balles wherewithall they use to washe); your eyes closed must
be anointed therewith also. Then snap go the fingers; ful
bravely, God wot. Thus, this tragedy ended, comes me warme
clothes to wipe and dry him withall; next the eares must be
picked and closed togither againe artificially forsooth; the
hair of nostrils cut away, and every thing done in order comely
to behold. The last action in this tragedie is the paiment of
monie. And least these cunning barbers might seem unconscionable
in asking much for their paines, they are of such a shamefast
modestie, as they will aske nothing at all, but, standing to
the curtesie and liberalitie of the giver, they will receive
all that comes, how much soever it be, not giving anie again, I
warrant you; for take a barber with that fault, and strike off
his head. No, no, such fellows are _Raræ in terris, nigrisque
simillimi cygnis_,--“Rare birds upon the earth, and as geason
as black swans.” You shall have also your Orient perfumes for
your nose, your fragrant waters for your face, wherewith you
shall bee all to besprinkled: your musicke againe, and pleasant
harmonie shall sound in your eares, and all to tickle the
same with vaine delight. And in the end your cloke shall be
brushed, and, God be with you, gentleman!...* * * * * * But yet
I must needs say (these nisities set apart) barbers are verie
necesarie, for otherwise men should grow verie ougglisom and
deformed, and their haire would in processe of time overgrowe
their face, rather like monsters, than comlie sober Christians.”
Stubbes, himself, was an inveterate trifler--one of an army of pigmies
warring against cranes; but we acquit him of all malice; he belonged
to that numerous class who originate nothing, but find fault with
everything--
“The long-neck’d geese of the world for ever hissing dispraise
Because their natures are little,”
as Tennyson calls them. An apt turn for flattery was very requisite in
an accomplished barber--one of the most difficult things, by the way,
for humanity to attain to; for if satire should wound, like a keen
razor, “with a touch that’s scarcely felt or seen,” flattery, like
rouge, should be applied with a very delicate hand, indeed. Suckling’s
verses allude to this hazardous feat:
“When I’m at work, I’m bound to find discourse
To no great purpose, of great Sweden’s force,
Of Witel, and the Burse, and what ’twill cost
To get that back which was this summer lost.
So fall to praising of his lordship’s hair,
Ne’er so deformed, I swear ’tis _sans_ compare:
I tell him that the King’s does sit no fuller,
And yet his is not half so good a colour:
Then reach a pleasing glass, that’s made to lye
Like to its master most notoriously:
And if he must his mistress see that day,
I with a powder send him strait away.”
But other duties such as bleeding, cupping, and drawing teeth had to be
attended to in turn. Those who have seen the
“Black rotten teeth in order strung,
Rang’d cups, that in the window stood,
Lin’d with red rags to look like blood,”
will acknowledge that this was once a very important branch of
industry. We have ourselves seen the tooth of some unknown animal
in a collection of the kind, which, for size, would have astonished
Professor Owen; the sight of it, we were told, had frightened away many
a toothache. The reader has probably met with the anecdote of Queen
Elizabeth, who hesitated about having a tooth drawn; when Bishop Aylmer
sat down in the chair, and said to the operator, “Come, though I am
an old man, and have but few teeth to spare, draw me this!” which was
done; and the queen, seeing him make so slight a matter of it, sat down
and had hers drawn, also.
When it was part of the popular belief that the human subject required
to be bled at regular intervals to ensure good health and make the
ladies fair, and when every barber-surgeon was ready “to breathe a
vein,” we may be sure the lancet was in constant request. Cupping
was recommended to remove a catarrh or cold in the head; and one who
made trial of its virtues says, he was startled by being asked by the
operator if he wished to be _sacrificed_; but declined being
scarified on that occasion. We take it for granted there must have
been uncommon stamina in the British constitution, or it would long
since have broken down hopelessly under the rough handling it has
undergone.
Benjamin Suddlechop, in Scott’s “Fortunes of Nigel,” has become the
model barber of our popular literature; the sketch is confessedly a
slight one, and, indeed, after Cervantes, Fielding, Smollett, and Le
Sage--not to mention others--have given their delineations of the
character, the barbers stand in need of no further help to fame.
Even Suddlechop had some music in his soul; his shop in Fleet-street
resounded with the tinklings of the guitar, where the lover, if so
inclined, might warble “a woeful ballad to his mistress’ eyebrows,” or
flay some spell-bound Marsyas with sounds by no means
“As sweet and musical
As bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his hair.”
But what shall we say to Suddlechop’s little back shop, from which
he supplied his customers with strong waters. We consider this a sad
blot upon his fame. Many of the barbers sold cordials and compounded
English _aqua-vitæ_, and to them we are indebted for some of the
earliest recipes for British brandy--an abominable mixture, which, like
the filthy poison known as gin, has destroyed more victims than ever
groaned under the lancet of the barber-surgeon. Could these worthies
have foreseen what scandalous things would come of this gin drinking,
how
“The vitriol madness flashes up in the ruffian’s head,
Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife,”
what disease, and want, and wretchedness, and crime, are engendered
of this poison to men’s souls--all to build up the fortunes of a few
wealthy capitalists--we are sure even the strong nerves of the dashing
barber would have failed him, and he would have turned with loathing
from the hateful traffic. Rabelais makes Pope Calixtus a woman’s barber
in the other world, which might be a very salutary discipline for a
proud pontiff; and we put it to the prince of jovial drinkers himself
to suggest any more fitting purgatorial chastisement for the gin-fire
aristocracy, than that of compelling them to drink their own vile
compounds: Prometheus, bound to the rock, with the vulture preying on
his liver, would be but a faint type of their misery.
Before we dismiss Suddlechop, we have to remark that though dame
Ursula, his wife, carried on the sale of cosmetics and perfumes, and
dealt in other mysteries in her own room at hand, the business of a
perfumer, as the term is now understood, had nothing to do with the
ancient craft of barbery; such matters concerned St. Veronica and the
milliners--the barbers and their patron saint, St. Louis, were engaged
on higher mysteries. To preserve order, or, more probably, to promote
merriment, a list of forfeits was hung up in the shop; those who chose
to pay them did, and those who did not might laugh at them--
“like the forfeits in a barbers shop,
As much in mock as mark.”
Some old-fashioned “rules for seemly behaviour” have been handed to
certain learned antiquaries as genuine regulations of the craft; but
old birds are not to be caught with chaff, and the archæologist knows
better. The forfeits are said to have been incurred by meddling with
the razors, talking about cutting throats, swearing, pricking another
with the spurs, taking another’s turn, interrupting the barber, and
such like venial offences. It was formerly the custom to apply the soap
with the hand when lathering the beard; the practice of using a brush
was a French innovation, not known in England till the year 1756. Nor
must we omit to mention that contrivance of the dark ages, the barber’s
candlestick, which consisted of an upright wooden stem, pointed at the
lower end, which was fixed in the apron string, and a projecting branch
moveable round the stem to hold the candle.
Down even to the time of Queen Anne the barber’s shop was frequented
by the better sort of people, and the hand that trimmed the tradesman
curled the courtier. In Green’s “Quip for an Upstart Courtier,” (1592),
we read, “With quaint terms you greet Master Velvet-breeches withal,
and at every word a snap with your scissors, and a cringe with your
knee; whereas, when you come to poor Cloth-breeches, you either cut his
beard at your own pleasure, or else in disdain ask him if he will be
trimmed with Christ’s cut, round like the half of a Holland cheese?”
Some of the old histories afford curious glimpses of the varied
fortunes of the trade. In the time of Henry VI., the king’s palace was
surrounded by little barbers’ shops, under the direction of the barber
of the household. There being then no carriages, and the streets being
dirty, it is probable that those who went to court were first shaved
and dressed in these shops. A considerable fee was given to this barber
for shaving every Knight of the Bath, on his creation; forty shillings
from every baron; one hundred shillings from every earl; and ten pounds
from every duke. The barbers of London were first incorporated by
King Edward IV., in 1461, and at that time were the only persons who
practised surgery. In France the Company of Barbers dates from 1096.
An association called the Company of Surgeons was then formed prior to
the act of Henry VIII., regulating the trade of barbers and surgeons.
This act incorporated the company of surgeons with the barbers, under
the name of the Barbers and Surgeons of London, and defined the duties
of both professions: the barbers were not to practice surgery further
than drawing of teeth, and the surgeons were strictly prohibited from
exercising the craft of shaving. It is needless to add, that to a much
later period, any act of parliament to the contrary notwithstanding,
the barber did as much of the surgeon’s work as he could get. In
certain articles devised by Henry VIII. for the establishment of good
order in his household and chambers, there is an order by which the
king’s barber is “expressly enjoined to be cleanly, and by no means to
frequent the company of idle persons and misguided women, for fear of
danger to the king’s most royal person.”
Montaigne complains (1581) that throughout Italy he had not been able
to get hold of a single barber that could either shave him, or cut, or
arrange his hair properly. The barber of King Charles II. seems to have
acquired somewhat of the levity of his master, (evil communications
corrupt good manners); for one day, while shaving him, with his usual
familiarity he hazarded the remark, that none of his majesty’s officers
had a greater trust than himself. “How so, friend?” quoth the king.
“Why,” said the barber, “I could cut your majesty’s throat whenever
I liked.” Charles started up at the idea, and, using his favourite
oath, exclaimed, “Odds fish, the very thought is treason!” Nor could
King Charles have forgotten the occasion when William Penderel first
performed the office of barber, and shaved and trimmed him in a very
sorry fashion, that he might elude his enemies. Royalty must at all
times have been a very awkward customer for the barber to meddle with.
Midas’ barber who appears to have had the _cacoethes loquendi_
which is said to be endemic with the craft, suffered dreadfully in
consequence. Fortunately for a few crowned heads, the tonsor, taught
discretion by the story of Midas, has become the most prudent of men,
and not a whisper is uttered on earth of any peculiar developement
about the ears which the Phrygian cap effectually conceals from the
vulgar.
Female barbers were not unknown to our forefathers, and, till within a
few years, were to be met with in the provinces: possibly some “weird
sisters” still survive in odd localities. We remember a sturdy little
Welsh woman who wielded the razor very successfully in her native town,
and was patronized extensively by the sailors and quarrymen. The five
barberesses of Drury Lane, who dreadfully maltreated a woman in the
reign of Charles II., are remembered for their infamy. Local histories
tell of a noted barberess in Seven Dials, and of a black woman who
did duty at Butcher Row, near the Temple. The delicate manipulation
of female artists is proverbial; but one shudders at the thought of
encountering the armed hand of the female barber; for who has forgotten
the trick which the barber-damsel put upon Don Quixote, when she raised
a lather a span high, covering up his face and beard with a white
foam, and then left him for awhile with his neck outstretched, and his
eyes half shut, “the strangest and most ridiculous figure imaginable;”
and how poor Sancho was threatened with still worse consequences, and
protested loudly against the beard-scouring by the scullions, adding,
with his usual shrewdness, that there was no such difference between
him and his master, that one should be washed with angel water and
the other with devil’s-ley. Southey informs us that female shavers
were not uncommon in Spain in his day. The more feminine occupation of
hair-dressing was long carried on by the other sex, in a becoming and
artistic manner: witness the announcement of one of them, copied by
Strutt from the original in the British Museum:--
A [Illustration] R
_Next Door to the Golden Bell, St. Bride’s Lane, Fleet Street_,
LYVETH LYDIA BEERCRAFT,
Who cutteth and curleth ladies, gentlemen, and children’s
hair.--She sells a fine pomatum, which is mix’d with ingredients
of her own makeing, that if the hair be never so thin, it makes
it grow thick; and if short, it makes it grow long. If any
gentleman’s or children’s hair be never so lank, she makes it
curle in a little time, and to look like a perriwig.
It will be observed in Queen Anne’s reign no other style but that of
the perriwig was thought worthy of imitation. In former times, the
university barber was a person of some consequence. The vice-chancellor
and proctors invited the fraternity to an annual supper, and no barber
or hair-dresser could exercise his vocation in the university unless
he matriculated,--took the usual oath, and had his name entered on
the books of the university. It was usual for the college barber to
wait upon the “freshmen,” and dress and powder them in the prevailing
fashion--a custom which Southey was among the first to resist--an
innovation he would scarcely have ventured on in after life.
The home of the first Company of Barber-Surgeons in London was probably
where the hall of their successors, the barbers, is at this day, in
Monkwell Street. The present building was erected by subscription
some years after the Fire of London, which all but consumed its
predecessor: a portion of the hall, of a semicircular shape, is
actually within one of the bastions, still entirely perfect, of the old
Roman wall--the ancient boundary of the metropolis. The court-room,
designed by Inigo Jones, though small, is of fine proportions, and
contains what must now be considered the chief riches of the company--a
noble painting by Holbein, “Henry VIII. granting the charter to the
Barber-Surgeons”--one of the finest pictures by Holbein in this
country. There is also a portrait of Inigo Jones, by Vandyke; a picture
by Sir Peter Lely, and other valuable paintings. The Company possesses
a silver-gilt cup, presented by Henry VIII.; another the gift of
Charles II.; and a large bowl given by Queen Anne. Such are some of
the relics the barbers may still feel proud of, which we trust are
not fated to decay; but, as this is eminently an age of revival and
restoration, it is to be hoped the old hall may yet see better days;
that, whatever was garnered up of old by the wisdom and prudence of our
forefathers, may be wisely and liberally enjoyed by this generation,
and the good work carried on and extended for a later age. The arms of
the barbers are:--
Quarterly first and fourth, _sa_, a chevron between three fleams
_ar_, second and third, per pale _ar_, and vert, a spatula in
pale _ar_, surmounted of a rose, _gu_, charged with another of
the first; the first rose regally crowned _proper_. Between
the four quarters a cross of St. George, _gu_, charged with a
lion passant gardant, _or_. _Crest_--An opinicus, with wings
indorsed, _or_. _Supporters_--Two lynxes _proper_, spotted
of various colours, both ducally collared and chained, _or_.
_Motto_--“De præscientia Dei.”
If we were privileged to direct our thoughts to other lands, and to
record the pleasant life of that admirable humourist, the barber of
Southern Europe, we might hope to add a little sunshine to these pages.
Who enjoys life better than Figaro--who is as well entertained--who is
half as entertaining?
Ah che bel vivere!
Che bel piacere per un barbiere di qualita,
Ah bravo Figaro, bravo bravissimo fortunatissimo.
What a lively, sensuous, _al fresco_ life he has of it at Naples;
content, without the semblance of property of any kind; in action, free
as the breeze; and in spirit, buoyant as a wave.
Ah che bel vivere!
But the shrine of Figaro must be sought in Seville. In the charming
fictions of Cervantes and Le Sage, we seem to live on most familiar
terms with the Spanish barber, as much so, as with Smollett’s Hugh
Strap, or Partridge in Fielding’s “Tom Jones.” So truthfully is the
invisible world peopled for us by the power of genius. Romance seems in
some way associated with the character of a barber--
“In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And songless rows the silent gondolier;”
but the barber still contrives an occasional serenade, accompanying
his amorous tinklings with vocal strains which would rouse the Seven
Sleepers. What a contrast to his European brethren is the grave barber
of the East, who is usually physician, astrologer, and barber, and
better known to most of us by the amusing story in the Arabian Nights
than from any other source. Much might be said of Yankee wit and humour
in the person of the American barber; something too, of the crude state
of the art in Africa, where, to complete her modest coiffure, the sable
beauty is seated in the sun with a lump of fat on her head, which
trickles down in resplendent unctuous streams with a profusion enough
to make a railway engine jealous. Nor can we stop to notice the Chinese
“one piccie Barber-man,” whose speculations on heads and tails must be
highly amusing; for the Fates are inexorable, and our canvass too small
to complete the picture.
We must not, however, omit all mention of the trade in human hair, on
which the wig-maker is dependent for his supplies. Ovid alludes to this
traffic--light and auburn hair was most sought for by the Roman ladies
which was brought from Germany and the North of Europe--
“Hair is good merchandise, and grown a trade,
Markets and public traffic thereof made;
Nor do they blush to cheapen it among
The thickest number, and the rudest throng.”
In the reign of Elizabeth, the wearing of false hair was something of a
novelty; Italian ladies of no reputation are said to have first revived
the fashion. Stubbes took up the cudgels in earnest; he says:--
“They are not simply content with their own hair, but buy other
hair, either of horses, mares, or any other strange beasts,
dyeing of what colour they list themselves. And if there be any
poor woman (as now and then we see--God doth bless them with
beauty as well as the rich) that have fair hair, these nice
dames will not rest till they have bought it. Or if any children
have fair hair, then will entice them into a secret place, and
for a penny or two they will cut off their hair; as I heard that
one did in the city of Londinium of late who, meeting a little
child with very fair hair, inveigled her into a house, promised
her a penny and so cut off her hair.”
In more modern times the demand has created a distinct branch of trade,
and various agencies are at work to procure the needful supply. Black
hair comes principally from Brittany and the South of France, where
it is collected by dealers who visit the principal fairs, and barter
ribbons, kerchiefs, and such matters, for the tresses of the Breton
lasses. From a superstitious feeling, most of them are averse to take
money for their hair, and consider it unlucky to do so. As it is an
invariable custom for the females to wear a close cap from childhood,
the loss of their magnificent _chignons_ is thereby concealed.
Germany supplies the market, as of old, with light and flaxen hair,
and this branch of trade is chiefly carried on by a Dutch company.
The London hair-dressers alone, purchase some five tons annually. The
annual consumption in Great Britain of foreign human hair is assumed
to be about six tons. Hair which curls naturally, and is of good
colour and very fine, commands the highest price; and certain shades,
which are comparatively rare, are much sought for. Such choice lots
are packed up in skins, to exclude the air, and exported to the best
markets. Fashion, however, has much to do in regulating the price.
Bryant, the American poet, whose Pegasus seems to have taken fright at
the gaudeous dresses of the beauties in the Broadway, thus discourses
of hair with a poet’s license:
“And thick about those lovely temples lie
Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled.
Thrice happy man! whose trade it is to buy,
And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world;
Who curls of every glossy colour keepest,
And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest.
And well thou mayst--for Italy’s brown maids
Send the dark locks with which their brows are dressed,
And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids,
Crop half, to buy a riband for the rest;
And the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare,
And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair.
Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve,
To see her locks of an unlovely hue,
Grizzled or thin, for liberal art shall give
Such piles of curls as nature never knew.
Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight
Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright.”
When long-curled perriwigs were in fashion, some fine heads of hair
fetched extraordinary prices; and as it was impossible to find human
hair in sufficient quantity for the purposes of trade, recourse was
had to horse-hair. One of the companies projected just before the
bursting of the South Sea bubble, was a company for dealing in human
hair which promised unheard of profits. In “A Description of Trades,”
published 1747, we are told, “that the business of hair-curlers and
sellers is properly a part of perriwig making, but of late years they
have prevailed so much as to become quite a separate trade, and really
not an inconsiderable one neither, some of them being even styled
_merchants_, who have the makers-up of hair in all shapes for
their customers. There are also abundance of hawkers and pedlars who
go up and down the country to buy up this commodity, who generally
dispose of it to these hair-sellers.” The material for a perriwig being
somewhat costly, and trickery not uncommon, the character of the barber
was the best guarantee for the quality of the wig. The reader has
probably heard how Tom Brown, meeting a parson at Nando’s Coffee-house,
recommended him to the honestest perriwig-maker in Christendom--the
barber at Chelmsford, with his nineteen daughters, all bred up to his
own trade, and being kept unmarried, their hair grew so prodigiously
fast that it gave them full employment throughout the year; the barber
cropped them every four years, and never lacked a plentiful harvest--so
that Chelmsford was as famous for its wigs, as Romford for calves. The
girls were all virtuous, which made the hair the stronger, and there
was not finer hair to be had in the kingdom. On this, the parson who
was in want of a new wig, and had been cheated in his last purchase,
set out for Chelmsford, and returned thoroughly satisfied--that he had
been sent on a fool’s errand.
The value of long fair hair, when wigs were in fashion, is amusingly
shown in Walpole’s anecdote of the Countess of Suffolk, married to Mr.
Howard. “Such was their poverty, that having invited some friends to
dinner, and being disappointed of a small remittance, she was forced
to sell her hair to furnish the entertainment, and for which she
obtained twenty pounds.” Middle Row, Holborn, was chiefly inhabited by
perriwig-makers, and the French barbers congregated in Soho.
One of the mysteries of the craft was the art of dyeing hair, and every
barber was supposed to be fully initiated in this occult science.
Greeks and Romans performed similar feats in their day, but blonde
hair being most esteemed, the compositions they used were of a very
different nature to those employed by the moderns; strictly speaking
they could hardly be called dyes, they partook more of the nature of
caustic pomades and pigments: such were the _pilæ Mattiacæ_, the
_caustica spuma_, _spuma Battava_, &c., of their authors,
imported for the most part from Germany. Making old folks young again,
at least in appearance, was not beyond the power of Roman art, for
the locks of age, white as the plumage of the swan, could be suddenly
changed to that of a crow. Sir Thomas Brown suggests that Medea might
have possessed some famous dye:--“That Medea, the famous sorceress,
could renew youth, and make old men young again, was nothing else but
that, from the knowledge of simples, she had a receipt to make white
hair black, and reduce old heads into the tincture of youth again.”
Mohammed forbade the dyeing of the hair; and a story is told of Herod,
that in order to conceal his advanced age, he used secretly to dye his
grey locks with a dark pigment In the greater number of Anglo-Saxon
M.S.S. the hair and beard are painted blue, and sometimes green and
orange. Strutt concluded from this, that the Saxons dyed or tinged
their hair in some way; but the point is doubtful. In the fourteenth
century, yellow was the favourite colour, and saffron was used as a
dye. Again, in Elizabeth’s reign, fair hair became fashionable, and the
ladies used various compositions to obtain the desired shade. Stubbes
is indignant at the practice, and exclaims with his usual warmth:--“If
any have hair of their own natural growing which is not fair enough,
then will they dye it in divers colours, almost changing the substance
into accidents by their devilish, and worse than these, cursed
devices.” Foreign charlatans, quack doctors, and astrologers, were
formidable rivals of the barber, and succeeded in disposing of their
dyes and cosmetics in the most unblushing manner; some affected to be
so occupied in the sublime study of contriving cures for all the ills
which flesh is heir to, as to have no leisure for cosmetic practice,
and coolly announced that their wives attended to such matters. A high
German doctor and astrologer informed the public that he was blessed
with a wife “who could make red hair as white as a lily, shape the
eyebrows to a miracle, make low foreheads as high as you please, and
had a rich water which would make the hair curl.” The practice of
shaping the eyebrows, though now in disuse, was at one time considered
a very delicate and important operation. Every one has remarked the
extreme fineness of the eyebrows in the pictures of the great Italian
masters. The St. Catherine of Rafaelle, and the Saints of Francia, in
the National Gallery, are instances of this; such was the fashion of
the Italian ladies of the fifteenth century, and was esteemed a great
beauty. The eyebrows were carefully reduced in substance to a mere
line, till scarcely visible. A lady, whose lover had an unconquerable
aversion to red hair, once made application to a noted quack, who,
politely answered:--“This is no business of mine, but my wife’s, who’ll
soon redress your grievances, and furnish you with a leaden comb and my
_Anti-Erythrœan Unguent_, which after two or three applications
will make you as fair or as brown as you desire.” We hope, for the
ladies sake, it turned out to be the true _Elisir d’amore_. A Mr.
Michon, a goldsmith, in 1710, advertised a clear fluid, which would
change red or grey hair to brown or black, under the name of “The
Tricosian Fluid.” The remarkable success which attended the use of the
_Cyananthropopoion_, patronized by Titmouse Tittlebat, is known to
all readers of “Ten Thousand a Year.” It would, however, say but little
for the progress of chemistry in our day, if we were unprovided with
some efficient means of dyeing the hair; in competent hands, no doubt,
the thing is easy enough. The old-fashioned dyes are now perfectly
useless, and may safely be consigned to the same limbo with Peter
Pindar’s razors:
“Sir,” quoth the razor man, “I’m not a knave;
As for the razors you have bought,--
Upon my soul, I never thought
That they _would_ shave.”
“Not shave” cries Hodge, with wondering, staring eyes,
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell--
“What were they made for, then, you knave?” he cries.
“Made,” quoth the fellow, with a smile, “_to sell_.”
The names of no inconsiderable number of barbers are inscribed on
the roll of Fame. In the very foremost rank we may place that of the
poor barber, Arkwright, who lived to accomplish such great things
for the trade of this country. His was an instance of that material
success which the dullest can comprehend, and the vulgarest worshipper
of Mammon will stand agape at. To be knighted by the Sovereign, and
to realize half a million of money, would be fame enough for most
ambitious minds--but this is but dust in the balance, compared with
the value of the vast enterprise to which the barber’s talents gave
the first impulse. Wealth, beyond the dreams of avarice, has accrued
from that giant industry; and yet rival manufacturers would have
crushed him if they could, so blind is grasping selfishness to its
own true interests. Till the age of twenty-eight, Arkwright worked at
the barber’s trade, then turned dealer in hair, which he travelled
about to collect and dispose of to the trade. A hair-dye he happened
to get hold of was a source of considerable profit to him. But his
good genius was at hand to rescue him from obscurity, and although his
subsequent career appeals but little to the imagination, his fame will
long endure to attest the energy and the capability of the British
workman. Belzoni was another earnest spirit working out its freedom
in a different way. His adventurous career is well known; had it not
been for the promptings of an active mind, he might have lived and died
shaving beards at Padua. Burchiello, the Florentine, gave up the razor,
and courted the Muse, as he says in one of his sonnets;
“La Poesia combatti col rasio.”
Jasmin, the French poet of Agen, rose from extreme poverty to comfort
and independence as a barber, and acquired a well-earned reputation
by his pleasant verses “Les Papillotes,” and the Poem “L’Aveugle de
Castel Cuillé.” Allan Ramsey must be numbered with the barber poets;
and literature is indebted to Winstanley, a barber of the time of
Charles II., for his “Lives of the English Poets.” These, however, have
earned other titles than those conferred by their original calling;
there are others, whose sole claim to notice is their professional
reputation. Among the most noted barbers of their day we may mention
“the gentleman barber” to the Earl of Pembroke, who built a large
house with tennis-courts and bowling-green, nick-named Shaver’s
Hall, the resort of the gayest of the nobility, where many a fortune
was lost and won; and Farr who opened the well-known coffee-house,
“The Rainbow,” in Fleet Street, hard by Temple Bar. Lillie who had a
shop at the corner of Beaufort Buildings, in the Strand, whose fame
is preserved in the pages of the Tatler and Spectator. Honest Bat
Pigeon, of whom Steele and Addison make honourable mention. Gregory,
the famous peruke-maker, from whom the wig called a “Gregorian” took
its name, and who lies buried in the church of St. Clement Danes, with
an epitaph in rhyme, writ, says Aubrey, by a Baron of the Exchequer.
Shammeree, the fashionable wig-maker of the reign of William III.; and
Stewart, the author of the “The Noble Art of Hair-dressing.” Amid minor
celebrities, Don Saltero occupies a conspicuous place--he opened his
museum-coffee-house, in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, in 1695. Sir Hans Sloane
supplied him with many curiosities for his museum. His own name was
James Salters. He claimed to have some skill on the fiddle, could draw
a tooth, made most excellent punch, and was esteemed a virtuoso and a
wit. He includes himself among the oddities at the Chelsea Knackatory,
with much complacency, in the following verses:
Through various employs I’ve past--
A scraper, virtuos’ projector,
Tooth-drawer, trimmer, and at last
I’m now a gim-crack-whim collector;
Monsters of all sorts here are seen,
Strange things in nature as they grew so:
Some relics of the Sheba Queen,
And fragments of the fam’d Bob Crusoe;
Knick-knacks, too, dangle round the wall,
Some in glass cases, some on shelf;
But, what’s the rarest sight of all,
Your humble servant shows himself--
On this my chiefest hope depends.
Now, if you will my cause espouse,
In Journals pray direct your friends
To my Museum-Coffee-house;
And in requital for the timely favour,
I’ll gratis bleed, draw teeth, and be your shaver.
Steele, alluding to Don Saltero, asks, “why must a barber be for ever a
politician, a musician, an anatomist, a poet, and a physician?” He was
evidently puzzled to account for the varied talents of the brotherhood.
The sons of barbers have, likewise, achieved great distinction: we
may instance Jeremy Taylor, secretary Craggs, the friend of Addison;
Tonson, the publisher; Turner, the painter; and Lord Tenterden. We are
told by one whose testimony we cannot doubt, that when Lord Tenterden
visited Canterbury in company with his son, he took him to the very
spot where his own father had carried on his humble trade, and said,
“Charles, you see this little shop; I have brought you here on purpose
to show it you. In that shop your grandfather used to shave for a
penny! That is the proudest reflection of my life! While you live
never forget that, my dear Charles.” Lord St. Leonards, we believe,
rose from a sphere equally humble, and his father followed the same
trade. Lord Campbell has rescued the name of “Dick Danby” from oblivion
by a kindly notice in one of his volumes, “One of the most intimate
friends I have ever had:” says his lordship, “was Dick Danby, who kept
a hair-dresser’s shop under the Cloisters in the Inner Temple. He could
tell who were getting on and who were without a brief, who succeeded
by their talents and who hugged the attorneys, who were desirous
of becoming puisne judges, and who meant to try their fortune in
parliament, which of the chiefs was in a failing state of health, and
who was next to be promoted to the collar of S.S. Poor fellow! he died
suddenly, and his death threw a universal gloom over Westminster Hall,
unrelieved by the thought that the survivors who mourned him might
pick up some of his business--a consolation which wonderfully softens
the grief felt for the loss of a favourite Nisi Prius leader.” We may
conclude by quoting the words of the same learned author:--“Although
there be something exciting to ridicule in the manipulations of
barbers, according both to works of fiction and the experience of life,
there is no trade which furnishes such striking examples of ready wit,
of entertaining information, and of agreeable manners.”
STRUCTURE, GROWTH,
AND
COLOUR OF THE HAIR.