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Lippincott's Magazine, October 1885 by Various

V >> Various >> Lippincott\'s Magazine, October 1885




The European sources from which human hair is obtained are not numerous
or very prolific. Many peasant-women of Normandy and Bretagne sell their
beautiful brown, red, or golden locks, but these are of such fine
quality that they command very high prices. Norman or Breton girls
having braids eighty centimetres in length sell them for as much as a
thousand francs. Perfectly white hair from the same French provinces
brings a sum which seems almost fabulous. The French journal "Science
et Nature" declares that the price commonly paid for a braid of such
white hair weighing one kilogram is _twenty-five thousand francs_.

The hair-merchants of France have never been very successful in drawing
supplies for their business from England, Germany, or any of the
countries in the northern part of Europe. Lately, however, they have
begun to have a good deal of success among the lower classes of the
Italians. Their imports from Italy are already comparatively large, and
they seem to be increasing every year. Such an easy way of getting money
as this opportunity affords must appear vastly attractive to the swarms
of professional beggars who infest every highway, church door, and
public square in Southern Italy, and whose enjoyment of the
indispensable _dolce far niente_ cannot be spoiled by merely submitting
to the operation of having their hair cut off. It is probable that they
furnish much more of the hair brought from Italy than do the
laboring-classes of the cities or the honest _contadini_ of the rural
districts.

The idea of actually wearing hair which once belonged to some member of
"the unspeakable" _lazzaroni_ tribe cannot be considered a fascinating
one. At the same time it is at least not more unattractive than the
consciousness of having fallen heir to the capillary adornments of a
Cantonese tonka-boat girl. And in reality such a feeling, though natural
enough, would be based upon nothing but imagination. All the hair
purchased and used by the dealers in Paris, Marseilles, and other French
cities to which the Chinese and Italian hair is brought goes through a
number of preparatory processes, which cleanse and purify it thoroughly;
and when it is ready to be sold again it is probably in as
unobjectionable a state as hair can reach. As for the imagination, if we
were to allow it to govern us entirely in all such cases we should soon
find ourselves restricted to almost as few comforts and conveniences as
those unhappy historical characters whose constant fear of poison
reduced their whole diet to boiled eggs. Still, the feeling is one of
which it is very hard to rid ourselves; and in all probability the
ladies who derive the most unalloyed satisfaction from their
"additional" braids are those who have had them made from "combings" of
their own hair. J.A.C.

* * * * *





LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

"The Rise of Silas Lapham." By William D. Howells. Boston: Ticknor & Co.


In his later books Mr. Howells has shown that he is on the point of
discovering the secret of the best novelists. Unabashed by the
difficulties and dangers which beset the realistic writer, he has gone
to work to describe the simple machinery which puts in motion all human
actions and passions, and has given a subtile but sure analysis of
certain phases of modern life, and a vivid picture of at least two
actual, warm, palpitating, breathing men. His success in this respect is
the more striking because he began by offering us mere pasteboard heroes
of the most conventional type. The male characters in his early books
were, in fact, shuttle-cocks to be tossed hither and thither by the
mysterious contradictions, the incomprehensible inconsistencies, of his
heroines, whose scheme of existence was the indulgence of every whim,
and whose notion of logic was that one paradox must educe another still
more startling. Having finally made up his mind as to the insoluble
nature of the female problem, he seems inclined to discard mere
clevernesses and prettinesses and to advance into the broad arena of
real life, with its diversity of actors and its multiplicity of
interests. Both Bartley Hubbard in "A Modern Instance" and Silas Lapham
in the book before us strike us as admirable characterizations. If
Lapham is in certain respects a less original presentation than Bartley
Hubbard, he is at least a hero who draws more strongly upon the reader's
sympathies and takes surer hold of the popular heart. In fact, Silas,
with his big, hairy fist, his ease in his shirt-sleeves, his boastful
belief in himself, his conscience, his ambition, and his failure, makes,
if we include his sensible wife, the success of the novel before us. The
daughters are not, to our thinking, so well rendered; while the Coreys,
sterling silver as they ought to be, impress us instead as rather thin
electro-plates. The Boston Brahmins have entered a good deal into
literature of late, but so far without any brilliant results. According
to their chroniclers, they spend most of their time discussing in what
respects they are providentially differentiated from, their
fellow-beings. Sometimes they put too fine a point upon it and wholly
fail to make themselves felt. But then again their superior knowledge of
the world is patent to the most careless observer. For instance, when
Mrs. Corey pays a visit to Mrs. Lapham she apologizes for the lateness
of the hour, explaining that her coachman had never been in that part of
Boston before. This naturally casts an ineffaceable stigma upon the
respectable square where the Laphams have hitherto resided, and shows
that between the two ladies there is a great gulf fixed. Again, to point
sharply social distinctions, young Corey says to his father,--

"I don't believe Mrs, Lapham ever gave a dinner."

"And with all that money!" sighed the father.

"I don't believe they have the habit of wine at table. I suspect that
when they don't drink tea and coffee with their dinner they drink
ice-water."

"Horrible!" said Bromfield Corey.

"It appears to me that this defines them."

The Coreys have the liveliest sense of all these _nuances_ of deviation
from their standards, and strike us as rather amateurish, clever people
who want to make sure of nice points and get on in the world, rather
than as real flesh-and-blood aristocrats with the freedom and ease of
acknowledged social supremacy.

While the Coreys try faithfully to compass the best that is known and
thought in the world, the Laphams go to the other extreme, and touch
depths of ignorance and vulgarity almost incredible for a family living
in Boston with eyes to see, ears to hear, and, above all, money to
spend. For a sort of superficial culture is a part of the modern
inheritance, and seems to belong to the universal air. Even Penelope
Lapham--the elder daughter, who is a girl of remarkable shrewdness and
gifted besides with a keen satirical sense which makes her the family
wit--is content to laugh at the family failings and provincialisms
without any definite idea of how they might be corrected. But the
Laphams are all the more interesting because they display no feeble and
tentative gentilities. Mrs. Lapham's acceptance of Mrs. Corey's
invitation to dinner, in which she signs herself "Yours truly, Mrs. S.
Lapham," initiates some delightful scenes in the comedy. The colonel's
resolution to go to the dinner in a frock-coat, white waistcoat, black
cravat, and ungloved hands, and his eventual panicky substitution of
correct evening dress regardless of cost, the anxieties of his wife and
daughter on the question of suitable raiment, the great affair itself,
when the colonel comes out in a new character,--all this part of the
book shows in a high degree Mr. Howells's bright vein of humor.

But, putting aside the humor and comedy of "The Rise of Silas Lapham,"
the book has other points of value, and, as a study of a business-man
whom success floats to the crest of the wave only to let him be
overwhelmed by disaster as the surge retreats, presents a striking
similitude to Balzac's "Cesar Birotteau." In each case we find a
self-made man elated by a sense of his commercial greatness, confident
that the point he has already attained, instead of being the climax of
his career, is the stepping-stone to yet greater wealth, besides social
distinction. Cesar Birotteau inaugurates what he believes to be his era
of magnificence with a ball, while Silas Lapham tempts fortune by
building a fine house on the back bay. Each hero projects his costly
schemes in opposition to the wishes of a more sensible and prudent wife,
and each, at the moment when fate seemed bent on crowning his ambition,
falls a prey to a series of cruel and, in a way, undeserved misfortunes,
and finds his well-earned commercial credit a mere house of cards which
totters to its fall. Each man, broken and bankrupt, displays in his
feebleness a moral strength he had not shown in his days of power: thus
the name, "the _rise_ of Silas Lapham," means his initiation into a
clearer and more exalted knowledge of his obligations to himself and to
his kind. The moral of Cesar Birotteau's "_grandeur et decadence_"
strikes a still deeper key-note. Compared with Balzac, who is never
trivial, and who has the most unerring instinct for character and
motive, Mr. Howells wastes his force on non-essentials and is carried
away by frivolities and prettinesses when he ought to be grappling with
his work in fierce earnest. Balzac, whose unappeasable longing was to
see his books the breviary, so to speak, of the people, would have
laughed and cried with Silas, lived with him, loved with him, and come
to grief with him, and forced his readers to do likewise. Mr. Howells is
not so easily carried away by his creations, and is too apt to laugh at
them instead of with them. But his mature work shows, nevertheless, a
boldness and facility which ought to put the best results within its
compass; and we confidently look for better novels from his pen than he
has so far written, full of wit, humor, and cleverness, yet expanding
outside of these gracful limitations into the fullest nature and
freedom.

/#
"A Canterbury Pilgrimage. Ridden, Written,
and Illustrated by Joseph and Elizabeth
Robins Pennell." New York: Charles Scribner's
Sons.
#/

It may be confessed that in certain respects bicycles and tricycles
answer admirably to the requirements of travellers in search of the
picturesque. They are swift or slow at need, may be halted without want
or waste, and have no vicious instincts to be combated by whip or spur.
But they are nevertheless hideous inventions, and it is impossible for
lookers-on to feel for wheelmen the cordial good will given so freely to
Mr. Stevenson on his donkey, for instance. The rider on wheels is an
object that exasperates the nerves of horses, dogs, and men. Mrs.
Pennell in this little book describes a collision on the old Kent Road
with the driver of a hansom cab, who sat watching their extrication
scowling. If he had his way, he said, he would burn all _them things."_
And, little affiliation as most human beings have with cabmen, we yet
believe that he gave utterance to the sentiments of all non-wheelmen.
However, the modern world is likely to belong to bicycles and tricycles,
and this attractive brochure, signed with the names of one of our
cleverest draughtsmen and his wife, with their silhouettes on the cover,
is likely to set more wheels in motion than there were before it was
printed. The two evidently enjoyed their expedition, and the lady tells
the story easily and pleasantly; and if it is relieved by little
incident it is yet sustained by intelligent observation and
discriminating enthusiasm, while the illustrations are, like all Mr.
Pennell's work, clever in the extreme. The two left London on their
tricycle late in August, and had the finest weather in which to cross
historic Blackheath and look up the picturesque wharves in Gravesend.
Hop-pickers filled the roads and offered many a subject for the artist's
pencil. "We rode on with light hearts," recounts the fair wheelwoman.
"An eternity of wheeling through such perfect country and in such soft
sunshine would, we thought, be the true earthly paradise. We were at
peace with ourselves and with all mankind, and J---- even went so far as
to tell me I had never ridden so well," And thus on to the inn at
Sittingbourne, which has this quaint notice hung over the door:

Call frequently,
Drink moderately,
Pay honourably,
Be good company,
Part friendly,
Go home quietly.

Arrived at the close of the second day in Canterbury, the two "toke"
their inn at the sign of the "Falstaff," where hung "Honest Jack, in
buff doublet and red hose," in a wonderful piece of wrought-iron work.
Whether next day, after viewing the cathedral, the tricycles pursued
their journey, is not told. The pilgrimage ends, as it should, at the
shrine,--that is, where the shrine had been; for the verger, after
saying solemnly that they had come to the shrine of St. Thomas, solemnly
added, "'Enery the Heighth, when he was in Canterbury, took the bones,
which they was laid beneath, out on the green, and had them burned. With
them he took the 'oly shrine, which it and bones is here no longer."

* * * * *




Fiction.


"The Lady with the Rubies." Translated from the German of E. Marlitt by
Mrs. A.L. Wister. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott Company.

"Barbara Heathcote's Trial." By Rosa Nouchette Carey. Philadelphia: J.B.
Lippincott Company.

"The Bar Sinister. A Social Study." New York: Cassell & Co.

"Pine-Cones." By Willis Boyd Allen. Boston: D. Lothrop & Co.

"An Old Maid's Paradise." By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. Boston: Houghton,
Mifflin & Co.

In spite of all the clever pleas urged by the lovers of realism for
realistic novels, it is easy enough to see that the mass of readers are
just as much in love as ever with a high romanticism, and Miss Marlitt's
stories still retain the strong hold they first took of the popular
heart. The success of fiction comes from the fact that it supplies a
want existing in most people's minds: lively incidents to awaken and
stimulate the fancy, a touch of mystery to give a thrill of pleasing
fear, sharply diversified characters impelled by strong motives which
insure a lively conflict of passions,--all these are what the average
novel-reader demands, and finds in Miss Marlitt's works. A great
rambling German house, with suites of disused apartments shut away from
sunshine and air and haunted by vanished forms and silent voices, while
its open rooms are tenanted by a nest of gentlefolks of all degrees of
relation,--some united by love, and others at swords'-points,--offers a
lively field for the romancer; and such is the scene in "The Lady with
the Rubies." "Belief in the Powers of Darkness will never die so long as
poor human hearts love, hope, and fear," is the moral, so to speak, of
the book; and the author has used with good effect this vein of
superstition which "makes the whole world kin." Little Margarete's
encounter with the family spectre, her flight from home, her lonely and
terrifying night, are touchingly described; and, in fact, the book is
full of pretty child-pictures, which enhance the pleasantness and charm
of the love-story. Few of Miss Marlitt's books possess more interest and
diversity than "The Lady with the Rubies;" and, as usual with Mrs.
Wister's work, it is well and gracefully translated.

Given a family of girls well contrasted, utterly untrammelled, and each
in possession of a will and a way of her own, materials for a romance
are not hard to find; and in telling the story of the Heathcotes Miss
Carey seems to have jotted down a series of events exactly as they fell
out in actual life. There is plenty of sentiment, but its expression is
dealt out with a sparing hand; there are pretty sylvan scenes, and the
wood-paths, the warm homesteads, the meadows and fields, all enter into
the story and make a pleasant part of it. If "Barbara Heathcote's Trial"
has no leading motive as strong and as universally interesting as the
author's former book, "Not Like Other Girls," it is, to our thinking,
quite as pleasant and readable, and will no doubt enjoy its
predecessor's popularity.

Romance has done much good work in the way of laying bare men's faults,
hypocrisies, and evil lusts, and if Mormonism is actually on the
increase among us there is good reason for a novel like "The Bar
Sinister," which tells us the story of certain converts to the peculiar
tenets of the saints and introduces us into the every-day life of Salt
Lake City. That our families and our institutions are in peril from this
monstrous and ridiculous evil it would not be easy for us to believe.
Yet it is impossible to read this book without a conviction that the
author could easily substantiate his facts by proofs, and that
intelligent men and women have been and are still being led away into
the heresy. The incidents of the story are, however, calculated to shock
and repel the reader, who rises from its perusal sick and indignant as
much from having been confronted with such personages and their doings
as from the fact that such people are in existence. The author has
without doubt enjoyed the advantage of a flesh-and-blood acquaintance
with leaders of the faith who talk unctuously of "Class No. 1, 2, 3, 4,"
etc.; and, besides actual knowledge, there is strong feeling and earnest
principle behind the whole narrative.

"Pine-Cones" is a pleasant story for young people, telling the
adventures of a party of boy and girl cousins making a visit among the
great pine woods of Maine. There is plenty of open air in the book,
bright talk, and earnest stories told round the fire.

"An Old Maid's Paradise" is a bright little sketch of the adventures and
misadventures of a woman who builds a cottage on Cape Ann promontory for
five hundred dollars, and settles down to a joyful existence without any
need of aid or comfort from living man except as a purveyor and
burglar-alarm. Every one likes to know the price of things, and it is
pleasing to understand exactly what may be done with five hundred
dollars. "The cottage," as described by Miss Phelps, "contained five
rooms and a kitchen. The body of this imposing building stood twenty
feet square upon the ground. The kitchen measured nine feet by eight,
and there was a wood-shed three feet wide, in which Puella managed to
pile the wood and various domestic mysteries into which Corona felt no
desire to penetrate. There were a parlor, a dining-room, a guest-room,
and two rooms left for 'the family.' There were two closets, a coal-bin,
and a loft. The house stood on what, for want of a scientific term,
Corona called piers.... Corona's house had no plaster, no papering, no
carpets. Her parlor, which opened directly upon the water, was painted
gray; the walls were of the paler color in a gull's wing; the ceiling
had the tint of dulled pearls; the floor was rock-gray (a border of
black ran around this floor); the beams and rafters, left visible by the
absence of plastering, were touched with what is known to artists as
neutral tint," etc. A very pleasant little cottage in itself, the
description may be of practical utility to many who would like some
_pied-a-terre_ by mountain or shore, and who are not quite certain what
a moderate outlay can do.

* * * * *




Books Received.


The Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Household
Edition. With illustrations. Boston
and New York: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

Due South; or, Cuba Past and Present. By
Maturin M. Ballou. Boston and New York:
Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

City Ballads. By Will Carleton. Illustrated.
New York: Harper & Brothers.

A Social Experiment. By A.E.P. Searing.
New York and London: G.P. Putnam's
Sons.

Lawn-Tennis. By Lieutenant S.C.F. Peale,
B.S.C. Edited by Richard D. Sears. New
York: Charles Scribner's Sons.

The America's Cup. By Captain Roland F.
Coffin. New York: Charles Scribner's
Sons.

Our Sea-Coast Defences. By Eugene Griffin,
New York and London: G.P. Putnam's
Sons.

Cholera. By Alfred Stille, M.D., LL.D. Philadelphia:
Lea Brothers & Co.

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