Part 2 — THE HANDKERCHIEF.

If there is one article of the toilette that, more than another, appeals particularly to the imagination, it is certainly the handkerchief. The favored glove that has encased a fair hand is often treasured up by a sentimental admirer; a broidered scarf or a knot of ribbon has been worn by many a gallant knight as the colors of the lady of his choice; the collar encircling some ivory neck is envied to such a degree as to almost warrant the ambition of Winnifred Jenkins: “God he nose what havoc I shall make among the mail sects when I make my first appearance in this killing collar”; but a thousand killing collars bear no comparison to that delicate fabric of muslin and lace which plays as important a part in the flirtations of fashionable life here as the fan among the ladies of Spain. Who could imagine so small a square of cloth—if it be not profanity to apply so common a term to so wondrous a tissue—could be made to express or conceal so much in the hands of its fair owner? Such an expressive toss or whisk could only be the result of the profoundest study. And what a delicate attractive odor it gives out, suggestive of roses, and violets, and all the flora of occidental as well as oriental gallantry. And then the touching rôle it plays in the pathetic—it is the recipient of some timely tear—perhaps too, vain coxcomb, a screen for many a yawn. We can never be too sure of what is confided to this bosom companion.

The sacredness imputed to the handkerchief is no modern idea. It came to us from the East, whence sprang religion, science, and romance itself. Ages ago the handkerchief was regarded in Egypt as a kind of amulet. The fair one of later days, who interweaves a thread of her own life into the handkerchief she intends for some favored knight, hopes it may prove like the magic handkerchief given by the Egyptian charmer to Othello’s mother, endued with a power to subdue him “entirely to her love.”

The handkerchief is the strongest proof of love, not only among the Moors, but among all Eastern nations, says Byron, who approved of Shakespeare’s making the jealousy of Othello turn on this point. But poor Desdemona found the inherited talisman she “kissed and talked to” a fatal gift.

Perhaps the handkerchief immortalized by Drummond of Hawthornden, embroidered for him by the beautiful Lesbia to whom he was betrothed, was likewise ominous, for she died “in the fresh April of her years,” and the handkerchief she gave him was steeped in tears at her loss.

Calderon says:

The significance of the handkerchief is referred to in Horace Walpole’s letters: “Lord Tavistock has flung his handkerchief to Lady Elizabeth Keppel. They all go to Woburn on Thursday, and the ceremony is to be performed as soon as her brother, the bishop, can arrive from Exeter.”

Miss Strickland tells us that when Anne Boleyn dropped her handkerchief from the balcony at the feet of Henry Norris, the latter, heated from the part he had just been taking in the jousts, took it up, presumptuously wiped his face with it, and then returned it to the queen on the point of his lance. At this, King Henry changed color, abruptly retired in a fury of jealousy, and gave orders for the arrest of the queen and of all who were suspected of being favored by her. It proved a fatal handkerchief to him also, for he was soon after executed.

The handkerchief may be regarded as one of the great indications of civilization. Though the Celestials have not yet arrived at this climax, and still carry their small sheets of delicate paper as a substitute, but which possess no moral significance whatever, so far as we know, more refined nations have made its use universal. Even the poorest may whip out of his pocket, in these days, not that red cotton flag of abomination that used to offend the sight, but one of pure white linen, betokening a higher state of cultivation.

We are quite well aware that the handkerchief is, notwithstanding, a luxury some of the laboring classes reserve for Sundays and high festivals, which alone should invest the article with a quasi sanctity, associated as it is with religious observances. With what careful deliberation such an one draws it forth from the receptacle devoted to its use! With what a tremulous awkwardness he applies it, as though he were making an unaccustomed experiment; or losing his caution, perhaps he charges with desperation, like Miss Wix, one of whose peculiarities was that she always blew her nose as if it belonged to an enemy! And how carefully it is refolded and returned to the secret depository. What heaps of “wipes” the astonished Oliver Twist saw in the Jew’s den, and all so badly marked, too, that the stitches had to be picked out!

We cannot help rejoicing over the handkerchief the Artful Dodger drew from Mr. Brownlow’s pocket which led to such a change in Oliver’s fortunes.

The handkerchief is an important article in many a romance, as well as in real life. Tears more touching than those of Mr. Mantalini have brought it into requisition. If all the handkerchiefs in the world could tell their experience, how many a sad tale they would unfold!—We cannot help regarding Adam and Eve with the deepest commiseration without a handkerchief between them, as hand in hand through Eden they took their solitary way. What bitter tears poor Eve shed!—but those that fell on the ground were turned into roses, and those that dropped into the water were changed into pearls, as ours too will be shown not wholly lost at some future day.

Many a hero’s bleeding wounds have been bound up by the handkerchief of some Sister of Charity on the battle-field, and many such handkerchiefs have been sent as sacred remembrances to dear ones at home, ensanguined like that Orlando sent his Rosalind, but, alas! not always so happy an omen.

The handkerchief has been made a signal of distress from more than one watch-tower besides that we used to linger by in our childhood with fear and trembling, waiting anxiously till Sister Ann’s fluttering kerchief brought deliverance to Bluebeard’s fearful hold.

We will not pass over the handkerchiefs, or aprons, mentioned in the Acts of the Apostles, that received a virtue from the very touch of the holy Apostle Paul to heal the sick—the first intimation, perhaps, of the wonder-working scapular; nor of that other handkerchief over which have been shed the tears of the whole Christian world—the sudarium of Veronica, sometimes called her veil, and again a napkin (Othello’s handkerchief is called a little napkin), which has been enshrined by tradition, and to which artists and poets have paid tribute, Dante himself mentioning it in his Paradiso—the handkerchief that wiped the dust and sweat from the face of the Divine Sufferer and bore away the impress of his wondrous face.

To those of our readers who think every article in a magazine of this character should have a direct moral bearing, and can see none in what has just been said, we will mention an important instance of the possible power so humble an article as the handkerchief may exert in the spiritual world. We beg leave to refer them to the noble society so solemnly recommended by the Rev. Mr. Stiggins, for providing the infant negroes in the West Indies with moral pocket-handkerchiefs.

“What’s a moral pocket-ankercher?” said Sam. “I never see one o’ them articles of furniter.”

“Those which combine amusement with instruction, my young friend,” replied Mr. Stiggins, “blending select tales with wood-cuts.”

“Oh! I know,” said Sam, “them as hangs up in the linen-drapers’ shops with the beggars’ petitions and all that ’ere upon ’em?”

Mr. Stiggins began a third round of toast, and nodded assent.

So do we. And it is not difficult to imagine the budding Othellos contending loudly for their share of the didactic “ankerchers.”