In a follow-up to yesterday’s story on the artificial dimpling sweeping Paris, the Times notes that women in London, too, have taken to the trend. “The cost of making permanent dimples ranges from $26 to $56,” the paper reports in “Dimples at $26 apiece.” “The process usually lasts a fortnight. A small cut is made in the skin. The wound is then bound up and dressed daily until healed. The dimples most in demand are little depressions near the corner of the mouth, which show themselves when the owner smiles.”
Another, less permanent, method (from the September 1895 issue of The American Stationer) is described here:
It all seems so very silly. I’d much rather be like the sassy broad highlighted in “Woman beats highwayman”; who needs winning dimples when you can be beating tramps with your purse? From the report: “Refusing to release her hold on her hand satchel which a tramp attempted to take from her, Mrs. Augustus W. Rolker last night took a gold chain from her neck, on which was hanging a heavy locket, and beat the highwayman across the face with it until he let go the satchel.”
But that wasn’t enough for Mrs. Rolker, oh no: “As soon as he let go she beat him with the satchel, which was laden with merchandise. When the robber attempted to run away Mrs. Rolker tripped him and shouted for help. He ran into a cellar, where he was captured.” Justice!
In other lady-related news, one grumpy dude—Jules Claretie—rambles on and on about the terrible threat of a female with pen in hand in “Men persecuted by literary ladies.” “The writing maniac in love,” he wrote, “is a social blot. … The woman who wants ‘to live her book’ is like the woman who wants to live her own life, and in doing she ruins the lives of others. To stretch out a rival on the floor with a revolver is simply a literary manifestation.” My god, just think of all those monsters on the loose: Joyce Carol Oates, Ann Patchett, Toni Morrison! The poor men in their lives must be in a constant state of vigil.
Finally, “Morris brings Coney into Times Square,” tells how the seaside resort was transported into the heart of the city for a winter treat. There were “lots of freaks and games” (!), but little time is spent describing “Wonderland” (featuring “ring the cane” devices, a slippery slide, and carrousels) and “Crazyland” (full of “wonderful mirrors that elongate or condense the human figure until your best friend wouldn’t recognize you and would want to do so”).
Other sights included “half a dozen gayly caparisoned women [dancing and singing] in a barbaric fashion to the sound of barbaric music,” an “albino gentleman [who described] the peculiarities of the pink-eyed people, of whose rare beauties he was certain that he was a very fine example,” and “two fat women [who] vied for popularity, [as well as a] wild man with quills in his nose, a fixed stare, and very little else in the way of adornment.” Oh, for a picture of the festivities! Instead, we have to settle for a fantastic little ad for olive oil, which took up a full page:
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