together with all the ladies of their respective Courts. He has visited the Cape of Good Hope, India, Java, Madagascar, Tartary, and Kamschatka, whence he reached the United States by the way of Cape Horn. In England he had previously tarried, where he delivered Lectures on Heads in great style. He has at last settled in Baltimore, determined to devote the remainder of his days to the high profession to which his des-tiny has called him; inviting all the literati, the lovers of the arts and sciences, to visit him at his laboratory of beauty, where he has separate rooms for accommodating ladies and gentlemen, who desire to adorn their heads with hairudition. “Can France, England—nay, the world itself, produce such another specimen of puffing and barberism?
"And pray,” continued Tom, “what is there new in the haut ton? Has there been any thing of importance to attract attention since my absence? “Nothing very particular,” was the reply—“all very dull and flat. Rumour however, as usual, has not been inactive; two or three trifling faux pas, and—oh!—yes—two duels—one in the literary world: two authors, who, after attacking each other with the quill, chose to decide their quarrel with the pistol, and poor Scot lost his life! But how should authors understand such things? The other has made a great noise in the world—You like the Corinthian cut, I believe, Sir?”
“I believe so too,” said Tom—“but don't you cut the duel so short—who were the parties?”
“Oh! aye, why one, Sir, was a celebrated leader of ton, no other than Lord Shampêtre, and the other Mr. Webb, a gentleman well known: it was a sort of family affair. His lordship's gallantry and courage, however, were put to the test, and the result bids fair to increase his popularity. The cause was nothing very extraordinary, but the effect had nearly proved fatal to his Lordship.”
“What, was he wounded?” enquired Tom.
“It was thought so at first,” replied the Peruquier, “but it was afterwards discovered that his Lordship had only fainted at the report of his opponent's pistol.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” said Tom, “then it was a bloodless battle—but I should like to know more of the particulars.”
“Hold your head a little more this way, Sir, if you please—that will do, I thank you, Sir;—why, it appears, that in attempting to fulfil an assignation with Mr. Webb's wife, the husband, who had got scent of the appointment, as to place and time, lustily cudgelled the dandy Lord Whiskerphiz, and rescued his own brows from certain other fashionable appendages, for which he had no relish. His Lordship's whiskers were injured, by which circumstance some people might conceive his features and appearance must have been improved, however that was not his opinion; his bones were sore, and his mind (that is to say, as the public supposed) hurt. The subject became a general theme of conversation, a Commoner had thrashed a Lord!—flesh and blood could not bear it—but then such flesh and blood could as little bear the thought of a duel—Lord Polly was made the bearer of a challenge—a meeting took place, and at the first fire his Lordship fell. A fine subject for the caricaturists, and they have not failed to make a good use of it. The fire of his Lordship's features was so completely obscured by his whiskers and mustachios, that it was immediately concluded the shot had proved mortal, till Lord Polly (who had taken refuge for safety behind a neighbouring tree) advancing, drew a bottle from his pocket, which, upon application to his nose, had the desired effect of restoring the half-dead duellist to life and light. The Seconds interfered, and succeeded in bringing the matter to a conclusion, and preventing the expected dissolution of Shampetre, who, report says, has determined not to place himself in such a perilous situation again. The fright caused him a severe illness, from which he has scarcely yet recovered sufficiently to appear in public—I believe that will do, Sir; will you look in the glass—can I make any alteration?”
“Perhaps not in your story,” replied Tom; “and as to my head, so as you do not make it like the one you have been speaking of, I rely solely on your taste and judgment.”
The Peruquier made his bow—“Sir, your politeness is well known!” then turning to Tallyho, “Will you allow me the honour of officiating for you, Sir?”
“Certainly,” replied Bob, who by this time had seen the alteration made in his Cousin's appearance, as well as been delighted with the account of the duel, at which they all laughed during the narration—and immediately prepared for action, while Dashall continued his enquiries as to the fashionable occurrences during his absence.
“There have been some other circumstances, of minor importance,” continued the Peruquier—“it is said that a certain Lord, of high military character, has lost considerable sums of money, and seriously impaired his fortune—Lord—— and a friend are completely ruined at hazard—there was a most excellent mill at Moulsey Hurst on Thursday last, between the Gas-light man, who appears to be a game chicken, and a prime hammerer—he can give and take with any man—and Oliver—Gas beat him hollow, it was all Lombard-street to a china orange. The Masked Festival on the 18th is a subject of considerable attraction, and wigs of every nature, style, and fashion, are in high request for the occasion—The Bob, the Tye, the Natural Scratch, the Full Bottom, the Queue, the Curl, the Clerical, the Narcissus, the Auricula, the Capital, the Corinthian, the Roman, the Spanish, the French, the Dutch—oh! we are full of business just now. Speaking of the art, by the by, reminds me of a circumstance which occurred a very short time back, and which shows such a striking contrast between the low-bred citizens, and the True Blues of the West!—have the kindness to hold your head a little on one side, Sir, if you please—a little more towards the light, if you please—that will do excellently—why you'll look quite another thing!—From the country, I presume?” “You are right,” said Bob, “but I don't want a wig just yet.”
“Shall be happy to fit you upon all occasions—masquerade, ball, or supper, Sir: you may perhaps wish to go out, as we say in the West, in coy.—happy to receive your commands at any time, prompt attention and dispatch.”
“Zounds! you are clipping the wig too close,” said Tom, impatient to hear the story, “and if you go on at this rate, you won't leave us even the tail (tale).”
“Right, Sir, I take—'and thereby hangs a tale.' The observation is in point, verbum sat, as the latinist would say. Well, Sir, as I was saying, a citizen, with a design to outdo his neighbours, called at one of the first shops in London a very short time since, and gave particular orders to have his pericranium fitted with a wig of the true royal cut. The dimensions of his upper story were taken—the order executed to the very letter of the instructions—it fitted like wax—it was nature—nay it soared beyond nature—it was the perfection of art—the very acmé of science! Conception was outdone, and there is no power in language to describe it. He was delighted; his wife was charmed with the idea of a new husband, and he with his new wig; but
“Now comes the pleasant joke of all,
?Tis when too close attack'd we fall.”
The account was produced—would you believe it, he refused to have it—he objected to the price.”
“The devil take it!” said Tom, “object to pay for the acme of perfection; this unnaturally natural wig would have fetched any money among the collectors of curiosities.”
“What was the price?” enquired Bob.
“Trifling, Sir, very trifling, to an artist 'of the first water,' as a jeweller would say by his diamonds—only thirty guineas!!!”
“Thirty guineas!” exclaimed Bob, starting from his seat, and almost overturning the modernizer of his head.
Then, recollecting Sparkle's account of Living in Style, and Good Breeding, falling gently into
