to heaviness. He usually wears powder, for it looks respectable, and is professional withal. The last of the almost forgotten and quite despised race of pigtails, once proudly cherished by all ranks-now proscribed, banished, or, if at all seen, diminished in stateliness and bulk, "shorn of its fair proportions,"-lingers fondly with its former nurturer; the neat-combed, evenclipped hairs, encased in their tight swathe of black ribbon, topped by an airy bow, nestle in the well-clothed neck of the modern barber. Yet why do I call him modern? True, he lives in our, but he belongs to former times, of which he is the remembrancer and historian-the days of bags, queues, clubs, and periwigs, when a halo of powder, pomatum, and frizzed curls encircled the heads of our ancestors. That glory is departed; the brisk and agile tonsor, once the genius of the toilet, no longer directs, with the precision of a cannoneer, rapid discharges of scented atoms against bristling batteries of his own creation. "The barber's occupation's gone," with all the "pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious wigs!"

Methinks I detect some unfledged reader, upon whose head of hair the sun of the eighteenth century never shone, glancing his "mind's eye" to one of the more recent and fashionable professors of the art of "ciseaurie"- -one of the chemical perfumers, or self-esteemed practitioners of the present day, in search of an exemplification of my description :—he is at fault. Though he may deem Truefit or Macalpine models of skill, and therefore of description, I must tell him I recognise none such. I speak of the last generation, (between which and the present, Ross, and Taylor of Whitechapel, are the connecting links,) the last remnants of whom haunt the solitary, well-paved,silent corners,and less frequented streets of London-whose windows exhibit no waxen busts, bepainted and bedizened in fancy dresses and flaunting feathers, but one or two "old original blocks or dummies, crowned with soberlooking, respectable, stiff-buckled, brown wigs, such as our late venerable monarch used to wear. There is an aboriginal wigmaker's shop at the corner of an inn-yard in Bishopsgate-street; a repository " of hair; the window of which is full of these primitive caxons, all of a sober brown, or simpler flaxen, with an occasional contrast of rusty black, forming, as it were, a finis to the by-gone fashion. Had our first forefather, Adam, been bald, he could not have worn a more simply artificial imitation of

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nature than one of these wigs-so frank, so sincere, and so warm an apology for want of hair, scorning to deceive the observer, or to crown the veteran head with adolescent curls. The ancient wig, whether a simple scratch, a plain bob, or a splendid periwig, was one which a man might mo destly hold on one hand, while with the other he wiped his bald pate; but with what grace could a modern wig-wearer dismount a specific deception, an elaborate imitation of natural curls to exhibit a hairless scalp? It would be either a censure on his vanity, or a sarcasm on his other wise unknown deficiency. The old wig, on the contrary, was a plain acknowledgment of want of hair; avowing the comfort, or the inconvenience, (as it might happen,) with an independent indifference to mirth or pity; and forming a decent covering to the head that sought not to become either a decoration or deceit. Peace to the manes of the primitive artificers of human hair-the true skull-thatchers-the architects of towering toupees-the engineers of flowing periwigs!

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The wig-makers (as they still denominate themselves) in Lincoln's-inn and the Temple, are quite of the "old school." Their shady, cool, cleanly, classic recesses, where embryo chancellors have been measured for their initiatory forensic wigs; where the powdered glories of the bench have ofttimes received a re-revivification; where some "old Bencher" still resorts, in his undress, to have his nightly growth of beard shaven by the "particular razor;" these powder-scented nooks, these legal dressing-closets seem, like the statutes at large," to resist, tacitly but effectually, the progress of innovation. They are like the old law offices, which are scattered up and down in various corners of the intricate maze of "courts," constituting the " Temple"-unchangeable by time; except when the hand of death removes some old tenant at will, who has been refreshed by the cool-borne breezes from the river, or soothed by the restless monotony of the plashing fountain, "sixty years since."But I grow serious.-The barber possesses that distinction of gentleness, a soft and white hand, of genial and equable temperature, neither falling to the " zero " of chilliness, nor rising to the "fever heat" of perspiration, but usually lingering at "blood heat." I know not if any one ever shook hands with his barber: there needs no such outward demonstration of goodwill; no grip, like that we bestow upon an old friend returned after a long absence,

by way of rivet, as it were, to that link in the chain of friendship. His air of courtesy keeps a good understanding floating be tween him and his customers, which, if ruffled by a hasty departure, or dismissal, is revived the next day by the sun-light of his morning smile!

:

The barber's hand is unlike that of any other soft hand it is not flabby, like that of a sensualist; nor arid, and thin, like a student's; nor dead white, like that of a delicate female; but it is naturally warm, of a glowing, transparent colour, and of a cushiony, elastic softness. Beneath its conciliatory touch, as it prepares the skin for the sweeping course of the razor, and its gentle pressure, as it inclines the head to either side, to aid the operation of the scissors, a man may sit for hours, and feel no weariness. Happy must he be who lived in the days of long, or full-dressed hair, and resigned himself for a full hour to the passive luxury of hair-dressing! A morn ing's toilette (for a gentleman, I mean; being a bachelor, I am uninitiated in the arcana of a lady's dressing-room)—a morn ing's toilette in those days was indeed an important part of the "business of life:" there were the curling-irons, the comb, the pomatum, the powder-puff, the powderknife, the mask, and a dozen other requisites to complete the elaborate process that perfected that mysterious "frappant, or tintinabulant appendage to the back part of the head. Oh! it must have been a luxury-a delight surpassing the famed baths and cosmetics of the east.

I have said that the barber is a gentle man; if not in so many words, I have at least pointed out that distinguishing trait in him. He is also a humane man: his Occupation of torturing hairs leaves him neither leisure nor disposition to torture ought else. He looks as respectable as he is; and he is void of any appearance of deceit or cunning. There is less of personality or egotism about him than mankind in general though he possesses an idiosyncrasy, it is that of his class, not of himself. As he sits, patiently renovating some dilapidated peruke, or perseveringly presides over the developement of grace in some intractable bush of hair, or stands at his own threshold, in the cleanly pride of white apron and hose, lustrous shoes, and exemplary jacket, with that studied yet seeming disarrangement of hair, as though subduing, as far as consistent with propriety, the visible appearance of technical skill as he thus, untired, goes the never-varying round of his pleasant occu

pation, and active leisure, time seems to pass unheeded, and the wheel of chance, scattering fragments of circumstance from the rock of destiny, continues its relentless and unremittent revolution, unnoticed by him. He hears not the roar of the fearful engine, the groans and sighs of despair, or the wild laugh of exultation, produced by its mighty working. All is remote, strange, and intricate, and belongs not to him to know. He dwells in an area of peace-a magic circle whose area might be described by his obsolete sign-pole !

Nor does the character of the barber vary in other countries. He seems to flourish in unobtrusive prosperity all the world over. In the east, the clime most congenial to his avocations, the voluminous beard makes up for the deficiency of the ever-turbaned, close-shorn skull, and he exhibits the triumph of his skill in its most special department. Transport an English barber to Samarcand, or Ispahan, and, saving the language, he would feel quite at home. Here he reads the newspaper, and, unless any part is contradicted by his customers, he believes it all: it is his oracle. Constantinople the chief eunuch would confide to him the secrets of the seraglio as if he were a genuine disciple of Mahomet; and with as right good will as ever old

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At

gossip" vented a bit of scandal with unconstrained volubility of tongue. He would listen to, aye and put faith in, the relations of the coffee-house story-tellers who came to have their beards trimmed, and repaid him with one of their inventions for his trouble. What a dissection would a barber's brain afford, could we but discern the mine of latent feuds and conspiracies laid up there in coil, by their spleenful and mischievous inventors. I would that I could unpack the hoarded venom, all hurtless in that "cool grot," as destructive stores are deposited in an arsenal, where light and heat never come. His mind admits no spark of malice to fire the train of jealousy, or explode the ammunition of petty strife; and it were well for the world and society, if the intrigue and spite of its inhabitants could be poured, like the "cursed juice of Hebenon," into his ever-open ear, and be buried for ever in the oblivious chambers of his brain. Vast as the caverned ear of Dionysius the tyrant, his contains in its labyrinthine recesses the collected scandal of neighbourhoods, the chatter of households, and even the crooked policy of courts; but all is decomposed and neutralized there. It is the very quantity of this freight of plot and detraction that renders

him so harmless. It is as ballast to the sails of his judgment. He mixes in no conspiracy, domestic or public. The foulest treason would remain " pure in the last recesses of his mind." He knows not of, cares not for, feels no interest in all this material of wickedness, any more than the unconscious paper that bears on its lettered forehead the sixth edition" of a bulletin. Amiable, contented, respected race! I exclaim with Figaro, " Oh, that I were a happy barber!"

Books.

GASTON.

THE KING OF INDIA'S LIBRARY.

Dabshelim, king of India, had so numerous a library, that a hundred brachmans were scarcely sufficient to keep it in order; and it required a thousand dromedaries to transport it from one place to another. As he was not able to read all these books, he proposed to the brachmans to make extracts from them of the best and most useful of their contents. These learned personages set themselves so heartily to work, that in less than twenty years they had compiled of all these extracts a little encyclopædia of twelve thousand volumes, which thirty camels could carry with ease. They had the honour to present it to the king. But, how great was their amazement, on his giving them for answer, that it was impossible for him to read thirty camel-loads of books. They therefore reduced their extracts to fifteen, afterwards to ten, then to four, then to two dromedaries, and at last there remained only so much as to load a mule of ordinary stature.

Unfortunately, Dabshelim, during this process of melting down his library, was grown old, and saw no probability of living to exhaust its quintessence to the last volume. "Illustrious sultan,” said his vizir, the sage Pilpay," though I have but a very imperfect knowledge of your royal library, yet I will undertake to deliver you a very brief and satisfactory abstract of it. You shall read it through in one minute, and yet you will find matter in it for reflecting upon throughout the rest of your life." Having said this, Pilpay took a palmleaf, and wrote upon it with a golden style the four following sentences :—

1. The greater part of the sciences comprise but one single word-Perhaps and the whole history of mankind contains no more than three-they are born, suffer, die.

2. Love nothing but what is good, and do all that thou lovest to do; think nothing but what is true, and speak not all that thou thinkest.

3. O kings! tame your passions, govern yourselves; and it will be only child's play to you to govern the world.

4. O kings! O people! it can never be often enough repeated to you, what the half-witted venture to doubt, that there is no happiness without virtue, and no virtue without the fear of God.

ENCOURAGEMENT TO AUTHORS.

Whether it is perfectly consistent in an author to solicit the indulgence of the pub lic, though it may stand first in his wishes, admits a doubt; for, if his productions will not bear the light, it may be said, why does he publish? but, if they will, there is no need to ask a favour; the world receives one from him. Will not a piece everlast ingly be tried by its merit? Shall we esteem it the higher, because it was written at the age of thirteen? because it was the effort of a week? delivered extempore? hatched while the author stood upon one leg? or cobbled, while he cobbled a shoe? or will it be a recommendation, that it issues forth in gilt binding? The judicious world will not be deceived by the tinselled purse, but will examine whether the contents are sterling.

POETICAL ADVICE.

For the Table Book.

I have pleasure in being at liberty to publish a poetical letter to a young poet from one yet younger; who, before the years of manhood, has attained the height of knowing on what conditions the muse may be successfully wooed, and imparts the secret to his friend. Some lines towards the close, which refer to his co-aspirant's effusions, are omitted.

To R. R.

Το you, dear Rowland, lodg'd in town,
Where Pleasure's smile soothes Winter's frown,

I write while chilly breezes blow,

And the dense clouds descend in snow.

For Twenty-six is nearly dead,
And age has whiten'd o'er her head;
Her velvet robe is stripp'd away,
Her watery pulses hardly play;
Clogg'd with the withering leaves, the wind
Comes with his blighting blast behind,

And here and there, with prying eye,
And flagging wings a bird flits by;
(For every Robin sparer grows,
And every Sparrow robbing goes.)

The Year's two eyes-the sun and moon→
Are fading, and will fade full soon ;*
With shattered forces Autumn yields,
And Winter triumphs o'er the fields.

So thus, alas! I'm gagg'd it seems,

From converse of the woods and streams,
(For all the countless rhyming rabble
Hold leaves can whisper-waters babble)
And, house-bound for whole weeks together
By stress of lungs, and stress of weather,
Feed on the more delightful strains
Of howling winds, and pelting rains;
Which shake the house, from rear to van,
Like valetudinarian;
Pouring innumerable streams

Of arrows, thro' a thousand seams:
Arrows so fine, the nicest eye

Their thickest flight can ne'er descry,-
Yet fashion'd with such subtle art,·
They strike their victim to the heart;
While imps, that fly upon the point,
Raise racking pains in every joint.

Nay, more-these winds are thought magicians,
And supereminent physicians:

For men who have been kill'd outright,

They cure again at dead of night.
That double witch, who erst did dwell
In Endor's cave, raised Samuel;

But they each night raise countless hosts
Of wandering sprites, and sheeted ghosts;
Turn shaking locks to clanking chains,
And howl most supernatural strains:
While all our dunces lose their wits,
And pass the night in ague-fits.

While this nocturnal series blows
I hide my head beneath the clothes,
And sue the power whose dew distils
The only balm for human ills.
All day the sun's prevailing beam
Absorbs this dew from Lethe's stream:
All night the falling moisture sheds
Oblivion over mortal heads.
Then sinking into sleep I fall,
And leave them piping at their ball.
When morning comes-no summer's morn-
I wake and find the spectres gone;
But on the casement see emboss'd
A mimic world in crusted frost;
Ice-bergs, high shores, and wastes of snow,
Mountains above, and seas below;
Or, if Imagination bids,
Vast crystal domes, and pyramids.
Then starting from my couch I leap,
And shake away the dregs of sleep,

To shield this line from criticism'Tis Parody not Plagiarism.

Just breathe upon the grand array,
And ice-bergs slide in seas away.

Now on the scout I sally forth,
The weather-cock due E. by N.
To meet some masquerading fog,
Which makes all nature dance incog.
And spreads blue devils, and blue looks,
Till exercised by tongues and books.

Books, do I say? full well I wist

A book's a famous exorcist!

A book's the tow that makes the tether
That binds the quick and dead together;

A speaking trumpet under ground,
That turns a silence to a sound;

A magic mirror form'd to show,

Worlds that were dust ten thousand years ago.
They're aromatic cloths, that hold
The mind embalm'd in many a fold,
And look, arrang'd in dust-hung rooms,
Like mummies in Egyptian tombs ;
-Enchanted echoes, that reply,
Not to the ear, but to the eye;

Or pow'rful drugs, that give the brain,
By strange contagion, joy or pain.

A book's the phenix of the earth,
Which bursts in splendour from its birth:
And like the moon without her wanes,
From every change new lustre gains;
Shining with undiminish'd light,
While ages wing their idle flight.

By such a glorious theme inspired
Still could I sing-but you are tired:
(Tho' adamantine lungs would do,]
Ears should be adamantine too,)
And thence we may deduce 'tis better
To answer ('faith 'tis time) your letter.

To answer first what first it says.
Why will you speak of partial praise?
I spoke with honesty and truth,
And now you seem to doubt them both.
The lynx's eye may seem to him,
Who always has enjoy'd it, dim:
And brilliant thoughts to you may be
What common-place ones are to me.
You note them not-but cast them by,
As light is lavish'd by the sky;

Or streams from Indian mountains roll'd
Fling to the ocean grains of gold.
But still we know the gold is fine-
But still we know the light's divine.

As to the Century and Pope,

The thought's not so absurd, I hope.

I don't despair to see a throne

Rear'd above his-and p'rhaps your own.
The course is clear, the goal's in view,
?

'Tis free to all, why not to you.

But, ere you start, you should survey
The towering falcon strike her prey:
In gradual sweeps the sky she scales,
Nor all at once the bird assails,

But hems him in-cuts round the skies, And gains upon him as he flies.

Wearied and faint he beats the air in vain,
Then shuts his flaggy wings, and pitches to the plain.

Now, falcon! now! One stoop-but one,
The quarry's struck the prize is won!

So he who hopes the palm to gain,
So often sought-and sought in vain,
Must year by year, as round by round,
In easy circles leave the ground:
'Tis time has taught him how to rise,
And naturalized him to the skies.
Full many a day Pope trod the vales,
Mid "silver streams and murmuring gales."
Long fear'd the rising hills to tread,
Nor ever dared the mountain-head.

It is related of this distinguished officer, that his death-wound was not received by the common chance of war.

Wolfe perceived one of the sergeants of his regiment strike a man under arms, (an act against which he had given particular orders,) and knowing the man to be a good soldier, reprehended the aggressor with much warmth, and threatened to reduce him to the ranks. This so far incensed the sergeant, that he deserted to the enemy, where he meditated the means of destroying the general. Being placed in the enemy's left wing, which was directly opposed to the right of the British line, where Wolfe commanded in person, he aimed at his old commander with his rifle, and effected his deadly purpose.

DR. KING-His PUN.

The late Dr. King, of Oxford, by actively interfering in some measures which materially affected the university at large, became very popular with some individuals, and as obnoxious with others. The mode of expressing disapprobation at either of the universities in the senate-house, or schools, is by scraping with the feet: but deviating from the usual custom, a party was made at Oxford to hiss the doctor at the conclusion of a Latin oration he had to make in public. This was accordingly done the doctor, however, did not suffer himself to be disconcerted, but turning round to the vice-chancellor, said, very gravely, in an audible voice," Laudatur ab His."