CHAPTER VIII
THE BARBER OF LONDON
Who has not heard of the Barber of London? His dwelling is in theneighbourhood of Lincoln's Inn. It is needless to particularise thestreet, for everybody knows the shop; that is to say, every member ofthe legal profession, high or low. All, to the very judges themselves,have their hair cut, or their wigs dressed, by him. A pleasant fellow isMr. Tuffnell Trigge--Figaro himself not pleasanter--and if you do notshave yourself--if you want a becoming flow imparted to your stubbornlocks, or if you require a wig, I recommend you to the care of Mr.Tuffnell Trigge. Not only will he treat you well, but he will regale youwith all the gossip of the court; he will give you the last funny thingof Mr. Serjeant Larkins; he will tell you how many briefs the great Mr.Skinner Fyne receives--what the Vice-Chancellor is doing; and you willown, on rising, that you have never spent a five minutes more agreeably.Besides, you are likely to see some noticeable characters, for Mr.Trigge's shop is quite a lounge. Perhaps you may find a young barristerwho has just been "called," ordering his "first wig," and you may hearthe prognostications of Mr. Trigge as to his future distinction. "Ah,sir," he will say, glancing at the stolid features of the young man,"you have quite the face of the Chief Justice--quite the face of thechief--I don't recollect him ordering his first wig--that was a littlebefore my time; but I hope to live to see you chief, sir. Quite withinyour reach, if you choose to apply. Sure of it, sir--quite sure." Or youmay see him attending to some grave master in Chancery, and listeningwith profound attention to his remarks; or screaming with laughter atthe jokes of some smart special pleader; or talking of the theatres, theactors and actresses, to some young attorneys, or pupils inconveyancers' chambers; for those are the sort of customers in whom Mr.Trigge chiefly delights; with them, indeed, he _is_ great, for it is bythem he has been dubbed the Barber of London. His shop is alsofrequented by managing clerks, barristers' clerks, engrossing clerks,and others; but these are, for the most part, his private friends.
Mr. Trigge's shop is none of your spruce West End hair-cuttingestablishments, with magnificent mirrors on every side, in which you maysee the back of your head, the front, and the side, all at once, withwalls bedizened with glazed French paper, and with an ante-room full ofbears'-grease, oils, creams, tooth-powders, and cut glass. No, it is areal barber's and hairdresser's shop, of the good old stamp, where youmay get cut and curled for a shilling, and shaved for half the price.
True, the floor is not covered with a carpet. But what of that? It bearsthe imprint of innumerable customers, and is scattered over with theirhair. In the window, there is an assortment of busts moulded in wax,exhibiting the triumphs of Mr. Trigge's art; and above these areseveral specimens of legal wigs. On the little counter behind thewindow, amid large pots of pomade and bears'-grease, and the irons andbrushes in constant use by the barber, are other bustos, done to thelife, and for ever glancing amiably into the room. On the block is ajudge's wig, which Mr. Trigge has just been dressing, and a littlefarther, on a higher block, is that of a counsel. On either side of thefireplace are portraits of Lord Eldon and Lord Lyndhurst. Some otherportraits of pretty actresses are likewise to be seen. Against thecounter rests a board, displaying the playbill of the evening; and nearit is a large piece of emblematical crockery, indicating thatbears'-grease may be had on the premises. Amongst Mr. Trigge'slive-stock may be enumerated his favourite magpie, placed in a wickercage in the window, which chatters incessantly, and knows everything,its master avouches, "as well as a Christian."
And now as to Mr. Tuffnell Trigge himself. He is very tall and verythin, and holds himself so upright that he loses not an inch of hisstature. His head is large and his face long, with marked, if not verystriking features, charged, it must be admitted, with a veryself-satisfied expression. One cannot earn the appellation of the Barberof London without talent; and it is the consciousness of this talentthat lends to Mr. Trigge's features their apparently conceitedexpression. A fringe of black whisker adorns his cheek and chin, and hisblack bristly hair is brushed back, so as to exhibit the prodigiousexpanse of his forehead. His eyebrows are elevated, as if in constantscorn.
The attire in which Mr. Trigge is ordinarily seen, consists of a blackvelvet waistcoat, and tight black continuations. These are protected bya white apron tied round his waist, with pockets to hold his scissorsand combs; over all, he wears a short nankeen jacket, into the pocketsof which his hands are constantly thrust when not otherwise employed. Ablack satin stock with a large bow encircles his throat, and his shirtis fastened by black enamel studs. Such is Mr. Tuffnell Trigge, ycleptthe Barber of London.
At the time of his introduction to the reader, Mr. Trigge had justadvertised for an assistant, his present young man, Rutherford Watts,being about to leave him, and set up for himself in Canterbury. It wasabout two o'clock, and Mr. Trigge had just withdrawn into an inner roomto take some refection, when, on returning, he found Watts occupied incutting the hair of a middle-aged, sour-looking gentleman, who wasseated before the fire. Mr. Trigge bowed to the sour-looking gentleman,and appeared ready to enter into conversation with him, but no noticebeing taken of his advances, he went and talked to his magpie.
While he was chattering to it, the sagacious bird screamed forth:"Pretty dear!--pretty dear!"
"Ah! what's that? Who is it?" cried Trigge.
"Pretty dear!--pretty dear!" reiterated the magpie.
Upon this, Trigge looked around, and saw a very singular little manenter the shop. He had somewhat the appearance of a groom, being clothedin a long grey coat, drab knees, and small top-boots. He had a large andremarkably projecting mouth, like that of a baboon, and a great shockhead of black hair.
"Pretty dear!--pretty dear!" screamed the magpie.
"I see nothing pretty about him," thought Mr. Trigge. "What a strangelittle fellow! It would puzzle the Lord Chancellor himself to say whathis age might be."
The little man took off his hat, and making a profound bow to thebarber, unfolded the _Times_ newspaper, which he carried under his arm,and held it up to Trigge.
"What do you want, my little friend, eh?" said the barber.
"High wages!--high wages!" screamed the magpie.
"Is this yours, sir?" replied the little man, pointing to anadvertisement in the newspaper.
"Yes, yes, that's my advertisement, friend," replied Mr. Trigge. "Butwhat of it?"
Before the little man could answer, a slight interruption occurred.While eyeing the new-comer, Watts neglected to draw forth the hotcurling-irons, in consequence of which he burnt the sour-lookinggentleman's forehead, and singed his hair.
"Take care, sir!" cried the gentleman furiously. "What the devil are youabout?"
"Yes! take care, sir, as Judge Learmouth observes to a saucy witness,"cried Trigge--"'take care, or I'll commit you!'"
"D--n Judge Learmouth!" cried the gentleman angrily. "If I were a judge,I'd hang such a careless fellow."
"Sarve him right!" screamed Mag--"sarve him right!"
The Barber of London.]
"Beg pardon, sir," cried Watts. "I'll rectify you in a minute."
"Well, my little friend," observed Trigge, "and what may be your objectin coming to me? as the great conveyancer, Mr. Plodwell, observes to hisclients--what may be your object?"
"You want an assistant, don't you, sir?" rejoined the little man humbly.
"Do you apply on your own account, or on behalf of a friend?" askedTrigge.
"On my own," replied the little man.
"What are your qualifications?" demanded Trigge--"what are yourqualifications?"
"I fancy I understand something of the business," replied the littleman. "I was a perruquier myself, when wigs were more in fashion thanthey are now."
"Ha! indeed!" said Trigge, laughing. "That must have been in the lastcentury--in Queen Anne's time--eh?"
"You have hit it exactly, sir," replied the little man. "It _was_ inQueen Anne's time."
"Perhaps you recollect when wigs were first worn, my little Nest
or?"cried Mr. Trigge.
"Perfectly," replied the little man. "French periwigs were first worn inCharles the Second's time."
"You saw 'em, of course?" cried the barber, with a sneer.
"I did," replied the little man quietly.
"Oh, he must be out of his mind," cried Trigge. "We shall have acommission _de lunatico_ to issue here, as the Master of the Rolls wouldobserve."
"I hope I may suit you, sir," said the little man.
"I don't think you will, my friend," replied Mr. Trigge; "I don't thinkyou will. You don't seem to have a hand for hairdressing. Are you awareof the talent the art requires? Are you aware what it has cost me toearn the enviable title of the Barber of London? I'm as proud of thattitle as if I were----"
"Lord Chancellor!--Lord Chancellor!" screamed Mag.
"Precisely, Mag," said Mr. Trigge; "as if I were Lord Chancellor."
"Well, I'm sorry for it," said the little man disconsolately.
"Pretty dear!" screamed Mag; "pretty dear!"
"What a wonderful bird you have got!" said the sour-looking gentleman,rising and paying Mr. Trigge. "I declare its answers are quiteappropriate."
"Ah! Mag is a clever creature, sir--that she is," replied the barber. "Igave a good deal for her."
"Little or nothing!" screamed Mag--"little or nothing!"
"What is your name, friend?" said the gentleman, addressing the littleman, who still lingered in the shop.
"Why, sir, I've had many names in my time," he replied. "At one time Iwas called Flapdragon--at another, Old Parr--but my real name, Ibelieve, is Morse--Gregory Morse."
"An Old Bailey answer," cried Mr. Trigge, shaking his head. "Flapdragon,alias Old Parr--alias Gregory Morse--alias----"
"Pretty dear!" screamed Mag.
"And you want a place?" demanded the sour-looking gentleman, eyeing himnarrowly.
"Sadly," replied Morse.
"Well, then, follow me," said the gentleman, "and I'll see what can bedone for you."
And they left the shop together.
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