Having, with the exception of this trifling accident, shaved the corpse
of my father to a nicety, I wiped off the lather, replaced the nose, and
quitted the room, carrying back my shaving tackle to the shop. Shortly afterwards my mother entered the room, and was surprised at
finding the corpse already shaved. She had intended shaving it herself. I was silent on the subject, and she inquired no further into the
matter, being too absorbed with her grief. Presently the undertaker returned to nail up the coffin, and my mother
hastened to give my father one last parting kiss before he was nailed up
for ever. Suddenly I heard a shriek, and rushing into the room, found
my mother in hysterics. The cause was obvious. In approaching her lips
to those of her defunct spouse, the nose had unexpectedly rolled off,
causing a shock similar to that I experienced myself when I so
unskilfully amputated my father's nasal protuberance. When my mother
came to, I made a clean breast of my awkwardness, for which I received a
severe scolding, accompanied by sundry boxes on the ear. At length the
coffin was nailed up, and I followed it with my mother to the grave, but
for nights afterwards, my noseless father haunted me in my dreams,
carrying a basin of suds in one hand, and holding his nose between
finger and thumb with the other, as if to reproach me with my
awkwardness. When I related these dreams to my mother, she became uneasy in her mind,
and declared that all through my awkwardness my father was unable to
find rest in the tomb. She was a great believer in dreams, visions,
omens, prophecies, and the like, and said that the dream boded no good. Being a mere child then, I became infected with her fears, though as I
grew up I began to reason with myself that a dream of that sort might
very well be accounted for by the excited state of my brain at the time
and tendency of my waking thoughts, without jumping at once at the
conclusion that there was anything supernatural in it. For some time after my father's death I used to pester my mother with
many of those questions that children are so fond of asking, and
mothers find so difficult to answer--viz., concerning Heaven, and a
future state after death. She used to tell me that Heaven was a place
for all good people, far, far away, high up above the stars, where good
folks lived on for ever, and never grew old, and never to die any more;
that they were very happy, and knew no more pain or sorrow, but became
as the angels, and had wings and sang praises to God all day long on a
cloud. Moreover, that it was very light and bright there, that all was
endless sunshine, and the angels were dressed in shining garments, etc. Still, I was anxious to know more about Heaven; how long it took to get
there--being so far off; whether father wouldn't get tired flying all
that distance, and if so, where he would stop to rest on the road; what
sort of amusements there were in Heaven, and finally whether there was
any shaving there. This last question was a puzzler. I was not to be put
off by mother telling me that angels didn't require shaving, for then I
argued that if father had gone to Heaven, he would be out of employment,
and consequently miserable and not happy, for I knew what pleasure my
father took in his business. Now if my father could not be happy without
employment, the only employment he cared about being shaving, and if in
Heaven that employment were not permitted or encouraged, it followed
that my father could not be in Heaven, for who ever heard of a soul in
Heaven and not happy? My next question was whether there were any shaving in the other place. This was equally difficult to answer, for if my mother should admit that
there was, then I should have argued that my father must be there, which
would not have been a consoling idea, and if not, where should he be,
since he could not be in either of these places? My mother was fain to
confess that she did not know much about it, but said she would ask the
minister. Whether she did or not, I never ascertained. I began to
reflect for myself. The apostles were good men, as I had been given to
understand, and good men always went to Heaven. Yet from their effigies
upon the old stained-glass windows of the village church, they were all
represented with long beards. Therefore barber-craft could not be
encouraged in Heaven. Nothing could be more conclusive than this. My
doubts were at rest for ever, but I felt less happy than before I began
to argue on these matters. Ever since my father's death the whole weight of the business fell upon
my mother. Even in my father's lifetime she had so profited by his
lessons as to be able to lend a helping hand occasionally when the
customers were numerous and was thought to possess no inconsiderable
skill in the art, but now that my father was no more, she had to put her
shoulder to the wheel for her very bread. As for myself, it was long
before our villagers could be induced to place any confidence in my
shaving, the report of my father's unlucky amputation having spread like
wildfire through the neighbourhood. At length a strange gentleman passed through the village, and calling at
our shop, demanded to be shaved. My mother not being in at the time, I
offered my services, which were accepted, and acquitted myself to the
entire satisfaction of my customer. The gentleman chancing to mention to
someone that he had been shaved by a mere boy, and better than he had
ever been shaved in his life, my fame began to spread in the village,
and from that day we were in no want of customers. Business went on swimmingly until I was twelve years old, when I had the
misfortune to lose my poor mother. I was now quite alone in the world,
so in order to instruct myself more fully in the higher branches of the
art, such as wig making, hair-cutting, etc., I offered myself as
apprentice under the late Mr. Hackchin, under whose tuition in the wig
line I vastly improved, although even from the beginning my shaving was
universally preferred to his. Lor, sirs! his razors were never sharp,
his water always lukewarm, and his hand shook as with the palsy. The
fact was, he was getting old, was my poor employer, and ought, in my
opinion, to have given up business long before he did, when he might
have retired from the field with all due honours, and handed down his
name unstained to posterity. Well, gentlemen, not to wear out your patience, I will at once proceed
to the very heart of my story--plunge into the very thick of the lather,
as my poor father used to say--being about the time of my going abroad,
and the reason of it. It was now some time since I had begun to cast
sheep's eyes on the pretty Sally Snip, daughter of Simon Snip, the
village tailor. We met by stealth, took long walks together of a Sunday
in the green lane, danced together on the green on holidays, exchanged
tokens, breathed vows of eternal fidelity, and all the rest of it.