On the block is a
judge's wig, which Mr. Trigge has just been dressing, and a little
farther, on a higher block, is that of a counsel. On either side of the
fireplace are portraits of Lord Eldon and Lord Lyndhurst. Some other
portraits of pretty actresses are likewise to be seen. Against the
counter rests a board, displaying the playbill of the evening; and near
it is a large piece of emblematical crockery, indicating that
bears'-grease may be had on the premises. Amongst Mr. Trigge's
live-stock may be enumerated his favourite magpie, placed in a wicker
cage 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 very
thin, and holds himself so upright that he loses not an inch of his
stature. His head is large and his face long, with marked, if not very
striking features, charged, it must be admitted, with a very
self-satisfied expression. One cannot earn the appellation of the Barber
of London without talent; and it is the consciousness of this talent
that lends to Mr. Trigge's features their apparently conceited
expression. A fringe of black whisker adorns his cheek and chin, and his
black bristly hair is brushed back, so as to exhibit the prodigious
expanse of his forehead. His eyebrows are elevated, as if in constant
scorn. The attire in which Mr. Trigge is ordinarily seen, consists of a black
velvet waistcoat, and tight black continuations. These are protected by
a white apron tied round his waist, with pockets to hold his scissors
and combs; over all, he wears a short nankeen jacket, into the pockets
of which his hands are constantly thrust when not otherwise employed. A
black satin stock with a large bow encircles his throat, and his shirt
is fastened by black enamel studs. Such is Mr. Tuffnell Trigge, yclept
the Barber of London. At the time of his introduction to the reader, Mr. Trigge had just
advertised for an assistant, his present young man, Rutherford Watts,
being about to leave him, and set up for himself in Canterbury. It was
about two o'clock, and Mr. Trigge had just withdrawn into an inner room
to take some refection, when, on returning, he found Watts occupied in
cutting the hair of a middle-aged, sour-looking gentleman, who was
seated before the fire. Mr. Trigge bowed to the sour-looking gentleman,
and appeared ready to enter into conversation with him, but no notice
being 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 man
enter the shop. He had somewhat the appearance of a groom, being clothed
in a long grey coat, drab knees, and small top-boots. He had a large and
remarkably projecting mouth, like that of a baboon, and a great shock
head of black hair. "Pretty dear!--pretty dear!" screamed the magpie. "I see nothing pretty about him," thought Mr. Trigge. "What a strange
little fellow! It would puzzle the Lord Chancellor himself to say what
his age might be." The little man took off his hat, and making a profound bow to the
barber, 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 an
advertisement in the newspaper. "Yes, yes, that's my advertisement, friend," replied Mr. Trigge. "But
what of it?" Before the little man could answer, a slight interruption occurred. While eyeing the new-comer, Watts neglected to draw forth the hot
curling-irons, in consequence of which he burnt the sour-looking
gentleman's forehead, and singed his hair. "Take care, sir!" cried the gentleman furiously. "What the devil are you
about?" "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!" [Illustration: 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 object
in coming to me? as the great conveyancer, Mr. Plodwell, observes to his
clients--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?" asked
Trigge. "On my own," replied the little man. "What are your qualifications?" demanded Trigge--"what are your
qualifications?" "I fancy I understand something of the business," replied the little
man. "I was a perruquier myself, when wigs were more in fashion than
they are now." "Ha! indeed!" said Trigge, laughing. "That must have been in the last
century--in Queen Anne's time--eh?" "You have hit it exactly, sir," replied the little man. "It _was_ in
Queen Anne's time." "Perhaps you recollect when wigs were first worn, my little Nestor?" cried Mr. Trigge. "Perfectly," replied the little man. "French periwigs were first worn in
Charles 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 a
commission _de lunatico_ to issue here, as the Master of the Rolls would
observe." "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 think
you will. You don't seem to have a hand for hairdressing. Are you aware
of the talent the art requires? Are you aware what it has cost me to
earn the enviable title of the Barber of London? I'm as proud of that
title 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 quite
appropriate." "Ah! Mag is a clever creature, sir--that she is," replied the barber. "I
gave a good deal for her." "Little or nothing!" screamed Mag--"little or nothing!" "What is your name, friend?" said the gentleman, addressing the little
man, who still lingered in the shop. "Why, sir, I've had many names in my time," he replied. "At one time I
was called Flapdragon--at another, Old Parr--but my real name, I
believe, 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 him
narrowly.