Sir P. Certainly not, Mrs Brown. enough already. CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL. You've had quite Mrs B. Lor! Cap'n Crummle, how can you say so? I've hardly tasted a drop. Sir P. Never mind; I'll send some to you when the performance is over. Mrs B. Oh, just as you please, Cap'n Crummle. It's not for myself I wanted it: the major was feeling dry, and says he: Mrs Brown, like a good creature, go to Cap'n Crummle, and' Mrs Candour (from dressing-room). What's that about the major? (Mrs Brown retires discomfited.) Enter Mrs Candour, a jovial little field-officer, rather inclining to embonpoint, in a handsome dress made out of window curtains, and a petticoat of white calico. Mrs C. I say, Crummles, my boy, what am I to do? My dress doesn't fit me (turning round and shewing a wide gap). That thick-headed tailor measured me before dinner. It's no use trying-I've had two of the grenadier company tugging at me for the last ten minutes. Sir P. It can't be helped. You must only keep your 'full front' to the audience, and back out when you make your exit. See if all the characters for the first act are ready, Merryweather. By the by, where's Brummel? (counting the actors, and missing the amateur that was to take Charles Surface). Has any one seen Brummel? Moses. He's playing billiards with the colonel; at least Charles Surface (the regimental dandy, appearing at door in uniform). Where do you expect to go to, you howwible Hebwew? Sir P. 'Pon my word, it's too bad; Brummel if you can't be here in time, you'd better not act at all; we're just going to ring up. C. S. (taking off his coat). Oh, pitch into the colonel, not into me, you old savage. I was obliged to finish the shouldn't have got wubber, and let him win it too, or leave from pawade to-mowwow. Sir P. Well, look sharp, Beau; the brigadier's here, and you know how savage he gets if he's kept waiting. He doesn't care, C. S. (taking off his waistcoat). though, how long he keeps us gwilling in the sun, while he smokes his morning chewoot. Here, Beawer, pull off And you, my boots; I'm not equal to the exertion. black Ganymede (to the native mounting guard over the champagne), a glass of the 'cweamy:' I'm athirst. Sir P. (imploringly, as Brummel generally goes on 'primed' as he calls it). Now, do be careful, Beau: you know you were half screwed in the Rivals. Why, you old C. S. (tossing down a tumblerful). tetotaller! I never acted better in my life. You're jealous because I bwought down the house. Sir Oliver (who was Mrs Malaprop on the occasion). Yes, when you tripped over your own sword, and nearly sent me flying into the pit. Sergeant Mer. (to Sir Peter). There's the last bar of the overture, sir. Sir P. (immediately getting excited). Now, then, clear the stage. If you don't get out of that, I'll break your head (to a bewildered native, who, in his extreme anxiety to be out of everybody's way, is squatting under a table on the stage). Look out with the drop. Come on, Lady Sneerwell; and Snake-where's Snake? Snake (from dressing-room). I can't find my wig. Sir P. No-of course not. (indignantly). Sir P. Now, then, Snake, are you coming? Snake (running on breathless, with his wig turned the wrong way). I've found it; fire away. Sir P. Take your places. (Reading from prompt-book) Lushington; and drink chocolate, can't you, Snake? Lady Sneerwell, in her attempt to be more graceful, drops it. She stoops to pick it up; a subdued crash is heard. She starts up. Sir P. (horrified). What's the matter? Lady S. Something's given way-I don't know wherebut I'm coming undone. Mrs Brown! Mrs Brown! (rushes to dressing-room, followed by Sir Peter tearing his hair, and shouting Music!"). The band strikes up a polka, to which, in spite of the heat, Joseph Surface and Maria commence dancing, followed by Moses and Mrs Candour. In about five minutes, during which two messages are received from the brigadier, Sir Peter returns with Lady Sneerwell repaired. Sir P. (savagely). Now, then, stop that dancing, and clear the stage. Just see the state you're in. You (to Joseph Surface) that ought to be looking so calm and sanctimonious, have got a face the colour of beetroot. And that right eyebrow of yours, that I took such pains. with, Maria, is trickling all down your nose. Now, then, (seizing bell)-places-(Lady Sneerwell and Snake take their seats). Ready? Lady S. Wait a bit-I'm parched. Bring me some champagne, Merryweather. Sir Peter executes a pas indicative of impatience. Snake (holding out his cup). And give me a little; it will look more natural. Sir P. That'll do. Are you ready? Mind the drop. Will you clear the stage? (First bell-band stops.) For goodness' sake, don't crack anything else, Lushington. Look out (second bell). Half-a-dozen amateurs, who, as usual, have loitered on the stage till the last moment, scamper off at the different wings, like so many rabbits; and up goes the curtain, discovering Lady Sneerwell fanning herself rather awkwardly, and Snake drinking champagne out of a chocolate cup. ABOUT BARBER S. It is PROBABLY fashion has never exercised so unrelaxing, Snake. I can't go on in my own hair. (It is bright red.) front of curls said to have adorned an Egyptian cranium Sir P. Then we must cut out the scene. Lady S. No, no-I'll go through it by myself. Enter an aid-de-camp in full dress. three thousand years ago. At a later period of the world's history, fashion appears to have inspired her votaries with a superstitious reverence for the natural Aid-de-camp. The brigadier wants to know when you're hair; and, by the Greeks and Romans, it was deemed going to begin. Sir P. Immediately. Lady T. If not sooner. Maria (whose figure is much improved). Ask the old boy, with my compliments, if he'll sing a comic song between the acts. sufficiently sacred to be offered up to their gods. Indeed, if we are to credit an old Greek writer, by name Lucian-whose power of ill-natured satire and coarse wit entitle him, not unfairly, to be called the Swift of the second century-the Greeks were absurdly fastidious with respect to their hair and beards. Probably, Lucian's sneers at his countrymen have as much ill-nature and as little truth as many of the great Dean of St Patrick's anecdotes; but if he is to be credited, the wise men of Athens condescended even to personal rivalry in the excellence of their beards; and he narrates an instance of a candidate for a professorship losing his election simply because his beard did not reach the capillary standard required by the philosophical voters. Another old writer, Elian, tells a still more whimsical anecdote of Zoilus-wellknown as the founder of an anti-Homeric school which numbers many recent German converts. He, it seems, was in the habit of shaving the crown of his head, that no virtue should be drawn for its support from the more important hairs of his beard. Nor were the Romans more backward than other barbaric victors in imitating the civilisation they had triumphed over. They soon gave in their adherence to the goddess Fashion, who had ruled the Greeks. Probably no nation ever consumed more unguents and cosmetics, or were better patrons of the barbers than the Romans. Patrician dandies devoted hours daily to the barber and the bath; and few great ladies considered their train of slaves complete in which the ornatrix, or hairdresser, did not figure. And fashion continued to exert her capricious sway over the heads of mankind after the tide of another barbarism had swept over the old brilliant tyranny of Rome. Confining ourselves to her caprices in our own land, we shall find them sufficiently numerous for the limits of this article. At one time, she appears to have caused short hair to be regarded as a sign of degradation, and its wearer was looked upon much as a Chinaman docked of his tail would be regarded nowa-days in the streets of Canton; a little later, a cropped head became a token of the godliness and purity of its owner. In the reign of the first Charles, the courtgallants rejoiced in their long love-locks, and made bad jokes and better songs reviling the close-cropped round heads of their antagonists; when the second Charles was called to the throne, the hair was completely shaved off, and fashion, through him, introduced the periwig into England. Since that time, her caprices have been frequent and startling. The names and descriptions of the various wigs in vogue during the last two hundred years would fill a volume; an account of the head-dresses worn by women would need another and a larger one. Preachers found it necessary to lend their sacred eloquence to the warfare which wit and satire waged ceaselessly against her capricious rule, and succumbing in their turn to her all-powerful influence, were rebuked and even threatened by Pope Benedict XIII. Recently, fashion seems to have wearied of her sway, and has given way to nature; but the powder has scarcely yet been brushed out of every head, and upper-lips still submit to the dominion of the razor. It may readily be supposed that all these caprices of fashion tended to make the barbers by no means an unimportant class; indeed, they seem always to have been regarded by society with a degree of confidence and familiarity which was accorded to no other trade. The barber is constantly represented as a meek, obliging man, talkative, good-natured, and sociable, with a fondness for animals alive and stuffed, and a natural liking for curiosities of every sort. Ever modest and retiring, he appears to have been regarded as possessing learning above his station. Steele, in one of his pleasant Tatlers, tells us of a barber who was, next to the squire, the most learned man in the parish. Even in the present day, in many country-places, the barber is no unimportant personage. We have a very familiar recollection of a little white-aproned man, who, with a shining tin shaving-pot, trotted round our native village every morning with unfailing regularity. For fifty years did the little barber pursue his humble calling, respected, and almost loved; and when his nerveless hand could no longer wield brush and razor, his old patrons never allowed him to feel the bitter pangs of want. It was the old man's boast that his easy razor had operated on three generations; and it was a pleasant thing to hear him talk of the grandfather you had never known having submitted his gray beard to the same kindly hand that was shaving your youthful chin. The most marked characteristics we have discovered in the barbers are their extreme modesty and avoidance of notoriety. Resembling Malvolio in neither having been born to greatness nor having achieved it, they have, unlike him, sensitively shrunk from having it thrust upon them; and the barber who fell at Swift's feet, imploring the dean not to put him into black and white, is no unfair representative of a contented, unambitious, and retiring class. Members of almost every other trade are to be met with in our loiterings through the highways and byways of historical literature, occupying prominent positions: high-souled tailors have laid down the scissors for the sword, and cut out for themselves military and naval fame; ambitious cobblers, neglecting the old classic rule, which bids them keep to their lasts, have achieved notoriety; but, with a very few exceptions, the barbers of England, eschewing ambition, have remained contented with their humble lot. It is doubtful whether this passiveness may not have caused them as a body to sink somewhat in professional position. Humble as they are now, the time was when the barbers of London formed a guild, and had a voice in the civic councils of the metropolis. In those good days, and in some degree until quite lately, they combined chirurgical and tonsorial occupations. So important were they, that in Henry VIII.'s reign, the worshipful company of surgeons were not ashamed to join them, and the two guilds were united by royal charter, and continued so for two hundred years. But long before the dissolution of this partnership, in the year 1745, the barbers, with their usual modesty, gave way to-as Pepys calls them-' the doctors of physique,' and confined their chirurgical practice simply to bleeding and tooth-drawing, until they discontinued these; and Mr Peter Cunningham tells us that the last of the barber-surgeons who practised phlebotomy in London died in extreme indigence early in the present century. Probably the entire revolution in their fortunes, caused by the introduction of the periwig into general use at the Restoration, may have had much to do with the estrangement which widened at length into a total separation of the barbers from the surgeons. From having been professors of a skilful science, they may be considered to have lost caste when they became mere manufacturers of French wigs. About this time also, a large number of barber-surgeons entirely dropped the old honourable name, and adopted the modern one of periwig-makers. Their new profession was for a long time a very lucrative one. They had to restore the love-locks which, in compliance with the Puritanic fashion, the youth of England had parted with; and it is shrewdly suspected that many of the barbers preserved the long curls which had fallen beneath their scissors, foreseeing that when the king came into his ain,' they would be called upon to restore them artificially. During the hundred years following the Restoration, fashion gave the barbers and periwig-makers plenty to do, and they increased in number and importance rapidly. Stow has left it on record, that Middle Row, Holborn-a portion of which still remains, and closely resembles a piece of a bazaar in a third-rate Eastern city-was entirely inhabited by periwig-makers. In 'the days of good Queen Anne,' the wig became of greater importance than the rest of a gentleman's attire put together, and cost three or four times as much; indeed, a gallant frequently carried upon his head the dowry of many a humble beauty, and the capital of many a small tradesman. Who does not remember Sir CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL. Richard Steele's famous full-bottomed wig, for which he paid, or should have paid, fifty guineas! Who does not call to mind that still more famous one in which Colley Cibber was wont to play 'the fool in fashion;' which was so large that it had to be brought upon the stage in a sedan by two chairmen, and for which the gallant Colonel Brett, wishing to become irresistible, offered fabulous sums! Who has not smiled, and yet felt angry at Swift's account of his state-wig, which he told unfortunate Stella was kept for grand occasions at the house of still more unfortunate Vanessa! And as these were for full-dress wear, so there were others for almost every hour of the day. Space alone prevents our giving the names of scores which were, at one time or other, considered indispensable to the wardrobe of a man of fashion. As for the affection with which fashion inspired her votaries for these unnatural appendages, it rivalled in folly all we have heard of the fondness of the Athenians for their beards, or Charles's cavaliers for their love-locks. This folly at length reached its acme, when it was considered a delicate compliment to the mistress of a man's heart to fondle and comb in her presence that ungainly mass of artificial curls which survives dimly in the present incongruous attire of the English bar. After the days of the Tatler and Spectator, wigs became more and more plain and inexpensive, until, in a happy moment, fashion, wearied with her extravagances, allowed mankind to rest satisfied with the bountiful provision made by nature for the adornment But, as if in and protection of the human head. satire upon her former votaries, she still permits the tribe of flunkeydom' to retain the evidences of her old sway; and the ambrosial curls and snowy powder that once won admiration in the palaces of Kensington and St James, now grace the menial heads of the Jeameses. It is not our intention to follow the barbers into their present low estate: we believe they endure it, as they bore prosperity, with patience and equanimity, looking forward to the time when fashion shall again elevate them into somewhat of their former importance. And there have not been wanting recent signs of some such intention on the part of their patroness and our mistress. But before laying down the pen, we wish to notice a few of those barbers whose career, subsequent to their leaving their old trade, merits our attention. In the reign of Charles I., there flourished a barber Winstanley, a famous compiler of anecdotes of a barber. It would have been well for him, perhaps, We have only space to allude to a few barbers who had distinction thrust upon them by the talent of their sons. Tonson, the publisher-who seems to have been the Murray of the seventeenth century in all but his liberality-who was on easy terms with the greatest men of his time, and was addressed by dukes as dear Jacob'-who could afford to bully Dryden, and be familiar with Addison, was the son of a barbersurgeon, who practised his humble calling in Holborn. The late Mr Turner, the celebrated landscape-painter, was the son of a barber, and would have followed his father's calling, had not a benevolent artist rescued him from that lowly lot. As it was, he remained with his father in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, until the Royal Academy elected him an associate. Later still, we distinctly remember hearing a great lawyer who, when he spoke, was second only in rank to the Queen, proudly acknowledging, as an encouragement to industry and humble talent, that his father lived and died a barber in a small borough-town of Sussex. SOCIAL TYRANNIES. We are a free people, say the wise men of our nation: that is incontestable. The fact is stated in public speeches, vociferated at elections and political squabbles -shrieked, roared, or thundered forth in songs. There is something in the British soul, we fondly say to ourselves and to our neighbours, that revolts instinctively and at once from all fetters, all restraints. We must be free, or die. Liberty of the press, of opinion political and religious, of action and of speech, is to us as the very air we breathe. Britons never, never will be slaves! &c. And yet, bluster as we will, we all cower more or less beneath the lash of a tyrant that rules us-ay, free people, liberty-loving, slavery-defying nation as we are. Bear to hear the truth; let us lay it to our hearts-we are fashion-ridden. In this year of grace eighteen hundred and fifty-six, we are coerced, made to do that which we would rather not do, and obliged not to do all sorts of things we would like very much indeed. Why? Because fashion, alias custom, which is the propriety and inexorable moral must of the hour, says, Thou shalt, or Thou shalt not. potentate before named. For it is not your friend, or The same tyranny also keeps with us in our own The case, though hard, is not, however, peculiar homes. It dictates the hospitalities we shall afford, the to this century. Our great-grandfathers and grand-parties we shall give, the manner in which they shall be mothers walked in desperate awe under the same dominion. Mistress Barbara, in the year 17-, in her hoop, and with her turret of powdered hair perilously balanced on her anxious head, was, be very sure, to the full as uncomfortable as her descendant, Miss Julia, fluttering in flounces disposed over vast breadths of crinoline, and with miniature sofa-cushions stuffed under the bands of her soft hair. There may be some consolation in the knowledge that our ancestors were no wiser than we. If we have not improved, it seems at least we have not retrograded. given, and the several individuals the pleasure of whose company we shall request, on satin note-paper, or superfine cards, as the case may be. The A- -s are to be invited, though they are not amusing, nor handsome, nor particularly attractive in any way; but they asked you to a party at their house, and you must return the compliment. Custom requires it. Though you don't care to go to their house, nor to see them in your own-and though, very likely, they don't care either-you must fashion your link of the chain of inevitable necessity-invite, because you were invited Nay, there may even be further cause of congratu-accept, because they accepted. They do likewise; lation in the fact, that though we have not grown and a pleasing stratum in society is thus formed of better, our master has, in some respects. The slavery people who mutually annoy and are annoyed-guests is the same, but the driver has progressed, it appears, who are profoundly indifferent to their hosts, who, in civilisation, in sense and refinement. Fifty years however generous and kindly disposed, can but feel ago, he insisted on all the gentlemen at a dinner-party serene satisfaction and contentment in the departure becoming intoxicated, under the penalty of being of their guests. laughed at, scouted, and abused. He would have it, that a hasty word, uttered by one man to another, and capable of being construed into a meaning offensive or slighting, was a prelude only susceptible of the one conclusion-a duel. He ordained that a man must be ready, on such occasions, to stand up to kill or be killed with a chance of both results ensuing-unless he would be deemed a coward, unless he were content to be disgraced for life in the eyes of his peers. We are a little better than that now. No man need be a drunkard or a murderer in order to maintain his footing in society. But let us not be too exultant. It is, we emphatically repeat, custom, the master, who has changed-not we, his servants. Our obedience is as implicit, our fear as reverent, as ever. It is his mandate, for example, which, bearing specially hard upon women, compels them to many a tedious, profitless formula of giving and receiving 'morning calls.' Who invented morning calls? And who, ay, who, with the courage of a Joan of Arc, and the wit of a De Staël, will arise to abolish them? What good groweth out of them? To what end do they lead? Wherefore should they not be struck out of the statute-book of social life? Who can answer these questions? Who, indeed, does not well know that the system is one that everybody would gladly do away with, but for the fear of offending the dread Thus the game of cross-purposes goes on; and the family of Robinson soliloquise in one street to this effect: Tiresome party. Sure to be stupid and dull. To dress and go out this wet night to the Browns, of all people!' While the Browns, in the neighbouring square, are musing: 'Well, one comfort is, it will soon be over. The Robinsons can't stay, and an evening-party can't last for ever!' It is this system-for which thank our inexorable tyrant-which half fills our English salons with that set of uninterested, uninteresting persons, male and female, who may be observed at every reunion, clinging to sofa corners and back drawing-rooms, examining albums and prints with yawning perseverance. same people, among their own people, are lively, conversable, and at ease, very likely. But the birds of the air and the fishes of the sea never could consort together: let them not attempt it. The To go further-but, alas! there is no need to go far in our search for examples of our bondage-the tyranny coils round us in our dress, flavours our meals, interferes with our amusements. It is everywhere. Why do the gentlemen of this present age continue to wear that eyesore of costume, the modern hat? Stiff, black, and grim, it still frowns on us in defiance of all taste and comfort. It fears no rival, CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL. though enterprising spirits have dared to bring for- It is the same with bonnets. The modern bonnet affords no warmth in winter, no shade in summer; it is an awkward and unnatural object, perched on the top, or at the back of a woman's head; it is expensive and frail; it crushes and spoils on the slightest provocation; it is not so becoming, so graceful, or so useful as either hat or hood. But women have some courage. The crusade of the wide-brimmed hats has been waged with much bravery, In spite of the little boys' interand a little success. jections-in spite of covert sneers and open jestings, the number of hat-wearers is on the increase. Common sense has arisen, in this direction at least; and even custom, the puissant, finds him no mean antagonist. A scorched skin, blinded eyes, discomfort A partial unutterable, were heavy penalties to pay. emancipation of the slaves has taken place ever since the first heroic hoisting of the hat. The select band who originally dared and defied the choral shout of 'Who's your hatter?' assuredly deserve everlasting gratitude at the hands of their sisters. Which of us does not do the same? Who among us does not recognise the majesty of this many-sided, For whether we call it fashion, many-named deity? custom, system, habit, regard for appearances, or what you will, we all know it, and smart under its And though it is restraints some time or another. righteous and wholesome to submit to a just and reasonable rule, it is but cowardly to follow in the wake of the world's procession, offering a senseless homage to a senseless routine; therefore let us, as soon as may be, educate ourselves and our children to ride free of Social Tyrannies. SCIENCE-ITS POSITION AND PROSPECTS. Down to the opening of the present century, there was little apprehension of the value of science either in the government or the public. A new era may be said to date from the establishment of the Royal Institution in 1801, and the commencement of Mechanics' Institutions which quickly followed. The Institution had for its especial object to draw together the greatest men of the day as lecturers upon different branches of natural science, and to establish working-laboratories, where trains of experiments might be pursued, whose magnitude precluded their being accomplished by private individuals. As we all know, it was in connection There is no time nor space now to enter further into with this Institution that the illustrious Davy became our injuries. The story of the wrongs inflicted by the so celebrated; to its influence is mainly owing the tyrant we discuss, is far too long to be detailed here; small improvement visible about this time in the yet, were their tongues not held silent by fear, how taste and pursuits of our higher classes. The Royal many voices might arise, each to tell its own grievance. Institution has had the effect of making scientific How many have lost opportunities of improvement by lectures fashionable, and the Mechanics' Institutes travel, for example, only because custom decrees that following in the wake have made them popular. The persons of a certain position must only travel in a utility of both is proved by the enlightenment and certain manner and style. So they stay at home, and interest in these subjects which has permeated all remain grand and ignorant in Russell Square, because classes, and has given birth to associations of learned they can't afford travelling en prince, as our foreign men for the furtherance and support of nearly every neighbours call it. In the same way, how many branch of science. The Geological, Geographical, Entofamilies do we know, who, loving music, go only twice mological, and Zoological Societies are all the offspring a year to Exeter Hall, or the Philharmonic, because of the century. Almost every county has its archæoThey logical and natural history society, and each town of they never go except to the reserved seats. could never think of going otherwise, though they any consequence boasts its museum. These latter have A local interest is excited by these might hear six concerts for the price of one. Impos- been made highly instructive, and may be rendered sible! to go in with the general crowd-to mix with even more so. It would be grossly incon- institutions in the animals, plants, and geology of the the three-shilling public! sistent with their position-out of all rule-a flagrant neighbourhood. breach of custom. And who can have a word to say after that! Let us be humbly thankful we who are not com- But it is time to stop. Be not so exultant. We We can scarcely realise now, that hardly twenty years have elapsed since these provincial institutions were publicly ridiculed by an eminent member of the university of Oxford. An overweening love of classical When learning had made the universities oppose for a long period the study of the physical sciences. Sedgwick or Buckland, we forget which, left England for a sojourn on the continent, some one high in authority was heard to exclaim: 'I suppose now we shall hear no more of this geology.' A spirit at once so unreasoning and inacceptive, can hardly shelter itself behind an erudition befitting the days of nominalists and realists. In these better times, men cannot creditably remain ignorant of the first principles of those practical sciences which are used in the arts of life, or continue uninformed of the phenomena of the world, systems of distant nebulæ, the infusorial life contained in a drop of water, or the laws which regulate our own physical existence. Who, indeed, that has a mind capable of rising to a contemplation of the works of the Creator, would remain in ignorance of that tremendous past, whose millennial records are inscribed on the tablets of successive strata, or close his eyes to the glories, the wonders that surround us in the illimitable heaven above, or in this small globe, which is at once our palace and our prison-house! Here are infinite forms of beauty, and unseen forces, which operate in apparent complication, but in real simplicity; here are bonds of union which connect powers |