I.
A wig may be said to have two lives—the one with its own head, the other with its adopted head, or rather the head which adopts it; it has, therefore, a double chance for wisdom, and might be expected to profit accordingly. Generally speaking, this is the case, and wig and wisdom are almost synonymous.
Such wonderful tales had been told in a certain shop, by wigs that came back to be fixed a little, of the glory of their new abodes—wigs shorn from the very dregs of the people—from heads that had never been combed or petted or cared for—from heads houseless and hatless, that had been rained on and hailed on, and now in their second life dwelt in splendor unmitigated—that their discourses fairly curled up tighter every wig in the place. The shop had proved but a stepping-stone to blissful companionship with wits and statesmen; they reposed on the brows of sages and philosophers, shared the applauses of the multitude with popular orators, listened to the eloquence born of champagne and gaslight, and won the smiles and flirted with sweet ladies on Turkish divans and velvet fauteuils; all this and more, the wigs who came back had to relate. No wonder hopes were raised in each that went forth—hopes often delusive.