“Right, Sir, I take—'and thereby hangs a tale.' The observation is in point, verbum sat, as the latinist would say. Well, Sir, as I was saying, a citizen, with a design to outdo his neighbours, called at one of the first shops in London a very short time since, and gave particular orders to have his pericranium fitted with a wig of the true royal cut. The dimensions of his upper story were taken—the order executed to the very letter of the instructions—it fitted like wax—it was nature—nay it soared beyond nature—it was the perfection of art—the very acmé of science! Conception was outdone, and there is no power in language to describe it. He was delighted; his wife was charmed with the idea of a new husband, and he with his new wig; but
“Now comes the pleasant joke of all, ?Tis when too close attack'd we fall.”
The account was produced—-would you believe it, he refused to have it—he objected to the price.”
“The devil take it!” said Tom, “object to pay for the acme of perfection; this unnaturally natural wig would have fetched any money among the collectors of curiosities.”
“What was the price?” enquired Bob.
“Trifling, Sir, very trifling, to an artist 'of the first water,' as a jeweller would say by his diamonds—only thirty guineas!!!”
“Thirty guineas!” exclaimed Bob, starting from his seat, and almost overturning the modernizer of his head.
Then, recollecting Sparkle's account of Living in Style, and Good Breeding, falling gently into his seat again.
“Did I hurt you, Sir?” exclaimed the Peruquier.
Dashall bit his lip, and smiled at the surprise of his Cousin, which was now so visibly depicted in his countenance.