“The barber's freshly painted pole * over the way,” replied Mr. Bosky.
“Or in Great Britain?” continued Mr. Muff.
“The moon,” rejoined Uncle Timothy.
The brother-in-law of Mrs. Flumgarten was at a dead lock.
* The barber's pole, one of the popular relics of Merrie
England, is still to be seen in some of the old streets of
London and in country-towns, painted with its red, blue, and
yellow stripes, and surmounted with a gilt acorn. The lute
and violin were formerly among the furniture of a barber's
shop. He who waited to be trimmed, if of a musical turn,
played to the company. The barber himself was a nimble-
tongued, pleasant-witted fellow. William Rowley, the
dramatist, in “A Search for Money, 1609,” thus describes
him:—“As wee were but asking the question, steps me from
over the way ( over-listning us) a news-searcher, viz. a
barber: he, hoping to at-taine some discourse for his next
patient, left his banner of basons swinging in the ayre, and
closely eave-drops our conference. The saucie treble-tongu'd
knave would insert somewhat of his knowledge (treble-tongu'd
I call him, and thus I prove 't: hee has a reasonable
mother-tongue, his barber-sur-gions tongue; and a tongue
betweene two of his fingers, and from thence proceeds his
wit, and 'tis a snapping wit too). Well, sir, he (before he
was askt the question,) told us that the wandring knight
(Monsier L'Argent) sure was not farre off; for on Saterday-
night he was faine to watch till morning to trim some of his
followers, and its morning they went away from him betimes.
Hee swore hee never clos'd his eyes till hee came to church,
and then he slept all sermon-time; but certainly hee is not
farre afore, and at yonder taverne (showing us the bush) I
doe imagine he has tane a chamber.” In ancient times the
barber and the tailor, as news-mongers, divided the crown.
The barber not only erected his pole as a sign, but hung his
basins upon it by way of ornament.
Sounding the depths of his capacious intellect, his cogitative faculties were “in cogibundity of cogitation.” He soon rallied with, “How's the generality of things in general?”
It was now Uncle Timothy's and Mr. Bosky's turn to be posed! But the interrogator relieved them by suddenly recollecting the object of his mission—“I'm come, Mister Timviddy-”
“If, sir, you mean to address me,” said the satirical-nosed gentleman, “my name is not Timwiddy, but-”
“Timkins,” interrupted Mr. Muff.
“Anything you please,” rejoined Uncle Timothy, with the most contemptuous acquiescence. “Call me Alexander, Wat Tyler, Abelard, Joe Grimaldi, Scipio Africanus, Martin Van Butchell.”