THE LAST OF THE PIG-TAILS. 191 



tacked to it, what always beat down all argumenls — that Richard 

 said so, and, therefore, it must of necessity be true. Richard, sure 

 of his man, trusted his discovery to him — in fact he could not carry 

 his hobby out without his assistance, and, therefore, he that morning, 

 which of all good days was the Sunoay, dressed his hair in the new 

 style entirely to the satisfaction of Richard, who, as he peered into 

 the glass, gazed upon himself with delight ; whilst Tidpole thought 

 within himself also, as he looked on his own handy-work, that 

 although there might be thousands of barbers, there was but one 

 Tidpole, perruquier ; and that he and Richard were designed to work 

 out an important revolution in the world of fashion. Richard was 

 particularly anxious that this day, at least, he should be smarter than 

 any other, as he had an affair of love on his mind. Among the 

 number of ladies who were desirous of possessing his heart, was one, 

 who, besides haviiig a handsome person, had a heavy purse ; and 

 although Richard had no more mercenary motives than the rest of 

 the world, yet he always adopted the prudent idea of his revered 

 mother, who, on parting with her darling boy had said, that whenever 

 he entered the marriage state, however gi*eat might be the charms of 

 the lady, yet if she had thousands in cash, she had so many more 

 thousand channs. Richard had often wished to unbosom his 

 thoughts to her, but as often hesitated, deterred by the reflection 

 that so many suitors had already proffered their bleeding hearts to 

 her, and been rejected — good man, at that time he little knew what 

 the lady thought about him ; their hearts had been for some time 

 like a box of lucifers— they only wanted a rub together, and they 

 were in a blaze directly. Richard being a good churchman, con- 

 sidered it indispensible, that once, at least, on Sunday he should 

 attend the church ; and, therefore, to neglect this day, so important 

 as it was to him, would have been monstrous. It was one of those 

 fine Sundays in September, when the weather is waiin, and every 

 one feels listless and lazy. The sun was pouring out his beams of 

 light and heat, dispelling that morning mist so peculiar to England, 

 which foretels a hot day ;— not a breath of wind was stirring — the 

 smoke from the chimnies ascended perpendicular, and the little 

 gossamer spider was spinning its web, floating itself along in its 

 aerial car, and festooning every projection. All nature seemed hushed 

 on the Sunday, except tlio carol of tlic melodious birds, and the himi 



