he was doing this with a most vindictive
expression of countenance, I saw Julia come
to her window in bridal costume, and look
anxiously down the street, as if expecting the
arrival of the carriage. Imagine my feelings!

And still the street remained quiet, the dog
lay basking in the sun, the horse seemed going
to sleep outside the public-house door, scarcely
anybody passed, and nobody came to be shaved.

After the barber had ground the china ornament
to powder, he again seated himself opposite
to me.

"And you would really go to be married
with that beard unshaved?"

"Well," said I, endeavouring to propitiate
him, "well, I don't know. I think not. I
think I won't be married at all, as the idea
seems disagreeable to you."

"Disagreeable to me? Quite the reverse,"
he replied, with a wave of his razor. "It will
afford me the greatest pleasure for you to be
married; and I'll go to church with you, and
while the ceremony is being performed, I will
assist the officiating clergyman by dancing a
hornpipe on the top of the steeple! That is,
—that is," he whispered in my ear, "if you survive
the shaving."

"But, my good sir," I faltered, "I can go
without being shaved. Better for me to be
married without being shaved, than to be shaved
without being married."

"Quite a mistake," cried the barber; "quite
a mistake, I assure you. Never was there a
greater fallacy. Married with that beard?
Perish the thought!"

Throwing a cloth over my shoulders, he
at once began lathering away with prodigious
rapidity—lathering not only my chin, but my
cheeks, my nose, my ears, my throat, my
nostrils, my teeth, my forehead, to the very
roots of my hair. My eyes alone he avoided,
working around them with as much care as if
he were an artist painting a delicate picture.

Under this infliction, I saw the carriage drive
up to Julia's door, and presently drive off again
in the direction of the church; whilst through
its window I saw a fleeting vision of two white
veils and a white waistcoat.

Two or three women came out of their houses
to look at the carriage, but otherwise the street
remained quiet, the dog still lay basking in the
sun, the horse kept on going to sleep outside
the .public-house door, scarcely anybody passed,
and nobody came to be shaved.

At that moment I saw a man walking on the
other side of the street. He looked at the
barber's pole; he paused; he passed his hand
over his chin; he was a dirty-faced man. I
could see, even from that distance, that he had
not been shaved for a week; surely, surely, he
would come, and I should be rescued. He
crossed to our side of the street, and stood
outside the window. He was coming! He paused
again. He put his hand into his pocket, took
out some pence, and looked at them. He shook
his head. He re-crossed the street, and went into
the public-house. I suppose he spent his money
in beer. Oh, that horrid vice of intemperance!
Still the barber lathered away, as though he
would never cease, using the brush now with
the right hand, now with the left.

Another man stopped in the street and looked
at the barber's pole; he too passed his hand
over his chin. He was a decent, respectable-looking
man; had on a cleanish shirt and an
average hat. My heart bounded with hope.
Surely such a respectable man would be particular
about his appearance. Surely such an
exemplary man would come to be shaved. He
too put his hand to his pocket, but, instead of
pence, he took out a watch. He looked at his
watch, and seemed startled. He shook his
head, and passed on.

And so the dog still lay basking in the sun,
and the horse kept going to sleep outside the
inn door, and few people passed by, and nobody
came to be shaved.

And still the barber kept lathering away at
me. I felt as if the lather must be an inch thick
upon my face, and of the consistency of clay. I became
sick and faint, and there was a buzzing
noise in my ears, as if I had been under water.

Another man! He did not pause; he did
not hesitate; he did not pass his hand over his
chin; he did not feel in his pocket. He walked
very fast; he turned sharply into the court;
he tried to open the door of the shop. The
barber ceased lathering; the shaving-brush was
stilled. I would have screamed for help, only
the barber jobbed the suds fiercely into my
mouth. While I was spluttering them out, the
man tried the door again; he rattled the latch.
I was about to risk all, when, with an oath,
the man moved away, and I heard his departing
footsteps die away along the street.

The barber did not resume the use of the
shaving-brush—both he and his soapsuds were
pretty nearly exhausted—but he took the razor
and passed it once or twice over the strop,
and then, pulling a handful of hairs from
my head, tried the edge of the blade upon
one of them. The hair was split, and the
barber appeared satisfied. He raised his left
hand and took hold of my nose; he held my
nose much more tightly than the exigencies of
the occasion required; he twisted my nose
about in every direction, he elongated and
compressed my nose as if it had been made of
gutta-percha. The pastime seemed to afford him grim
satisfaction. I forced myself to grin, as though
it were a capital joke. At length he ceased and
advanced the razor. It was a terrible moment.
The barber stared at me, and then again seated
himself in the chair, and said, in a more
conversational and easy tone than he had before used:

"Perhaps—perhaps you think I am mad?"

This, if any, was a time in which a little white
fibbing was venial, and I replied:

"On dear no, my dear sir, quite the contrary
—a little eccentric, perhaps," and I forced
a smile, "but nothing more."

"Oh, if you did," said he, lightly and airily,
"you would not be the only one. Many have
shared the delusion. Many persons, themselves
insane, have: formed that erroneous opinion.
But woe to him," and he brandished the razor—