[5] Morant’s Essex, vol. i. p. 57.

For the original of the engraving, and the substance of this description, our thanks are due to S.I.B.

* * * * *

OLD SONG.

The old minstrels saw far and deep, and clear into all heart-mysteries—­and, low-born, humble men as they were, their tragic or comic strains strike like electricity.—­Blackwood.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE
Public Journals.

* * * * *

THE SHAVING SHOP

  ’Tis not an half hour’s work—­
  A Cupid and a fiddle, and the thing’s done.

FLETCHER.

“Hold back your head, if you please, sir, that I may get this napkin properly fastened—­there now,” said Toby Tims, as, securing the pin, he dipped his razor into hot water, and began working up with restless brush the lather of his soapbox.

“I dare say you have got a newspaper there,” said I; “are you a politician, Mr. Tims?”

“Oh, just a little bit of one.  I get Bell’s Messenger at second hand from a neighbour, who has it from his cousin in the Borough, who, I believe, is the last reader of a club of fourteen, who take it among them; and, being last, as I observed, sir, he has the paper to himself into the bargain.—­Please exalt your chin, sir, and keep your head a little to one side—­there, sir,” added Toby, cammencing his operations with the brush, and hoarifying my barbal extremity, as the facetious Thomas Hood would probably express it.  “Now, sir—­a leetle more round, if you please—­there, sir, there.  It is a most entertaining paper, and beats all for news.  In fact, it is full of every thing, sir—­every, every thing—­accidents—­charity sermons—­markets—­boxing—­Bible societies—­horse racing—­child murders—­the theatres—­foreign wars—­Bow-street reports—­electioneering—­and Day and Martin’s blacking.”

“Are you a bit of a bruiser, Mr. Tims?”

“Oh, bless your heart, sir, only a leetle—­a very leetle.  A turn-up with the gloves, or so, your honour.  I’m but a light weight—­only a light weight—­seven stone and a half, sir; but a rare bit of stuff, though I say it myself, sir—­Begging your pardon.  I dare say I have put some of the soap into your mouth.  Now, sir, now—­please let me hold your nose, sir.”

“Scarcely civil, Mr. Toby,” said I, “scarcely civil—­Phroo! let me spit out the suds.”

“I will be done in a moment, sir—­in half a moment.  Well, sir, speaking of razors, they should be always properly tempered with hot water, a leetle dip more or less.  You see now how it glides over, smooth and smack as your hand.—­Keep still, sir; I might have given you a nick just now.  You don’t choose a leetle of the mustachy left?”

“No, no—­off with it all.  No matrimonial news stirring in this quarter just now, Mr. Tims?”