had not courage to say her request was refused. She listened eagerly to every sound for a while; and then looking up in my face mournfully—
“He will not come!”
My tears answered her. She looked upward for a moment with an expression of extreme agony, but never spoke again.
The old Castle was let, then sold, and so passed for ever, like Rogers’ house of Genevra, into the hands of strangers.
HOW I GOT SHAVED IN EXETER.
Leaving my rural home, with my wife, to seek in change of air and scene the restoration to health which a long course of medical treatment in the country had failed to bestow, we came to Exeter, and took a lodging. The following morning we met with an old friend, who seeing me unmistakeably out of condition, said:
“My good fellow! what’s the matter with you?”
“Very shaky,” I replied. “Can’t see, have pins and needles in my legs, and numbness—I’ve no appetite.”
“Have you had a doctor?” rejoined my friend.
“Yes, several; they can make nothing of it.”
“My dear fellow, go to Dr. B, he’s a clever fellow! One of nine brothers! All clever fellows! Five of ’em doctors; four of ’em senior wranglers! He’ll tell you what’s the matter.”
I followed my friend’s advice, and went forthwith to Dr. B, who amongst other things most seriously warned me to avoid all that could unpleasantly affect the nerves; all sudden shocks, all excitement, all fatigue of mind or body, &c.
Now, I would just remark, that I had lately become less expert at shaving myself than I used to be. My hand had a habit of shaking; and occasionally a slip of the razor and a slight cut had made me start, so as to cause me a degree of trepidation at attacking my beard, which was as unpleasant as it was new to me.
My wife, taking advantage of the doctor’s orders to strengthen her own argument (often repeated, but never before heeded by me), comes to me the next morning, just as my shaving-water was brought to me, and began with—
“Now, Harry! What is the use of your persisting in shaving yourself, ill and nervous as you are? While there are hundreds of barbers in this great town; fifty I dare say in the next street! Now do, there’s a sensible man, dress quickly—never mind your beard—go and get shaved at the nearest barber’s, and depend on it you’ll find it quite a treat to be shaved;” adding, sotto voce, as I left the room, “since you will not grow a beard and moustache like everybody else.”
Fortified by these assurances, I resolved on adopting the plan so eloquently suggested by my wife; although the only occasion on which I had ever previously subjected myself to the manipulation of a barber had been many years since, in a small village in Bavaria, when the operator used his finger for a shaving-brush, and almost flayed me with what appeared very like a portion of an old iron hoop! Thus, it may be supposed, I retained no particularly agreeable recollections of the operation to which I was now about to subject myself.
Reassuring myself, however, by the reflection that in these modern times, in the metropolis of the west, I need entertain no apprehension of undergoing an excoriation similar to that I had suffered at the hands of the Bavarian barber, I sallied forth into the High Street, anticipating rather pleasantly than otherwise what was about to follow, and with as resolute a heart as Sir Galahad in quest of the Sangreal.
Every one who knows Exeter will remember that the High Street forms the upper portion of the main street of the city, the lower part of which is called Fore Street, and terminates in a steep declivity leading towards the railway station; the whole forming a street of considerable length; the best part of a mile, I should say.
At the upper end of this street I commenced my peregrination.
I must here state, that one symptom of the complaint from which I was suffering was a great dimness of sight, making it difficult for me to distinguish the articles in the shop windows, or read the names of the owners of the shops; this, it will be obvious, formed one great difficulty in my quest.
But I consoled myself by remembering that so peculiar and striking an object as a barber’s pole, which I believed was the universal symbol of the craft, could scarcely escape even my purblind observation.
On, therefore, I went; down the High Street, filled with beautiful shops, looking narrowly at each successive window and door for the object of my anxious search; and scanning, to the best of my ability, the opposite as well as the near side of the way.
I traversed thus the whole length of High Street, and Fore Street, till I found myself at the top of the declivity near the railway station, without success. This puzzled me, for I had fully accepted the assurance of my wife, that I should find “hundreds of barbers” in Exeter.
Of course, I could only attribute my failure to my unfortunate dimness of sight; so perceiving a policeman approaching, it occurred to me to request that he would direct me to some respectable practitioner in the easy shaving line. The circumstance of this policeman having a very flourishing beard and immense whiskers, not to say moustache, entirely escaped me until I had committed myself by accosting him with—
“Policeman, have you got such a thing as a shaving shop in your neighbourhood?”
The manner of his reply seemed to indicate that he thought I was casting a reflection upon his own personal hirsute appendages.
He answered me somewhat shortly, advising me to go to South Street if I wanted shaving. This locality was entirely unknown to me; the policeman’s information, therefore, gave me but little assistance. I then resolved upon crossing the way, and retracing my steps on the opposite side, assuring myself that my search would soon be rewarded; and thus I proceeded for a considerable