I have elsewhere noticed that for a “beau” to comb his peruke was a matter of serious business; but it was even more. To do so in presence of a “belle” was to behave to her as became the very pink of politeness. “A wit’s wig,” says Wycherly’s ‘Ranger,’ “has the privilege of being uncombed in the very playhouse, or in the presence⸺” “Ay,” interrupts Dapperwit, “but not in the presence of his mistress; ’tis a greater neglect of her than himself. If she has smugg’d herself up for me, let me plume and flounce my peruke a little for her; there’s ne’er a young fellow in town but will do as much for a mere stranger in the playhouse. Pray lend me your comb.” “Well,” says Ranger, “I would not have men of wit and courage make use of every fop’s mean arts to keep or gain a mistress.” _Dapperwit_. “But don’t you see every day, though a man have ne’er so much wit and courage, his mistress will revolt to those fops who wear and comb perukes well? She comes! she comes! pray, your comb!” and thereupon, snatching Ranger’s comb, he commences drawing it through the wavy honours of his wig, in order to do honour to, and be seen doing it by, his “dear Miss Lucy.” In such wise did Wycherly hold the mirror up to nature, as I find it in his Comedies, published by Richard Bentley, not of New Burlington-street, but by his good ancestor, who, in 1694, tabernacled “at the Post House, in Russell-street, in Covent Garden, near the _Piazza’s_,” as it is written; and who delighted the then novel-reading world with such delectable novels as ‘Zelinda,’ ‘Count Brion,’ ‘The Happy Slave,’ ‘The Disorders of Love,’ ‘The Pilgrim,’ in two parts, and ‘The Princess of Montferrat.’ And I can only express my admiration at the courage of our great-grandmothers, who learned what was unprofitable and not amusing at so vast an outlay of most patient labour. To one or two modern “beaux” of great celebrity I will now introduce you. Here is a jaunty, impudent, over-dressed gentleman approaching, who will admirably suit our purpose. Pray allow me:—“Gentle Reader, Beau Fielding.” “Beau Fielding, Gentle Reader.” BEAU FIELDING. “He pass’d his easy hours, instead of prayer, In madrigals and Philising the fair.”—GARTH’S _Dispensary_. Goldsmith once shed tears from his simple, unsophisticated eyes, as he passed through a village at night, and thought that the sleeping inhabitants were unconscious how great a man was journeying that way. I fancy that most people who pass the Reigate station are in a similarly ignorant state of unconsciousness, and are not at all aware that they are close upon the cradle of Orlando the Fair. I have heard the pleasant author of that pleasant story, ‘Crewe Rise,’ remark that the worthies of Suffolk count in greater numbers than the worthies of any other county. If worthiness be “greatness,” in the sense of Jonathan Wild, Suffolk may envy Surrey such a son as Robert Fielding.