The head waiter, smartly dressed, came bustling and rattling, with his bunch of keys at his girdle, and walked before me up stairs. When we came into the second story, he looked at me with a flitting glance of inquiry, and then led me up an _etage_ higher, where he shewed me a chamber of moderate dimensions; then politely asked "if I had any commands;" said that "dinner would be ready at two o'clock, in the great hall, No. 10." etc. etc. "Bring me a bottle of wine," said I. These were indeed the first words which the officious assiduity of these people had left me an opportunity to interpose. Scarcely had the waiter left me alone, when there was a knocking at the door, and a face looked in, which at once reminded me of the representations that are seen in allegorical pictures, of a comic mask. A pointed red nose--a pair of small glistening eyes--lips drawn upwards into an exquisite grin--a long chin--and, above all this, a high powdered toupée, which, as I afterwards perceived, declined backwards most unexpectedly into a _Titus_;--for his dress, a large ostentatious frill, a fiery-red waistcoat, under which protruded two massy watch-chains--pantaloons--a frock-coat, which in some places was too narrow, in others too wide; of course did not fit anywhere!--Such was the figure that now stepped into the room, retaining all the way the same angle of obeisance which he had assumed at his first entrance, and talking all the time. "I am the _frizeur_ of this house," said he; "and beg leave, with the greatest respect, and in the most immeasurable degree, to offer my services!" There was about this little shrivelled wretch an air and character so irresistibly comical, that I could hardly suppress laughter. His visit, however, was now very _apropos_; and accordingly I told him that my hair had been both neglected, in the course of a long journey, and spoiled by bad cutting. I therefore desired to know, whether he could bring my head into proper order. He looked at me accordingly with the significant eyes of an artist and _connoisseur_, laid his right hand with an elegant and _gracioso_ bend on his breast, and said-- "Bring into order, forsooth! Oh, heavens! Pietro Belcampo, thou whom malignant enviers and traducers have chosen to call Peter Fairfield, even as that divine military fifer and hornist, Giacomo Punto, was called Jack Stitch,--thou, like him, art in truth calumniated and misunderstood. But, indeed, hast thou not thyself placed thy light under a bushel, instead of letting it shine before the world? And yet, should not even the formation of this hand and fingers, the brightness of genius which beams from these eyes, and colours the nose in passing with a beautiful morning red; in short, should not thy _tout ensemble_ betray to the first glance of the connoisseur, that there dwells within thee that spirit which strives after the _ideal_? 'Bring into order!'--These are indeed cold words, sir!"