We have seen how bishops, in olden time, laid violent hands on their flocks, and imposed penalties on the laity, for too successfully cultivating their curls. But the sight of a bishop in danger of being shaved by his colleagues is a curiosity. We give the story as we find it in Southey’s “Omniana:” “Guillaume Duprat, bishop of Clermont, who assisted at the council of Trent, and built the college of the Jesuits at Paris, had the finest beard that ever was seen. It was too fine a beard for a bishop; and the canons of his cathedral, in full chapter assembled, came to the barbarous resolution of shaving him. Accordingly, when next he came to the choir, the dean, the _prevot_, and the _chantre_ approached with scissors and razors, soap, basin, and warm water. He took to his heels at the sight, and escaped to his castle of Beauregard, about two leagues from Clermont, where he fell sick, from vexation, and died.” Hastening onward, we come to the days of good Queen Bess--and foremost is the figure of the queen herself-- “The cynosure of neighbouring eyes.” This was an age ever memorable for the choicest wits, and, we need not scruple to add, BEARDS. These were of every variety of cut, size, and colour; and certain professions were distinguished by particular beards. The cathedral beard, long and square-trimmed, which fell upon the breast, was worn by divines of the English church; the broad spade-beards and steeletto beards by soldiers: the former in favour with the Earl of Essex, the latter with Lord Southampton. There were, likewise, hammer-shaped beards, like the Roman T, similar to the formidable beard of the present Emperor of France; the _pique devant_, forked, needle, and tile-shaped beard; and round, trimmed beards, “like a glover’s paring-knife.” Taylor, the Water-Poet, who had a curious cork-screw beard of his own, in his “Whip for Pride,” thus flagellates the whole race: