Both old and young fops carried the follies of the wig mania to a most ridiculous extent. The author of the “London Spy” introduces us to a smart young fellow “with a wheelbarrow full of perriwig on;” and that impudent fellow, Tom Brown, in his “Letters from the Dead to the Living,” writing of a certain beau, styled Beau Whittaker, says, “His perriwig was large enough to have loaded a camel, and he had bestowed upon it at least a bushel of powder;” and speaking elsewhere of another fop, with a perriwig of the same dimensions, he observes, “If Nature had indulged our primitive parents with such an extraordinary production, they would have had little reason to have blushed at, or been ashamed of their nakedness.” To speak seriously, if the wig did not quite clothe the body like a tunic, it more than concealed the head. The malicious spy we have quoted above comes across another fopling in a fine wig, and moralizes after this manner: “His head is a fool’s egg hid in a nest of hair.” If we accompany him to Man’s Coffee House, we shall see, “a gaudy crowd of _Tom Essences_ walking backwards and forwards with their hats in their hands, not daring to convert them to their intended use, lest it should put the foretops of their wigs into some disorder; their whole exercise being to charge and discharge their nostrils, and keep their perriwigs in proper order.” The fortune of a life not unfrequently turned upon the imposing--we should have said the captivating appearance of a wig: unluckily in every lottery there are many blanks; and Addison tells of one inveterate fortune-hunter, who “had combed and powdered at the ladies for thirty years.” There were some inconveniences attending the use of wigs. There was no such thing as walking forth to enjoy fresh air and exercise except in the finest weather, if attired as became a gentleman; to be carried about by chairmen, and jolted in a sort of trunk or band-box was a most unenviable distinction. If a dark cloud hung over the Park or the Mall, away hurried the magnificent perriwigs--away flew the pretty women in their hoods and ribbons. Gay, in his “Trivia,” sounds the note of warning: “When suffocating mists obscure the morn, Let the worst wig, long used to storms be worn; This knows the powdered footman, and with care Beneath his flapping hat secures his hair. * * * in vain you scow’r Thy wig alas! uncurl’d, admits the show’r. So fierce Alecto’s snaky tresses fell, When Orpheus charm’d the vig’rous powers of hell Or thus hung Glaucus beard, with briny dew Clotted and straight, when first his am’rous view Surprised the bathing fair.” Swift, in the “City Shower,” laughs at the distressed wigs: “Here various kinds, by various fortunes led Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.”