imself what he meant by it, he says his pictures
are an appendix which Messer Domeneddio has been pleased to make to the
universe, and if any man is in doubt what they mean, he had better
inquire of Holy Church. He has been asked to paint a picture after the
sketch, but he puts his fingers to his ears and shakes his head at that;
the fancy is past, he says--a strange animal, our Piero. But now all is
ready for your initiation into the mysteries of the razor."

"Mysteries they may well be called," continued the barber, with rising
spirits at the prospect of a long monologue, as he imprisoned the young
Greek in the shroud-like shaving-cloth; "mysteries of Minerva and the
Graces. I get the flower of men's thoughts, because I seize them in the
first moment after shaving. (Ah! you wince a little at the lather: it
tickles the outlying limits of the nose, I admit.) And that is what
makes the peculiar fitness of a barber's shop to become a resort of wit
and learning. For, look now at a druggist's shop: there is a dull
conclave at the sign of `The Moor,' that pretends to rival mine; but
what sort of inspiration, I beseech you, can be got from the scent of
nauseous vegetable decoctions?--to say nothing of the fact that you no
sooner pass the threshold than you see a doctor of physic, like a
gigantic spider disguised in fur and scarlet, waiting for his prey; or
even see him blocking up the doorway seated on a bony hack, inspecting
saliva. (Your chin a little elevated, if it please you: contemplate
that angel who is blowing the trumpet at you from the ceiling. I had it
painted expressly for the regulation of my clients' chins.) Besides,
your druggist, who herborises and decocts, is a man of prejudices: he
has poisoned people according to a system, and is obliged to stand up
for his system to justify the consequences. Now a barber can be
dispassionate; the only thing he necessarily stands by is the razor,
always providing he is not an author. That was the flaw in my great
predecessor Burchiello: he was a poet, and had consequently a prejudice
about his own poetry. I have escaped that; I saw very early that
authorship is a narrowing business, in conflict with the liberal art of
the razor, which demands an impartial affection for all men's chins.
Ecco, Messer! the outline of your chin and lip is as clear as a
maiden's; and now fix your mind on a knotty question--ask yourself
whether you are bound to spell Virgil with an _i_