red hayre.'

From the splendid pageant of history what figures come to you most
willingly? Does a great procession go by the window of your mind?
Knights bronzed by the sun of Palestine, kings in chains, emperors in
blood-drenched purple, poets clothed like grocers with the souls of
angels shining through their eyes, fussy Secretaries of State,
informers, spies, inquisitors, Court cards come to life, harlequins,
statesmen in great ruffs, wives of Bath in foot-mantles and white
wimples, sulky Puritans, laughing Cavaliers, Dutchmen drinking gin and
talking politics, men in wide-skirted coats and huge black
periwigs--all walking, riding, being carried in coaches, in
sedan-chairs, over the face of England. Every step of the procession
yields wonderful dreams of colour; in every group there is one who, by
the personality of his clothes, can claim the name of beau.

Near the tail of the throng there is a chattering, bowing, rustling
crowd, dimmed by a white mist of scented hair-powder. They are headed,
I think--for one cannot see too clearly--by the cook of the Comte de
Bellemare, a man by name Legros, the great hairdresser. Under his arm
is a book, the title of which reads, 'Art de la Coiffure des Dames
Francaises.' Behind him is a lady in an enormous hoop; her hair is
dressed _a la belle Poule_; she is arguing some minute point of the
disposition of patches with Monsieur Leonard, another artist in hair.
'What will be the next wear?' she asks. 'A heart near the
eye--_l'assassine_, eh? Or a star near the lips--_la friponne_? Must I
wear a _galante_ on my cheek, an _enjouee_ in my dimple, or _la
majestueuse_ on my forehead?' Before we can hear the reply another
voice is raised, a guttural German voice; it is John Schnorr, the
ironmaster of Erzgebinge. 'The feet stuck in it, I tell you,' he
says--'actually stuck! I got from my saddle and looked at the ground.
My horse had carried me on to what proved to be a mine of wealth.
Hair-powder! I sold it in Dresden, in Leipsic; and then, at Meissen,
what does Boettcher do but use my hair-powder to make white porcelain!'
And so the chatter goes on. Here is Charles Fox tapping the ground
with his red heels and proclaiming, in a voice thick with wine, on the
merits of blue hair-powder; here is Brummell, free from hair-powder,
free from the obnoxious necessity of going with his regiment to
Manchester.

The dressy person and the person who is well dressed--these two
showing everywhere.