hundred thousand of his patent tooth-brushes--the effect of the
sight may be imagined. You don't suppose that he is a creature who
has those odious, simpering wax figures in his window, that are
called by the vulgar dummies? He is above such a wretched artifice;
and it is my belief that he would as soon have his own head chopped
off, and placed as a trunkless decoration to his shop-window, as
allow a dummy to figure there. On one pane you read in elegant gold
letters "Eglantinia"--'tis his essence for the handkerchief; on the
other is written "Regenerative Unction"--'tis his invaluable pomatum
for the hair.

There is no doubt about it: Eglantine's knowledge of his profession
amounts to genius. He sells a cake of soap for seven shillings, for
which another man would not get a shilling, and his tooth-brushes go
off like wildfire at half-a-guinea apiece. If he has to administer
rouge or pearl-powder to ladies, he does it with a mystery and
fascination which there is no resisting, and the ladies believe
there are no cosmetics like his. He gives his wares unheard-of
names, and obtains for them sums equally prodigious. He CAN dress
hair--that is a fact--as few men in this age can; and has been known
to take twenty pounds in a single night from as many of the first
ladies of England when ringlets were in fashion. The introduction
of bands, he says, made a difference of two thousand pounds a year
in his income; and if there is one thing in the world he hates and
despises, it is a Madonna. "I'm not," says he, "a tradesman--I'm a
HARTIST" (Mr. Eglantine was born in London)--"I'm a hartist; and
show me a fine 'ead of air, and I'll dress it for nothink." He vows
that it was his way of dressing Mademoiselle Sontag's hair, that
caused the count her husband to fall in love with her; and he has a
lock of it in a brooch, and says it was the finest head he ever saw,