There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only
helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their own
ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to
contemplate the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe
their principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit; but
I grieve to say, that too many were apt to array themselves, from
top to toe, in the patchwork manner I have mentioned. I shall not
omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and an
Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to the pastoral, but
whose rural wanderings had been confined to the classic haunts of
Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of the Regent's Park. He had
decked himself in wreaths and ribbons from all the old pastoral
poets, and, hanging his head on one side, went about with a
fantastical, lackadaisical air, "babbling about green field." But
the personage that most struck my attention was a pragmatical old
gentleman in clerical robes, with a remarkably large and square
but bald head. He entered the room wheezing and puffing, elbowed
his way through the throng with a look of sturdy self-confidence,
and, having laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon
his head, and swept majestically away in a formidable frizzled
wig.
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