inexpressibles, fastened at the knee with brass buckles; gaiters, which, reaching no higher than the calf of the leg, set up independent claims to eccentricity and exact consideration on their own account; creaking, square-toed shoes; and a hat, broad in front, pinched up at the sides, verging to an angle behind, and worn close over the forehead, with the lower part resting on the nose.  His manner is equally peculiar; it cannot be called vulgar, nor yet genteel—­for it is too passive for the one, and too pompous for the other; it forms, say, a sort of compromise between the two, with a slight infusion of pedantry that greatly adds to its effect.

On reaching this oddity’s abode, I at once proceeded to business; and was promised, in reply, the execution of my order on the customary terms of credit.  Thus far is strictly natural.  The clothes came home, and so, with admirable punctuality, did the bill; but the death of a valued friend having withdrawn me, soon afterwards, from London, six months elapsed; at the expiration of which time I was refreshed, as agreed on, by a pecuniary application from my tailor.  Perhaps I should here mention, to the better understanding of my tale, that I am a medical practitioner, of somewhat nervous temperament, derived partly from inheritance, and partly from an inveterate indulgence of the imagination.  My income, too—­which seldom or never encumbers a surgeon who has not yet done walking the hospitals—­is limited, and, at this present period, was so far contracted as to keep me in continual suspense.  In this predicament my tailor’s memorandum was any thing but satisfactory.  I wrote accordingly to entreat his forbearance for six months longer, and, as I received no reply, concluded that all was satisfactorily arranged.  Unluckily, however, as I was strolling, about a month afterwards, along the Strand, I chanced to stumble up against him.  The shock seemed equally unexpected on both sides; but my tailor (as being a dun) was the first to recover self-possession; and, with a long preliminary hem!—­a mute, but expressive compound of remonstrance, apology, and resolution—­opened his fire as follows:—­

“I believe, sir, your name is D——?”

“I believe it is, sir.”

“Well, then, Mr. D——­, touching that little account between us, I have to request, sir, that—­”

“Very good; nothing can be more reasonable; wait the appointed time, and you shall have all.”

This answer served, in some degree, to appease him; no, not exactly to appease him, because that would imply previous excitement, and he was invariably imperturbable in manner; it satisfied him, however, for the present, and he forthwith walked away, casting on me that equivocal sort of look with which Ajax turned from Ulysses, or Dido from AEneas, in the Shades.