His coat appears as if it had once been new, but had been on its
travels, until at last it had got pawned to a Jew at Rag-alley. His
waistcoat was formerly buff, but now resembles yellow flannel, and the
buttons, though complete in number are of different sorts. The
trowsers are homespun, much worn, and his boots coarse enough to swap
with a fisherman for mackarel. His air and look betokens pride
rendered sour by poverty.
"But there is something worse than all this, something one never sees
without disgust or pain, because it is the sure precursor of a
diseased body, a shattered intellect, and voluntary degradation. There
is a bright red colour that extends over the whole face, and reaches
behind the ears. The whiskers are prematurely tipt with white, as if
the heated skin refused to nourish them any longer. The lips are
slightly swelled, and the inflamed skin indicates inward fever, while
the eyes are bloodshot, the under lids distended, and incline to
shrink from contact with the heated orbs they were destined to
protect. He is a dram-drinker; and the poison that he imbibes with New
England rum is as fatal, and nearly as rapid in its destruction, as
strikline.
"Who is he; can you guess? do you give it up? He is that handsome
officer, the Laird of Epaigwit as the Scotch would say, the general as
we should call him, for we are liberal of titles, and the man that
lives at Cowcumber Falls, as they say here.
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