A pair of tawdry ruffles dangled at his wrists, while his throat was nearly bare.

He had ornamented his hat with a cluster of peacock's feathers, but they were limp and broken, and now trailed negligently down his back.

Girt to his side was the steel hilt of an old sword without blade or scabbard; and some particoloured ends of ribands and poor glass toys completed the ornamental portion of his attire.

The fluttered and confused disposition of all the motley scraps that formed his dress, bespoke, in a scarcely less degree than his eager and unsettled manner, the disorder of his mind, and by a grotesque contrast set off and heightened the more impressive wildness of his face.
'Barnaby,' said the locksmith, after a hasty but careful inspection, 'this man is not dead, but he has a wound in his side, and is in a fainting-fit.' 'I know him, I know him!' cried Barnaby, clapping his hands.
'Know him ?' repeated the locksmith.
'Hush!' said Barnaby, laying his fingers upon his lips.

'He went out to-day a wooing.