He had coats of every cut and colour.

Sometimes he was the racing man with a bright-button'd Newmarket brown cut-away, and white-cord trousers, with drab cloth-boots; anon, he would be the officer, and shine forth in a fancy forage cap, cocked jauntily over a profusion of well-waxed curls, a richly braided surtout, with military overalls strapped down over highly varnished boots, whose hypocritical heels would sport a pair of large rowelled long-necked, ringing, brass spurs.

Sometimes he was a Jack tar, with a little glazed hat, a once-round tie, a checked shirt, a blue jacket, roomy trousers, and broad-stringed pumps; and, before the admiring ladies had well digested him in that dress, he would be seen cantering away on a long-tailed white barb, in a pea-green duck-hunter, with cream-coloured leather and rose-tinted tops.

He was 'All things by turns, and nothing long.' Such was the gentleman elected to succeed the silent, matter-of-fact Mr.
Slocdolager in the important office of Master of the Laverick Wells Hunt; and whatever may be the merits of either--upon which we pass no opinion--it cannot be denied that they were essentially different.

Mr.Slocdolager was a man of few words, and not at all a ladies' man.