It was upon a certain glorious morning, some three weeks later, that

Barnabas fared forth into the world; a morning full of the thousand

scents of herb and flower and ripening fruits; a morning glad with

the song of birds. And because it was still very early, the dew yet

lay heavy, it twinkled in the grass, it sparkled in the hedges, and

gemmed every leaf and twig with a flaming pendant. And amidst it all,

fresh like the morning and young like the sun, came Barnabas, who,

closing the door of the "Coursing Hound" behind him, leapt lightly

down the stone steps and, turning his back upon the ancient inn, set

off towards that hill, beyond which lay London and the Future.

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Yet--being gone but a very little way--he halted suddenly and came

striding back again. And standing thus before the inn he let his

eyes wander over its massive crossbeams, its leaning gables, its

rows of gleaming lattices, and so up to the great sign swinging

above the door--an ancient sign whereon a weather-beaten hound,

dim-legged and faded of tail, pursued a misty blur that, by common

report, was held to be a hare. But it was to a certain casement that

his gaze oftenest reverted, behind whose open lattice he knew his

father lay asleep, and his eyes, all at once, grew suffused with a

glittering brightness that was not of the morning, and he took a

step forward, half minded to clasp his father's hand once more ere

he set out to meet those marvels and wonders that lay waiting for

him over the hills--London-wards. Now, as he stood hesitating, he

heard a voice that called his name softly, and, glancing round and up,

espied Natty Bell, bare of neck and touzled of head, who leaned far

out from the casement of his bedchamber above.

"Ah, Barnabas, lad!" said he with a nod--"So you're going to leave us,

then?"

"Yes!" said Barnabas.

"And all dressed in your new clothes as fine as ever was!--stand

back a bit and let me have a look at you."

"How are they, Natty Bell?" inquired Barnabas with a note of anxiety

in his voice--"the Tenderden tailor assured me they were of the very

latest cut and fashion--what do you think, Natty Bell?"

"Hum!" said the ex-pugilist, staring down at Barnabas, chin in hand.

"Ha! they're very good clothes, Barnabas, yes indeed; just the very

thing--for the country."

"The country!--I had these made for London, Natty Bell."

"For London, Barnabas--hum!"

"What do you mean by 'hum,' Natty Bell?"

"Why--look ye now--'t is a good sensible coat, I'll not deny,

Barnabas; likewise the breeches is serviceable--but being only a

coat and breeches, why--they ain't per-lite enough. For in the world

of London, the per-lite world, Barnabas, clothes ain't garments to

keep a man warm--they're works of art; in the country a man puts 'em

on, and forgets all about 'em--in the per-lite world he has 'em put

on for him, and remembers 'em. In the country a man wears his clothes,

in the per-lite world his clothes wears him, ah! and they're often

the perlitest thing about him, too!"




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