Annersley—up at the great house yonder."
"But—" began Barnabas.
"Now, Barnabas"—remonstrated his father, rasping his chin harder than ever—"wherefore argufy—if you do go for to argufy—"
"We come back to the silk purses and the sows' ears," added Natty Bell.
"And I believe," said Barnabas, frowning down at the empty hearth, "I'm sure, that gentility rests not so much on birth as upon hereditary instinct."
"Hey?" said his father, glancing at him from the corners of his eyes—"go easy, Barnabas, my lad—give it time—on what did 'ee say?"
"On instinct, father."
"Instinct!" repeated John Barty, puffing out a vast cloud of smoke— "instinct does all right for 'osses, Barnabas, dogs likewise; but what's nat'ral to 'osses an' dogs aren't nowise nat'ral to us! No, you can't come instinct over human beings,—not nohowsoever, Barnabas, my lad. And, as I told you afore, a gentleman is nat'rally born a gentleman an' his feyther afore him an' his grand-feyther afore him, back an' back—"
"To Adam?" inquired Barnabas; "now, if so, the question is—was Adam a gentleman?"
"Lord, Barnabas!" exclaimed John Barty, with a reproachful look— "why drag in Adam? You leave poor old Adam alone, my lad. Adam indeed! What's Adam got to do wi' it?"
"Everything, we being all his descendants,—at least the Bible says so.—Lords and Commons, Peers and Peasants—all are children of Adam; so come now, father, was Adam a gentleman, Yes or No?"
John Barty frowned up at the ceiling, frowned down at the floor, and finally spoke:
"What do you say to that, Natty Bell?"
"Why, I should say, John—hum!"
"Pray haven't you heard of a jolly young coal-heaver,
Who down at Hungerford used for to ply,
His daddles he used with such skill and dexterity
Winning each mill, sir, and blacking each eye."
"Ha!—I should say, John, that Adam being in the habit o' going about—well, as you might put it—in a free and easy, airy manner, fig leaves an' suchlike, John,—I should say as he didn't have no call to be a gentleman, seeing as there weren't any tailors."
"Tailors!" exclaimed John, staring. "Lord! and what have tailors got to do wi' it, Natty Bell?"
"A great deal more than you 'd think, John; everything, John, seeing 't was tailors as invented gentlemen as a matter o' trade, John. So, if Barnabas wants to have a try at being one—he must first of all go dressed in the fashion."
"That is very true," said Barnabas, nodding.
"Though," pursued Natty Bell, "if you were the best dressed, the handsomest, the strongest, the bravest, the cleverest, the most honorable man in the world—that wouldn't make you a gentleman. I tell you, Barnabas, if you went among 'em and tried to be one of 'em,—they'd find you out some day an' turn their gentlemanly backs on you."
"Ah," nodded John, "and serve you right, lad,—because if you should try to turn yourself into a gentleman, why, Lord, Barnabas!—you'd only be a sort of a amitoor arter all, lad."
"Then," said Barnabas, rising up from his chair and crossing with
resolute foot to the door, "then, just so soon as this law business
is settled and the money mine, an Amateur Gentleman I'll be."
CHAPTER III
HOW BARNABAS SET OUT FOR LONDON TOWN
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. 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!"
"I suppose," sighed Barnabas, "a man's clothes are very important—in the fashionable world?"
"Important! They are the most importantest part o' the fashionable world, lad. Now there's Mr. Brummell—him as they call the 'Beau'—well, he ain't exactly a Lord Nelson nor yet a Champion of England, he ain't never done nothing, good, bad, or indifferent—but he does know how to wear his clothes—consequently he's a very famous gentleman indeed—in the per-lite world, Barnabas." Here there fell a silence while Barnabas stared up at the inn and Natty Bell stared down at him. "To be sure, the old 'Hound' ain't much of a place, lad—not the kind of inn as a gentleman of quality would go out of his way to seek and search for, p'r'aps—but there be worse places in London, Barnabas, I was born there and I know. There, there! dear lad, never hang your head—youth must have its dreams I've heard; so go your ways, Barnabas. You're a master wi' your fists, thanks to John an' me—and you might have been Champion of England if you hadn't set your heart on being only a gentleman. Well, well, lad! don't forget as there are two old cocks o' the Game down here in Kent as will think o' you and talk o' you, Barnabas, and what you might have been if you hadn't happened to—Ah well, let be. But wherever you go and whatever you come to be—you're our lad still, and so, Barnabas, take this, wear it in memory of old Natty Bell—steady—catch!" And, with the word, he tossed down his great silver watch.
"Why, Natty Bell!" exclaimed Barnabas, very hoarse of voice.
