with his head hanging down, like a man going out to fetch his own supper beer. But deck out the same article in gorgeous raiment and fine linen, and he will strut down the main thoroughfare, swinging his cane, and looking at the girls, as perky as a bantam cock.
Clothes alter our very nature. A man could not help being fierce and daring with a plume in his bonnet, a dagger in his belt, and a lot of puffy white things all down his sleeves. But, in an ulster, he wants to get behind a lamp-post and call police.
I am quite ready to admit that you can find sterling merit, honest worth, deep affection, and all such like virtues of the roast-beef and plum-pudding school, as much, and perhaps more, under broad-cloth and tweed as ever existed beneath silk and velvet; but the spirit of that knightly chivalry, that "rode a tilt for lady's love," and "fought for lady's smiles," needs the clatter of steel and the rustle of plumes to summon it from its grave between the dusty folds of tapestry and underneath the musty leaves of mouldering chronicles.
The world must be getting old, I think; it dresses so very soberly now. We have been through the infant period of humanity, when we used to run about with nothing on but a long, loose robe, and liked to have our feet bare. And then came the rough, barbaric age, the boyhood of our race. We didn't care what we wore then, but thought it nice to tattoo ourselves all over, and we never did our hair. And, after that, the
