in our want of taste,--so careless of any of
the laws of beauty in the folds and lines and hues of our dress, so
opposed to grace in the arrangement of our persons, that it is not
permitted to the ordinary English gentleman to be anything else but
ugly. Chimney-pot hats, swallow-tailed coats, and pantaloons that fit
nothing, came creeping in upon us, one after the other, while the
Georges reigned--creeping in upon us with such pictures as we painted
under the reign of West, and such houses as we built under the reign
of Nash, till the English eye required to rest on that which was
constrained, dull, and graceless. For the last two score of years
it has come to this, that if a man go in handsome attire he is a
popinjay and a vain fool; and as it is better to be ugly than to be
accounted vain I would not counsel a young friend to leave the beaten
track on the strength of his own judgment. But not the less is the
beaten track to be condemned, and abandoned, and abolished, if such
be in any way possible. Beauty is good in all things; and I cannot
but think that those old Venetian senators, and Florentine men of
Council, owed somewhat of their country's pride and power to the
manner in which they clipped their beards and wore their flowing
garments.

But an Englishman may still make himself brave when he goes forth
into the hunting field. Custom there allows him colour, and garments
that fit his limbs. Strength is the outward characteristic of
manhood, and at the covert-side he may appear strong. Look at men as
they walk along Fleet-street, and ask yourself whether any outward
sign of manhood or strength can be seen there. And of gentle manhood
outward dignity should be the trade mark. I will not say that such
outward dignity is incompatible with a black hat and plaid trousers,
for the eye instructed by habit will search out dignity for itself
wherever it may truly exist, let it be hidden by what vile covering
it may. But any man who can look well at his club, will look better
as he clusters round the hounds; while many a one who is comely
there, is mean enough as he stands on the hearth-rug before his club
fire. In my mind men, like churches and books, and women too, should
be brave, not mean, in their outward garniture.

And Owen, as I have said, was brave as he walked into his
dining-room. The sorrow which weighed on his heart had not wrinkled
his brow, but had given him a set dignity of purpose. His tall
figure, whic