On this day, I remember, I noticed an especial carefulness of attire, at his age neither unnatural nor unbecoming.
His well-fitting coat and long-flapped vest, garnished with the snowiest of lawn frills and ruffles; his knee-breeches, black silk hose, and shoes adorned with the largest and brightest of steel buckles, made up a costume, which, quaint as it would now appear, still is, to my mind, the most suitable and graceful that a young man can wear.

I never see any young men now who come at all near the picture which still remains in my mind's eye of John Halifax as he looked that day.
Once, with the natural sensitiveness of youth, especially of youth that has struggled up through so many opposing circumstances as his had done, he noticed my glance.
"Anything amiss about me, Phineas?
You see I am not much used to holidays and holiday clothes." "I have nothing to say against either you or your clothes," replied I, smiling.
"That's all right; I beg to state, it is entirely in honour of you and of Enderley that I have slipped off my tan-yard husk, and put on the gentleman." "You couldn't do that, John.

You couldn't put on what you were born with." He laughed--but I think he was pleased.
We had now come into a hilly region.

John leaped out and gained the top of the steep road long before the post-chaise did.

I watched him standing, balancing in his hands the riding-whip which had replaced the everlasting rose-switch, or willow-wand, of his boyhood.