My preparations were soon made; indeed, I had nothing to prepare save a few garments, which poor Becky blessed with a copious baptism of tears.  Then, one fine spring morning, when the buds on tree and hedge were bursting and the air was full of song, I set off on my long journey.  Captain Galsworthy accompanied me for a few miles on the road—­across English Bridge, past our old farmhouse (now held by a tenant of Sir Richard Cludde’s), through the beautiful vale of Severn, till at Cressage my way led me southward from the river.  Then he held me fast by the hand and looked me in the face.

“God bless you, Humphrey,” he said.  “Live clean, and—­and—­hit straight from the shoulder, my boy.”

And then he turned away—­not before I had seen a film of moisture gather in his eyes.

Now I was fairly started on my travels—­in a customary suit of plain gray homespun, with worsted hose, knit for me by Mistress Pennyquick, a pair of stout shoes, a round hat, and a stout staff in my hand.  I carried a few extra garments in a knapsack strapped to my back, and my few guineas were safely stowed in a wallet beneath my belt.

For a mile or two after leaving the captain I was in as black a fit of the dumps as ever beset a man.  I was but halfway through my eighteenth year, and had as yet never gone more than ten miles from my native town, nor slept a night away from home.  ’Tis true, no close ties of blood now bound me to Shrewsbury, but it held dear memories and kind friends, and I felt a natural heart sickness at thus cutting myself adrift from all and ranging forth alone into the great unknown world.  But healthy youth can not long lie under such an oppression; my low spirits lasted just so long as it took me to gain the crest of the hill towards Harley, and when I had turned and taken a parting look behind—­at the fields in their fresh green, and the spires of Shrewsbury beyond, and the Severn winding like a bright ribbon through the vale—­when I had fed my eyes on this charming scene, and breathed a prayer that in good time I should behold it again, I set my face once more to the south, and stepped briskly down the slope that hid my home from sight and stood as the dividing line between my past and my future.  And as I trudged on between the bright hedgerows, and heard the song of birds all about me, and felt the warm sunbeams on my face, I began to exult in my youth and strength, and the words of a song from one of my father’s play books came to my mind, and I hummed them aloud: 

A merry heart goes all the day,
A sad tires in a mile a.

About half a mile out of Harley, the road makes a long ascent to the market town of Much Wenlock.  I was pretty warm by the time I arrived there, and mighty hungry, so I repaired to the inn where my father was wont to eat on market days, and where I had several times been with him, and ordered a dinner of bread and cheese and ale.  The innkeeper, Mr. Appleby, was not a little surprised to see me, and was fairly staggered when I told him I was off to Bristowe to seek my fortune.  To the stay-at-home folk of the countryside Bristowe was as distant as Brazil, and he would have heard that I was starting for the ends of the earth with but little more amazement.