ath stood over the pale dead man, his father, and dared
the world to sneer at him. By a singular caprice of fancy, Evan had no
sooner grasped this image, than it was suggested that he might as well
inspect his purse, and see how much money he was master of.

Are you impatient with this young man? He has little character for the
moment. Most youths are like Pope's women; they have no character at all.
And indeed a character that does not wait for circumstances to shape it,
is of small worth in the race that must be run. To be set too early, is
to take the work out of the hands of the Sculptor who fashions men.
Happily a youth is always at school, and if he was shut up and without
mark two or three hours ago, he will have something to show you now: as I
have seen blooming seaflowers and other graduated organisms, when left
undisturbed to their own action. Where the Fates have designed that he
shall present his figure in a story, this is sure to happen.

To the postillion Evan was indebted for one of his first lessons.

About an hour after midnight pastoral stillness and the moon begat in the
postillion desire for a pipe. Daylight prohibits the dream of it to
mounted postillions. At night the question is more human, and allows
appeal. The moon smiles assentingly, and smokers know that she really
lends herself to the enjoyment of tobacco.

The postillion could remember gentlemen who did not object: who had even
given him cigars. Turning round to see if haply the present inmate of the
chariot might be smoking, he observed a head extended from the window.

'How far are we?' was inquired.

The postillion numbered the milestones passed.

'Do you see anything of the coach?'

'Can't say as I do, sir.'

He was commanded to stop. Evan jumped out.

'I don't think I'll take you any farther,' he said.

The postillion laughed to scorn the notion of his caring how far he went.
With a pipe in his mouth, he insinuatingly remarked, he could jog on all
night, and throw sleep to the dogs. Fresh horses at Hillford; fresh at
Fallow field: and the gentleman himself would reach Lymport fresh in the
morning.

'No, no; I won't take you any farther,' Evan repeated.

'But what do it matter, sir?' urged the postillion.

'I'd rather go on as I am. I--a--made no arrangement to take you the
whole way.'

'Oh!' cried the postillion, 'don't you go troublin' yourself about that,
sir. Master knows it 's touch-and-go about catchin' the coach.