do I think the opinion of any man
worthless, who has had the postillion's authority for speaking. But it
is, I am told, a finer test to embellish much gentleman-apparel, than to
walk with dignity totally unadorned. This simply tries the soundness of
our faculties: that tempts them in erratic directions. It is the
difference between active and passive excellence. As there is hardly any
situation, however, so interesting to reflect upon as that of a man
without a penny in his pocket, and a gizzard full of pride, we will leave
Mr. Evan Harrington to what fresh adventures may befall him, walking
toward the funeral plumes of the firs, under the soft midsummer flush,
westward, where his father lies.

CHAPTER VII

MOTHER AND SON

Rare as epic song is the man who is thorough in what he does. And happily
so; for in life he subjugates us, and he makes us bondsmen to his ashes.
It was in the order of things that the great Mel should be borne to his
final resting-place by a troop of creditors. You have seen (since the
occasion demands a pompous simile) clouds that all day cling about the
sun, and, in seeking to obscure him, are compelled to blaze in his livery
at fall of night they break from him illumined, hang mournfully above
him, and wear his natural glories long after he is gone. Thus, then,
these worthy fellows, faithful to him to the dust, fulfilled Mel's
triumphant passage amongst them, and closed his career.

To regale them when they returned, Mrs. Mel, whose mind was not intent on
greatness, was occupied in spreading meat and wine. Mrs. Fiske assisted
her, as well as she could, seeing that one hand was entirely engaged by
her handkerchief. She had already stumbled, and dropped a glass, which
had brought on her sharp condemnation from her aunt, who bade her sit
down, or go upstairs to have her cry out, and then return to be
serviceable.

'Oh! I can't help it!' sobbed Mrs. Fiske. 'That he should be carried
away, and none of his children to see him the last time! I can understand
Louisa--and Harriet, too, perhaps? But why could not Caroline? And that
they should be too fine ladies to let their brother come and bury his
father. Oh! it does seem----'

Mrs. Fiske fell into a chair, and surrendered to grief.

'Where is the cold tongue?' said Mrs. Mel to Sally, the maid, in a brief
under-voice.

'Please mum, Jacko----!'

'He must be whipped. You are a careless slut.'

'Please, I can't think of everybody and eve