 by forbearance, put it in the wrong; and then, by not refusing the
burden of an obligation, confer something better. The instrument is simpler than
we are taught to fancy. But it was doubtless owing to a strong emotion in his
soul, as well as to the stuff he was made of, that the youth behaved as he did.
We are now and then above our own actions; seldom on a level with them. Evan, I
dare say, was long in learning to draw any gratification from the fact that he
had achieved without money the unparalleled conquest of a man. Perhaps he never
knew what immediate influence on his fortune this episode effected.
    At Hillford they went their different ways. The postillion wished him good
speed, and Evan shook his hand. He did so rather abruptly, for the postillion
was fumbling at his pocket, and evidently rounding about a proposal in his mind.
    My gentleman has now the road to himself. Money is the clothing of a
gentleman: he may wear it well or ill. Some, you will mark, carry great
quantities of it gracefully: some, with a stinted supply, present a decent
appearance: very few, I imagine, will bear inspection, who are absolutely
stripped of it. All, save the shameless, are toiling to escape that trial. My
gentleman, treading the white highway across the solitary heaths, that swell far
and wide to the moon, is, by the postillion, who has seen him, pronounced no
sham. Nor 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
