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 Fallowfield: 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. I’m all right.” So infatuated was the fellow in the belief that he was dealing with a perfect gentleman—an easy pocket! Now you would not suppose that one who presumes he has sufficient, would find a difficulty in asking how much he has to pay. With an effort, indifferently masked, Evan blurted: “By the way, tell me—how much—what is the charge for the distance we’ve come?” There are gentlemen-screws: there are conscientious gentlemen. They calculate, and remonstrating or not, they pay. The postillion would rather have had to do with the gentleman royal, who is above base computation; but he knew the humanity in the class he served, and with his conception of Evan only partially dimmed, he remarked: “Oh-h-h! that won’t hurt you, sir. Jump along in,—settle that by-and-by.”