“I wish the good old times would come again，” she said， “when we were not quite so rich. I do not mean， that I want to be poor； but there was a middle state” —so she was pleased to ramble on， — “in which I am sure we were a great deal happier. A purchase is but a purchase， now that you have money enough and to spare. Formerly it used to be a triumph. When we coveted a cheap luxury （and， oh， how much ado I had to get you to consent in those times！） —we were used to have a debate two or three days before， and to weigh the for and against， and think what we might spare it out of， and what saving we could hit upon that should be an equivalent. A thing was worth buying then， when we felt the money that we paid for it.
“Do you remember the brown suit， which you made to hang upon you， till all yopur friends cried shame upon you， it grew so threadbare—and all because of that folio Beaumont and Fletcher， which you dragged home late at night from Barker’s in Covent Garden？ Do you remember how we eyed it for weeks before we could make up our minds to the purchase， and had not come to a determination till it was near ten o’clock of the Saturday night， when you set off from Istington， fearing you should be too late，—and when the old bookseller with some grumbling opened hisshop， and by the twinkling taper （for he was setting bedwards） lighted out the relic from his dusty treasures， —and when you lugged it home， wishing it were twice as cumbersome， —and when you presented it to me， —and when we were exploring the perfectness of it （collating you called it）， —and while I was repairing some of the loose leaves with paste， which your impatience would not suffer to be left till daybreak， —was there no pleasure in being a poor man？ or can those neat black clothes which you wear now， and are so careful to keep brushed， since we have become rich and finical， give you half the honest vanity， with which you flaunted it about in that overworn suit—your old corbeau—for four or five weeks longer than you should have done， to pacify your conscience for the mighty sum of fifteen—or sixteen shillings was it？ —a great affair we thought it then—which you had lavished on the old folio. Now you can afford to buy any book that pleases you， but I do not see that you ever bring me home any nice old purchases now.
“When you came home with twenty apologies for laying out a less number of shillings upon that print after Lionardo， which we christened the ‘Lady Blanch’； when you looked at the purchase， and thought of the money， —and thought of the money， and looked again at the picture， —was there no pleasure in being a poor man？ Now， you have nothing to do but to walk into Colnaghi’s， and buy a wilderness of Lionardos. Yet do you？
“Then， do you remember our pleasant walks to Enfield， and Potter’s bar， and Waltham， when we had a holiday—holidays， and all other fun， are gone now we are rich—and the little hand-basket in which I used to deposit our day’s fare of savory cold lamb and salad， —and how you would pry about at noontide for some decent house， where we might go in and produce our store—only paying for the ale that you must call for— and speculate upon the looks of the landlady， and whether she was Iikely to allow us a table-cloth， —and wish for such another honest hostess， as Izaak Walton has described many a one on the pleasant banks of the Lea， when he went a-fishing—and sometimes they would prove obliging enough， and sometimes they would look grudgingly upon us， —but wehad cheerful looks still for one another， and would eat our plain food savorily， scarcely grudging Piscator his Trout Hall？ Now—when we go out a day’s pleasuring， which is seldom， moreover， we ride part of the way， and go into a fine inn， and order the best of dinners， never debating the expense， — which， after all， never has half the relish of those chance country snaps， when we were at the mercy of uncertain usage， and a precarious welcome. “You are too proud to see a play anywhere now but in the pit. Do you remember where it was we used to sit when we saw the Battle of Hexham， and the Surrender of Calais， and Bannister and Mrs. Bland in the Children in the Wood， —when we squeezed out our shillings a-piece to sit three or four times in a season in the one-shilling gallery—where you felt all the time that you ought not to have brought me—and more strongly I felt obligation to you for having brought me—and the pleasure was the better for a littl shame， —and when the curtain drew up， what cared we for our place in the house， or what mattered it where we were sitting， when our thoughts were with Rosalind in Arden， or with Viola at the Court of Illyria？ You used to say， —that the gallery was the best place of all for enjoying a play socially， that the relish of such exhibitions must be in proportion to the infrequency of going， —that the company we met there， not being in general readers of plays， were obliged to attend the more， and did attend， to what was going on， on the stage， —because a word lost would have been a chasm， which it was impossible for them to fill up. With such reflections we consoled our pride then， —and I appeal to you， whether， as a woman， I met generally with less attention and accommodation than I have done since in more expensive situations in the house？ The getting in indeed， and the crowding up those inconvenient staircases， were bad enough， —but there was still a law of civility to woman recognized to quite as great an extent as we ever found in the other passages，—and how a little difficulty overcome heightened the snug seat and the play， afterwards！ Now we can only pay our money and walk in. You cannot see， you say， in the galleries now. I am sure we saw， and heard too， well enough then，—but sight， and all， I think， are gone with our poverty.
