Do you remember the brown suit, which you made to hang upon you, till
all your friends cried shame upon you, it grew so thread-bare--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 Islington, fearing you should be too
late--and when the old bookseller with some grumbling opened his shop,
and by the twinkling taper (for he was setting bed-wards) 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 over-worn 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.--C. LAMB. _Old China._