rning. Rainy _Days_ came in, dripping; and
sun-shiny _Days_ helped them to change their stockings.
_Wedding Day_ was there in his marriage finery, a little the
worse for wear. _Pay Day_ came late, as he always does; and
_Doomsday_ sent word--he might be expected.

"The Wedding" describes such a ceremony at which Elia had assisted,
and illustrates at once his sympathy with the young people and with
their parents--"is there not something untender, to say no more of it,
in the hurry which a beloved child is in to tear herself from the
paternal stock and commit herself to strange graftings." "The Child
Angel" is a beautiful poetic apologue in the form of a dream.

In "Old China," one of the most attractive of this varied series, Elia
is ready with reminiscences of the days when the purchase of the
books, pictures, or old china that they loved, meant a real sacrifice,
and the things purchased were therefore the more deeply prized.

Do you remember the brown suit, which you made to hang upon
you, till all your 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 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 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 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 shillin