I wish Harry Prout would leave off writing poetry. He might do something good in prose, but he has a taste, which he mistakes for a talent, for verse. There are many books of the day which he might translate well, if he would but seize the passing moments as they fly.
Harry looked in this evening, and gladly remained to drink tea with me. There was a small iced plum-cake on the tea-table, a present from Mrs. Secker; and I was pleased to see the lad pay his respects to it pretty handsomely. We got quite cozy and confidential over our little meal. He looked about him with satisfaction, and said, “Everything is so trig and tidy here! I wish we were in your easy circumstances, Mrs. Cheerlove.”
I laughed, and said, “My circumstances are very narrow, however easy I may make them—or take them.”
“They may be comparatively easy, though, if not absolutely, I think, ma’am.”
“Yes, there are comparative and absolute values.”
“Compared, for instance, with those of a straitened family like ours.”
“Ah, Harry, there are so many of you! Your father has a larger income than mine, but there is not so much to spend per head. But soon, my dear boy, some of you will be able to increase it; and, meanwhile, comfort yourself with the reflection that the real or imagined necessary expenses of those who have large means, are greater than those of persons who have only small ones.”
“I can’t make the reflection, ma’am, because I don’t believe it.”
“It is so, though, I assure you. Take the case of a number of persons (I quote Archbishop Whately) of each amount of income, from a hundred a year to a hundred thousand, and you will find the preponderance of those who are in pecuniary difficulties constantly augmenting as you proceed upwards.”
“If the fact be so, ma’am, of course I cannot controvert it; but I cannot see how it should be so.”