"Dear wife, in the parish church you sing against worldly riches, like the rest of the congregation, and yet you have them fixed on your heart as firmly as your brooch. Now, I don't go to a church, it's true, but I have a pulpit in my own breast, and I prize one single happy moment more than the whole of this pewter dirt. Tell me truly now, has your immortal heart been pained by the tragical fate of the soup-tureen, or was it only your pericardium? The doctors prescribe tin, in powder, for worms; and may not this miserable tin, which we have broken into little pieces and swallowed, have had a similar effect on the abominable worms of the heart? Collect yourself, and think of our cobbler here, does his soup taste any the worse to him out of his painted iron _saucière_ because his bit of roast meat is eaten out of it too? You sit behind that pincushion of yours, and can't see that society is mad, and drinks coffee, tea, and chocolate out of different cups, and has particular kinds of plates for fruit, for salad, and for herrings, and particular sorts of dishes for hares, fish, and poultry. And I say that it will get madder and madder as time goes on, and order as many kinds of fruit plates from the china shops as there are different fruits in the gardens--at least, I should do it myself; and if I were a crown prince, or a grand master, I should insist upon having lark dishes and lark knives, snipe dishes and snipe knives; neither would I carve the haunch of a stag of sixteen upon any plate I had once had a stag of eight upon. The world is a fine madhouse, and one gets up and preaches his false doctrine in it when another has done, just as they do in a Quaker meeting. So the Bedlamites think that only two follies are veritable follies, follies which are past, and follies which are yet to come--old follies and new; but I would show them that theirs partake of the nature of both." Lenette's only reply was an inexpressibly _gentle_ request: "Oh! please, Firmian, do _not_ sell the pewter." "Very well, then, I shan't!" (he answered, with a bitter satirical joy at having got the brilliant neck of the pigeon fairly into the noose which he had so long had ready baited for it). "The emperor Antoninus sent his real silver plate to the mint, so that I might surely send mine; but just as you like: I don't care twopence. Not an ounce of it shall be old; I shall merely pawn! I'm much obliged to you for the suggestion; and if I only hit the eagle's tail on St. Andrew's Day, or the imperial globe, I can redeem the whole of it in a minute--I mean with the money of the prize; at all events, the salad-bowl and the soup-tureen. I think you're quite right. Old Sabel's in the house, is she not? She can take the things and bring back the money."