as much as you; but that's nothing at all to do with it. I know what
you'd have. You'd have all those young men let away early from the
counter to improve what you please to call their minds. Pretty
notions you pick up among a set of free-thinkers, and I don't know
what! When I was a girl, people never talked of minds--intellect, I
believe you call it. Nonsense! a new-fangled thing, just come up;
and the sooner it goes out, the better.

"Don't tell me! What are shops for, if they're not to be open late
and early too? And what are shopmen, if they're not always to attend
upon their customers? People pay for what they have, I suppose, and
aren't to be told when they shall come and lay their money out, and
when they sha'n't? Thank goodness! if one shop shuts, another keeps
open; and I always think it a duty I owe to myself to go to the shop
that's open last: it's the only way to punish the shopkeepers that
are idle, and give themselves airs about early hours.

"Besides, there's some things I like to buy best at candle-light.
Oh, don't talk to me about humanity! Humanity, indeed, for a pack of
tall, strapping young fellows--some of 'em big enough to be shown for
giants! And what have they to do? Why nothing, but to stand behind
a counter, and talk civility. Yes, I know your notions; you say that
everybody works too much: I know that. You'd have all the world do
nothing half its time but twiddle its thumbs, or walk in the parks,
or go to picture-galleries, and museums, and such nonsense. Very
fine, indeed; but, thank goodness! the world isn't come to that pass
yet.

"What do you say I am, Mr. Caudle?