I don't believe much of what my Lord Byron the poet says; but when he wrote, "So for a good old gentlemanly vice, I think I shall put up with avarice," I think his lordship meant what he wrote, and if he practised what he preached, shall not quarrel with him.As an occupation in declining years, I declare I think saving is useful, amusing, and not unbecoming.It must be a perpetual amusement.It is a game that can be played by day, by night, at home and abroad, and at which you must win in the long run.I am tired and want a cab.The fare to my house, say, is two shillings.The cabman will naturally want half a crown.I pull out my book.I show him the distance is exactly three miles and fifteen hundred and ninety yards.I offer him my card--my winning card.As he retires with the two shillings, blaspheming inwardly, every curse is a compliment to my skill.I have played him and beat him; and a sixpence is my spoil and just reward.This is a game, by the way, which women play far more cleverly than we do.But what an interest it imparts to life! During the whole drive home I know I shall have my game at the journey's end; am sure of my hand, and shall beat my adversary.
Or I can play in another way.I won't have a cab at all, I will wait for the omnibus: I will be one of the damp fourteen in that steaming vehicle.I will wait about in the rain for an hour, and 'bus after 'bus shall pass, but I will not be beat.I WILL have a place, and get it at length, with my boots wet through, and an umbrella dripping between my legs.I have a rheumatism, a cold, a sore throat, a sulky evening,--a doctor's bill to-morrow perhaps?
Yes, but I have won my game, and am gainer of a shilling on this rubber.
If you play this game all through life it is wonderful what daily interest it has, and amusing occupation.For instance, my wife goes to sleep after dinner over her volume of sermons.As soon as the dear soul is sound asleep, I advance softly and puff out her candle.
Her pure dreams will be all the happier without that light; and, say she sleeps an hour, there is a penny gained.
As for clothes, parbleu! there is not much money to be saved in clothes, for the fact is, as a man advances in life--as he becomes an Ancient Briton (mark the pleasantry)--he goes without clothes.
When my tailor proposes something in the way of a change of raiment, I laugh in his face.My blue coat and brass buttons will last these ten years.It is seedy? What then? I don't want to charm anybody in particular.You say that my clothes are shabby? What do I care?
When I wished to look well in somebody's eyes, the matter may have been different.But now, when I receive my bill of 10L.(let us say) at the year's end, and contrast it with old tailors'
reckonings, I feel that I have played the game with master tailor, and beat him; and my old clothes are a token of the victory.
I do not like to give servants board-wages, though they are cheaper than household bills: but I know they save out of board-wages, and so beat me.This shows that it is not the money but the game which interests me.So about wine.I have it good and dear.I will trouble you to tell me where to get it good and cheap.You may as well give me the address of a shop where I can buy meat for fourpence a pound, or sovereigns for fifteen shillings apiece.At the game of auctions, docks, shy wine-merchants, depend on it there is no winning; and I would as soon think of buying jewellery at an auction in Fleet Street as of purchasing wine from one of your dreadful needy wine-agents such as infest every man's door.Grudge myself good wine? As soon grudge my horse corn.Merci! that would be a very losing game indeed, and your humble servant has no relish for such.
But in the very pursuit of saving there must be a hundred harmless delights and pleasures which we who are careless necessarily forego.
What do you know about the natural history of your household? Upon your honor and conscience, do you know the price of a pound of butter? Can you say what sugar costs, and how much your family consumes and ought to consume? How much lard do you use in your house? As I think on these subjects I own I hang down the head of shame.I suppose for a moment that you, who are reading this, are a middle-aged gentleman, and paterfamilias.Can you answer the above questions? You know, sir, you cannot.Now turn round, lay down the book, and suddenly ask Mrs.Jones and your daughters if THEY can answer? They cannot.They look at one another.They pretend they can answer.They can tell you the plot and principal characters of the last novel.Some of them know something about history, geology, and so forth.But of the natural history of home--Nichts, and for shame on you all! Honnis soyez! For shame on you? for shame on us!
In the early morning I hear a sort of call or jodel under my window:
and know 'tis the matutinal milkman leaving his can at my gate.Ohousehold gods! have I lived all these years and don't know the price or the quantity of the milk which is delivered in that can?
Why don't I know? As I live, if I live till to-morrow morning, as soon as I hear the call of Lactantius, I will dash out upon him.
How many cows? How much milk, on an average, all the year round?