of a butcher.  O Lares, Penates, and gentle household gods, teach me to sympathize with all that comes within my doors!  Give me an interest in the butcher’s book.  Let me look forward to the ensuing number of the grocer’s account with eagerness.  It seems ungrateful to my kitchen-chimney not to know the cost of sweeping it; and I trust that many a man who reads this, and muses on it, will feel, like the writer, ashamed of himself, and hang down his head humbly.

     * “Seaside Studies.”  By G. H. Lewes.

Now, if to this household game you could add a little money interest, the amusement would be increased far beyond the mere money value, as a game at cards for sixpence is better than a rubber for nothing.  If you can interest yourself about sixpence, all life is invested with a new excitement.  From sunrise to sleeping you can always be playing that game—­with butcher, baker, coal-merchant, cabman, omnibus man—­nay, diamond merchant and stockbroker.  You can bargain for a guinea over the price of a diamond necklace, or for a sixteenth per cent in a transaction at the Stock Exchange.  We all know men who have this faculty who are not ungenerous with their money.  They give it on great occasions.  They are more able to help than you and I who spend ours, and say to poor Prodigal who comes to us out at elbow, “My dear fellow, I should have been delighted:  but I have already anticipated my quarter, and am going to ask Screwby if he can do anything for me.”

In this delightful, wholesome, ever-novel twopenny game, there is a danger of excess, as there is in every other pastime or occupation of life.  If you grow too eager for your twopence, the acquisition or the loss of it may affect your peace of mind, and peace of mind is better than any amount of twopences.  My friend, the old-clothes’-man, whose agonies over the hat have led to this rambling disquisition, has, I very much fear, by a too eager pursuit of small profits, disturbed the equanimity of a mind that ought to be easy and happy.  “Had I stood out,” he thinks, “I might have had the hat for threepence,” and he doubts whether, having given fourpence for it, he will ever get back his money.  My good Shadrach, if you go through life passionately deploring the irrevocable, and allow yesterday’s transactions to embitter the cheerfulness of to-day and to-morrow—­as lief walk down to the Seine, souse in, hats, body, clothes-bag and all, and put an end to your sorrow and sordid cares.  Before and since Mr. Franklin wrote his pretty apologue of the Whistle have we not all made bargains of which we repented, and coveted and acquired objects for which we have paid too dearly!  Who has not purchased his hat in some market or other?  There is General M’Clellan’s cocked hat for example:  I dare say he was eager enough to wear it, and he has learned that it is by no means cheerful wear.  There were the military beavers of Messeigneurs of Orleans:* they wore them gallantly