But, without going the length of wishing to destroy capital, there are many who think that accumulation is a positive evil, and that consumption is a positive benefit; and, therefore, that economy is an evil, and waste a benefit. The course of a prodigal man is by many still viewed with considerable admiration. He sits up all night in frantic riot--he consumes whatever can stimulate his satiated appetite--he is waited upon by a crowd of unproductive and equally riotous retainers--he breaks and destroys everything around him with an unsparing hand--he rides his horses to death in the most extravagant attempts to wrestle with time and space; and when he has spent all his substance in these excesses, and dies an outcast and a beggar, he is said to have been a hearty fellow, and to have "made good for trade." When, on the contrary, a man of fortune economizes his revenue--lives like a virtuous and reasonable being, whose first duty is the cultivation of his understanding--eats and drinks with regard to his health--keeps no more retainers than are sufficient for his proper comfort and decency--breaks and destroys nothing--has respect to the inferior animals, as well from motives of prudence as of mercy--and dies without a mortgage on his lands; _he_ is said to have been a stingy fellow who did not know how to "circulate his money." To "circulate money," to "make good for trade," in the once common meaning of the terms, is for _one_ to consume unprofitably what, if economized, would have stimulated production in a way that would have enabled _hundreds_, instead of one, to consume profitably. Let us offer two historical examples of these two opposite modes of making good for trade, and circulating money. The Duke of Buckingham, "having been possessed of about 50,000_l._ a year, died in 1687, in a remote inn in Yorkshire, reduced to the utmost misery."[12] After a life of the most wanton riot, which exhausted all his princely resources, he was left at the last hour, under circumstances which are well described in the following lines by Pope:-- "In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung, The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, On once a flock bed, but repair'd with straw, With tape-tied curtains never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red; Great Villiers lies.... No wit to flatter left of all his store, No fool to laugh at, which he valued more, There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends."