As London began to
fill up again, during the early part of October, he gave many and
magnificent entertainments, his name figured in all the great social
events, he bought a mansion in Park Lane which had been built for
Royalty, and the account of the treasures with which he filled it read
like a chapter from some modern Arabian Nights. In the city, he was
more hated and dreaded than ever. His transactions, huge and carefully
thought out, were for his own aggrandizement only, and left always in
their wake ruin and disaster for the less fortunate and weaker
speculators. He played for his own hand only, the camaraderie of
finance he ignored altogether. In one other respect, too, he occupied
a unique position amongst the financial magnates of the moment. All
appeals on behalf of charity he steadily ignored. He gave nothing
away. His name never figured amongst the hospital lists; suffering and
disaster, which drew their humble contributions from the struggling
poor and middle classes, left him unmoved and his check book unopened.
In an age when huge gifts on behalf of charity was the fashionable
road to the peerage, his attitude was all the more noticeable. He
would give a thousand pounds for a piece of Sevres china which took
his fancy; he would not give a thousand farthings to ease the
sufferings of his fellows. Yet there were few found to criticize him.
He was called original, a crank; there were even some who professed to
see merit in his attitude.
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