He was a mark for the satirists of the day. His huge and somewhat slovenly appearance; the lounging attitude he assumed as he leaned against his pillar in the Royal Exchange; his rough and rugged speech; his foreign accent and idiom,—made caricature mark him as its own; while even caricature lost all power over a subject which defied its utmost skill. His person was made an object of ridicule; but his form and features were from God: his mind and manners were fashioned by circumstances; his acts alone are public property; and by these we have a right to judge. No great benevolence lit up his path; no great charity is related of him. The press, ever ready to chronicle liberal deeds, was almost silent upon the point; and the fine feeling which marked the path of an Abraham Goldsmid, and which brightens the career of many of the same creed, is unrecorded by the power which alone could give it publicity. Dr. Herschel, indeed, said that Mr. Rothschild had placed some thousands in his hands for the benefit of his poorer brethren; but thousands spent in a career of thirty-five years, by one who counted his gains in millions, assume a narrow form. The Jewish code prescribed a tithe; but Jewish laws are often abrogated, when Jewish ceremonies are closely followed. At last the time arrived which proves a millionnaire to be a man. Mr. Rothschild’s affairs called him to Frankfort, and he was seized with his last illness. The profession there could do nothing for him, and, scarcely even as a last hope, Mr. Travers, the eminent surgeon, made a rapid journey to see if English science could avail the dying Crœsus. The effort was vain, and the inevitable fate was well and worthily met. There appears even a certain degree of dignity in his resignation to the last struggle, and something touchingly manful in the wording of the will which was to surrender to others the gold won by the sweat of his brain. Breathing an almost patriarchal simplicity, it recommends his sons to undertake no great transaction without the advice of their mother, of whom he speaks with tender and even touching affection. “It is my special wish that my sons shall not engage in any transaction of moment, without having previously asked her maternal advice.” The first intelligence of his death was received by the same method which had so often contributed to his success. Beneath the wings of a pigeon, shot in sport at Brighton, were discovered the words “_il est mort_.” The intelligence created an intense sensation, as the uninitiated were ignorant that his illness was dangerous, and calculations were plentiful as to the amount of his fortune. A greater tumult than had been produced since the violent death of his predecessor, marked the precincts of the Stock Exchange, as it was impossible to tell the tendency of his speculations, or what effect might be produced by his unexpected demise.[10]