BARON MEYER DE ROTHSCHILD.
TT is very curious to hear of the death of Baron Meyer de Rothe- 1. child, fourth son of the original owner of the Red Shield, the sign over the little house in Frankfort, and then read of him as the most munificent and instructed patron of Art, a racing man who made his magnificent stables pay, and a country gentleman of the most thoroughly English kind. One thinks of a Rothschild in so different a way. Outside a limited circle, who either know the people or facts about the people, the English ideal of any Roths- child is that of a Jew with illimitable wealth, made originally by a trick upon the Stock Exchange—the fortune was really begun by an act of unusual and conspicuous honesty—and since increased by unflagging attention to the strategy of the great loanmongere, and the regular business of the first bullion merchants in the world. The belief in the wealth of the family has no bounds, and the belief in their honesty is as great, till, as we have often asserted, the real doubt about free banking is whether it would furnish the means of fraud to everyone, or whether the Rothschilds would be masters of the paper currency of the world. That would be a position indeed, and would justify the story, pro- bably utterly untrue, but told of them everywhere as matter of fact which nobody disputed. We cannot credit it, but it was told us by a strong personal friend of the late Baron James of Paris, and was to the effect that in 1866 the head of the Frank- fort branch, when called on for his contribution to the city fine, re- fused to pay it, was threatened somewhat harshly, and demanded a written apology, under penalty of a run on the Bank of Prussia. "Telegraph to your King, Sir," was all the explanation the poor General got, who, to his thunderstruck amazement, found that for the first time in his life he had gone beyond his master's wishes in asserting his authority. The story is, probably, mere gossip, like the older and similar one of a bombardment of the Bank of England, but both exactly illustrate the popular idea of a Rothe-
child as a financier of enormous wealth, whom nobody can cheat and nobody hurt, and who is incessantly occupied in making money.
Somebody in the House does, we suppose, actively work in the business of the clan, for it is scarcely a mere family any longer ; but the popular idea is nevertheless ludicrously untrue, the French Barons, the sons of Baron James, being, besides bankers, men of fashion and even pleasure, and two at least of the English branch being art collectors of almost matchless renown. The one who - has just died was probably the greater, his range of interest being wider, though he adhered from first to last to a sort of central taste for majolica, the only art pursuit we know of, which it requires a separate education thoroughly to appreciate. The notion that he was merely an accumulator is, we are told, a pure delusion. He shared that artist organisation which Mr. Disraeli says is peculiar to his race, though it appears before Europe mainly in the form of original musical power —Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Verdi, Rossini, C. M. Weber, and half the remain- ing great names among composers, having been of the Hebrew creed or the Hebrew race—and really spent his vast wealth on Art with consummate knowledge. He liked to make his know- ledge pay, no doubt, as in the matter of his stud, but it was only as a test of his accuracy in judgment and his skill in management, and as a racing man he ran with an honesty which, oddly enough, deeply impressed the mob. The Baron never won anything first - rate till he won everything in one year, but he never lacked followers, and followers who judged not by his name, though that impressed them because they thought he could buy any horse ever foaled, but by the management apparent in his stable, by the effort, visible enough to them, if not to us, to produce a breed which could be trusted to do the things wanted without fail. He succeeded at last, and possessed horses which would have given all horses, except the first English breeds, a hundred yards, and then have come in undistressed.
It was an ignoble life, say the philanthropists. We are not quite so sure of that. It was not, indeed, the noblest life that man could lead, for that, as we maintain, can be asserted only of those who are veritably martyrs, who can for the sake of their fructifying ideas, whether of religion, which is highest,—or of philanthropy, which when real is noblest,—or of scientific truth, which does most for man's cold intelligence, forget all that makes life joyous, or even pleasant ; but the martyrs seldom come of the rich, and taking life as it is, and the rich as they are, we have
much doubt whether this was an ignoble way of spending a
first-class fortune. We have rather a respect for the late Duke of Northumberland, and his determination to grow a
mangosteen. The mangosteen is the king of fruits, pro- bably the one solitary edible which to all tastes and
under all circumstances, if perfect, gives to the palate an ecstasy of momentary enjoyment ; but it will, apparently, grow nowhere except in Singapore and the Indian Archipelago.
The Duke spent half-a-million on life-boats, and churches, and cottages, and the like,—he was Tancred's father, so you can learn all about his smallnesses—but he was determined to grow the mangosteen. We do not know that his resolve was of the slightest use, for nobody else could imitate it. We do not know that the mangosteen, if we could grow it, would be of any value, for the ascetic theory of life, though we disbelieve it, may yet, after all, be true,—luxury an evil, and enjoyment something to be refused. Nevertheless the Duke did, after infinite efforts and at a cost almost absurd, grow his mangosteens ; and though they did not make him or mankind any happier, we have a respect for his persistence. What are Dukes for—or rather, for that particular title in England overweights everybody, except five or six persons—what are millionaires for, except to try experiments which nobody else in the world has the means to try ? Baron Meyer seems to us to have tried his experiments very sensibly.
It is a good thing that such varieties of art as demand wealth for their perfecting—such, for example, as intaglio-sinking on the few imperishable stones—should be encouraged by the wealthy, should be developed to the highest extent they can be by men able to pay for the work, and competent to judge of the degree of perfection each artist has attained. It is a good thing that a rare ware should be
collected from all Europe, till a single house becomes a school, from which all artists in that ware may become abler workmen in their art. We do not in our ignorance care for majolica, which was the Baron's specialty; but highly skilled experts do, and their know- ledge must be true, and must slowly filter down. There are nobler objects for life, but it seems to us that if a moderate object is admitted, the cultivation of art is infinitely higher than the cultivation of upholstery—though that may be made artistic too—and that if there is an aid to art which requires wealth—as, for example, the collection of old enamels does—the man who supplies that aid does in his modest way do well. If English- men, as a body, understood anything, which they do not, except political freedom—a great thing, but not everything —they would know that refined splendour—splendour none the worse for a deep tinge of Asiatic taste—has a more refining influence than poverty,—that it was not the splen- dour of the great Italian nobles, who lived, as Baron Meyer de Rothschild is reported to have lived, but their ambition and their oppressiveness which so injured the surrounding populations. Of course, such splendour may be denounced as dangerous, as mark- ing too clearly the distinction between rich and poor ; but is everything to give way always to a fear of the passion of envy— n passion, by the way, which scarcely exists in England, where the people undoubtedly admire instead of hating the "sustained aplendour of a stately life," which in this case was accompanied by real, though somewhat separate, ability ? Swift horses do not strike us as of much use, but if swift horses are to be produced, it is surely best to try if they cannot be produced in perfection by a man who does not bet, does not waste, does not suffer if he loses, and will carry out his purpose with workman-like persistency. This is the more true if he can -make the stables pay, for it is only an effort resulting in profit which will be imitated by any large class of breeders. Nobody thought the worse of Mr. Coke for his outlay on root-crops, or of the Russells for their immense expenditure on dykes ; and the -effort to produce a perfect and thoroughly acclimatised strain of horses was, in its way, just as little to be despised. Neither 'would it, nor recondite art taste either, nor a habit of splendour be despised, if either could be brought a little clearer home to the people ; but that is the difficulty of the age, poorly met .by exhibitions of grand collections. If it were safe, or lather if it were supposed to be safe—for we do not be- lieve in the danger of letting a life of this kind become thoroughly visible to the people — it would, we believe, exercise, so far, of course, as the life was real, and not an imita- tive one, a beneficial rather than a demoralising effect ; but it is at this point that those who live for any exceptional, though in 'itself beneficial object, seem to shrink back into seclusion. We question if the fear is well founded, if evidence of purpose of any sound kind in its use would not in this country popularise great wealth, and impart morecolour to the general life, but we are conscious in so saying of struggling against a deep-rooted impres- sion. Nevertheless, we doubt whether Mr. Peabody's magnificent gifts made him more generally a favourite with the people than Sir Richard Wallace's unreserve in his relation to Bethnal Green. Does anybody honestly hate him because he had pictures worth a quarter of a million, or honestly lament over the "deadness" of a sum which might have fed the poor ? We suspect not, and though we should like to see our millionaires more conscious of the works they could do for the nation — for example, why does not somebody settle that little Twenty-fifth Clause question with a cheque?—we cannot agree that any art pursuit, if thoroughly pursued, can be otherwise than beneficial. That it may be a pursuit in which wealth tells even snore than brain, is very little to the purpose, for wealth is a faculty like any other, and one to some arts indispensable. It is mot in England, for example, that architecture can be improved, and more especially improved in experimental directions, without large supplies of cash. A building millionaire must come one day, and is as sure to be appreciated as the patron of art less visible in its perfection is at present not.
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