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Rh Money. But George Peabody, for five-sixths of his life, was a hard-working, shrewd, conservative man of business. If he entertained the idea of giving away money for charitable objects, he at least perceived that the first thing to be done was to make the money. He had no children, and he wished to dispose of his fortune while he was still living, instead of leaving it to be done by will, with the usual result of having the will contested. So he enjoyed several pleasures: the pleasure of making a great fortune, with the social consideration that such success brings; the pleasure of devising and carrying out benevolent schemes for making working-people comfortable; the pleasure of hearing with his own ears the chorus of praise which testamentary benefactors are obliged to imagine. There was no taint of the professional philanthropist in his character. Few men have better understood how to get enjoyment out of life, or have acted upon their knowledge more successfully.

It must be irritating to the many friends of Mr. George W. Childs to hear him styled a philanthropist,—a man who makes a business of befriending humanity. There is not in Mr. Childs's composition & grain of this kind of charlatanism, or of any other. He is a quiet, cool-headed, thoughtful man, as wise a8 he is kindly-hearted. No one can look into his mind unless he wills it; but his nature is as transparent as a child's. He cannot be surprised or bullied out of his judgment; he can say no; he knows what he wants, and gets it in his own way. He has never made a business mistake; as for his business successes, there is no need to refer to them. Entirely by his own well-considered exertions, he has made himself wealthy; and he has used and is using his wealth for humane and intelligent ends. Some men put their surplus revenue into railroads, mines, manufactures, inventions; they receive dividends, but their money loses its individuality. Mr. Childs has impressed his own character upon his expenditure; he has invested in the happiness and comfort of his friends, and the returns to him are large and unfailing. His house is a sort of exchange for the meeting and communion of the best men and women of the age. His value as an international medium of mutual understanding and friendly feeling cannot be estimated. Friendly is a word peculiarly applicable to him; probably he is the friend of more good people than is any other living man, and, in one way or another, all his friends have cause to be grateful to him. He has no abstract theories about benefiting mankind, but few cross his path who do not live to congratulate themselves therefor. He would rather be of use to those he knows than to those somebody else knows. His common sense, his steadiness, his lack of sensationalism, are delightful. There is no mock-modesty about Mr. Childs; there is no mock-anything; he is sterling in all respects. But he is truly modest; he desires not to magnify himself, not to occupy the foreground, not to lead the conversation, not to be quoted or lionized. In the little book that has lately appeared—his “Recollections”—he can recollect very little about himself; but his friends are well remembered; his life is in them. He values his possessions—his houses, his grounds, his pictures, his manuscripts, and all his treasures—for the pleasure they can give his friends; it was for his friends that he collected them. "If asked," he says, "what, as the result of my experience, is the greatest pleasure in life, I should say, doing good to others. Not a strikingly original remark, perhaps; but seemingly the most difficult thing in the world is to be prosperous and generous at the same time. During the war I asked a very rich man to contribute some money to a certain relief fund. He shook his head. 'Childs,' he said, 'I can't give you anything. I