But not on this account can I, nor on this account will any Englishman, reconcile himself to the savor of dollars which pervades the atmosphere of New York.  The ars celare artem is wanting.  The making of money is the work of man; but he need not take his work to bed with him, and have it ever by his side at table, amid his family, in church, while he disports himself, as he declares his passion to the girl of his heart, in the moments of his softest bliss, and at the periods of his most solemn ceremonies.  That many do so elsewhere than in New York—­in London, for instance, in Paris, among the mountains of Switzerland, and the steppes of Russia—­I do not doubt.  But there is generally a vail thrown over the object of the worshiper’s idolatry.  In New York one’s ear is constantly filled with the fanatic’s voice as he prays, one’s eyes are always on the familiar altar.  The frankincense from the temple is ever in one’s nostrils.  I have never walked down Fifth Avenue alone without thinking of money.  I have never walked there with a companion without talking of it.  I fancy that every man there, in order to maintain the spirit of the place, should bear on his forehead a label stating how many dollars he is worth, and that every label should be expected to assert a falsehood.

I do not think that New York has been less generous in the use of its money than other cities, or that the men of New York generally are so.  Perhaps I might go farther and say that in no city has more been achieved for humanity by the munificence of its richest citizens than in New York.  Its hospitals, asylums, and institutions for the relief of all ailments to which flesh is heir, are very numerous, and beyond praise in the excellence of their arrangements.  And this has been achieved in a great degree by private liberality.  Men in America are not as a rule anxious to leave large fortunes to their children.  The millionaire when making his will very generally gives back a considerable portion of the wealth which he has made to the city in which he made it.  The rich citizen is always anxious that the poor citizen shall be relieved.  It is a point of honor with him to raise the character of his municipality, and to provide that the deaf and dumb, the blind, the mad, the idiots, the old, and the incurable shall have such alleviation in their misfortune as skill and kindness can afford.

Nor is the New Yorker a hugger-mugger with his money.  He does not hide up his dollars in old stockings and keep rolls of gold in hidden pots.  He does not even invest it where it will not grow but only produce small though sure fruit.  He builds houses, he speculates largely, he spreads himself in trade to the extent of his wings—­and not seldom somewhat farther.  He scatters his wealth broadcast over strange fields, trusting that it may grow with an increase of a hundredfold, but bold to bear the loss should the strange field prove itself barren.