unctuous; and he regarded theaters, ballrooms, and racecourses as the vestibule of that brimstone lake of whose geography he was as positive as of his great banking offices in the City.  A philanthropist up to the hilt, however, no one ever doubted his complete sincerity; his convictions were ingrained, his faith borne out by his life—­as witness his name upon so many admirable Societies, as treasurer, patron, or heading the donation list.  He bulked large in the world of doing good, a broad and stately stone in the rampart against evil.  And his heart was genuinely kind and soft for others—­who believed as he did.

Yet, in spite of this true sympathy with suffering and his desire to help, he was narrow as a telegraph wire and unbending as a church pillar; he was intensely selfish; intolerant as an officer of the Inquisition, his bourgeois soul constructed a revolting scheme of heaven that was reproduced in miniature in all he did and planned.  Faith was the sine qua non of salvation, and by “faith” he meant belief in his own particular view of things—­“which faith, except every one do keep whole and undefiled, without doubt he shall perish everlastingly.”  All the world but his own small, exclusive sect must be damned eternally—­a pity, but alas, inevitable.  He was right.

Yet he prayed without ceasing, and gave heavily to the poor—­the only thing he could not give being big ideas to his provincial and suburban deity.  Pettier than an insect, and more obstinate than a mule, he had also the superior, sleek humility of a “chosen one.”  He was churchwarden too.  He read the lesson in a “place of worship,” either chilly or overheated, where neither organ, vestments, nor lighted candles were permitted, but where the odor of hair-wash on the boys’ heads in the back rows pervaded the entire building.

This portrait of the banker, who accumulated riches both on earth and in heaven, may possibly be overdrawn, however, because Frances and I were “artistic temperaments” that viewed the type with a dislike and distrust amounting to contempt.  The majority considered Samuel Franklyn a worthy man and a good citizen.  The majority, doubtless, held the saner view.  A few years more, and he certainly would have been made a baronet.  He relieved much suffering in the world, as assuredly as he caused many souls the agonies of torturing fear by his emphasis upon damnation.

Had there been one point of beauty in him, we might have been more lenient; only we found it not, and, I admit, took little pains to search.  I shall never forget the look of dour forgiveness with which he heard our excuses for missing Morning Prayers that Sunday morning of our single visit to The Towers.  My sister learned that a change was made soon afterwards, prayers being “conducted” after breakfast instead of before.