Mr. Astor occupies an imposing mansion in Lafayette Place, and immediately adjoining is the magnificent library to which we have referred, and which should commemorate the name of the son as well as that of the father. At this house he spends that small portion of his time which is not occupied by his duties in Prince street, where he does a full day's work (Sundays excepted) every day in the week. Thus the daily routine of the richest man in America is a walk to and from home, of a half-mile or so, and close attention to business.
The care of Mr. Astor's estate is a vast burden. His tenements of all grades number several hundreds, ranging from the dwelling at three hundred dollars per annum to the magnificent warehouse or hotel at thirty thousand dollars. To relieve himself from the more vexatious features of his business, he has committed his real estate collections to an agent who does the work well, and who is, no doubt, largely paid. He, with his clerks, collects rents, and makes returns of a rent-roll, whose very recital would be wearisome. As a matter of course, such a man must employ a small army of painters, carpenters, and other mechanics, in order to keep up suitable repairs. As Mr. Astor pays no insurance, the work of rebuilding after fires is in itself a large item.
A large part of Mr. Astor's property consists of vacant lots, which are in continual demand, and which he generally prefers to hold rather than sell; hence he is much employed with architects and master-builders, and always has several blocks in course of erection. This is a very heavy burden, and were it not for the help derived from his family, would, we believe, crush him. However, his son, John Jacob, is quite a business man, and bears his share of the load. This young gentleman has shown his patriotism by serving in the army for the Union, in which he bears an important commission. In addition to this, Mr. Astor has the aid of a gentleman of business character and habits, once a member of one of the largest shipping houses in the city, who has become connected with the family by marriage. The labors of all these parties would not be more than adequate to the task of collecting interest on bonds, looking after dividends, etc., since that little fire-proof office in Prince street contains several millions of Government and State securities.
In order to give something like an estimate of the immense income rolling in upon this family, we must commence with the fact that two dollars per day is considered fair wages for working men; that the man who makes five dollars per day all the year round may be considered very fortunate; that ten dollars per day is attained by that few who are more favored and gifted, and whose proportion to the mass is about one to a thousand. Starting from this estimate, we may be better prepared to rate Mr. Astor's position by comparing any of the above sums with six thousand dollars, which is said to be his daily income. Bless me! one can not but exclaim; here Crœsus himself might die with envy. Yet we reply, after a moment's pause, let no one envy the man of gold. It is said that when John Jacob Astor was once congratulated by a certain person for his wealth, he replied by pointing to his pile of bonds, and maps of property, at the same time inquiring: 'Would you like to manage these matters for your board and clothes?' The man demurred to the idea. 'Sir,' continued the rich man, 'it is all that I get!' Hence, thinking on these things, we have never envied Mr. Astor, and would not bear the burden of his wealth for all its glory. It is not the possession but the use of money, which affords enjoyment, and this is a secret which the rich seldom learn. Alas! among the annals of moneyed men, how seldom do we meet a Stuart or a Lenox—men who have learned what Goldsmith calls 'the luxury of doing good.'
It is one of the peculiar misfortunes of the rich, to be subject to the attentions of parasites and flatterers, and hence they can not possess that same certainty of the value of friendship enjoyed by the poor. The latter of these classes know that when a kind act is done to them, it comes from a pure motive; the other seldom can be sure that it is not from selfish ends. To illustrate the idea which wealth suggests, as to the motive of friendly visitors, we may state that among Mr. Astor's class-mates in Columbia College was a young man who became a preacher. The students separated—the one to handle millions, and to touch the springs of the money-market, and become the colossus of wealth; the other to his flock, as a poor domestic missionary, whose history was indeed a 'shady side.' The latter struggled on through thick and thin, and never in all his privations thought of sending a begging-letter to his old class-mate. But being once upon a time in New-York, he yielded to the inclination to make him a visit. Mr. Astor received him courteously, and the two conversed on the scenes of their early days. As the pastor arose to depart, an idea struck the capitalist's heart, which we mention to his credit. 'Can I do any thing for you?' he inquired. He had, in fact, misconceived the object of the visit, and supposed that under the guise of a friendly call, lurked an inclination to beg, which fear of refusal had suppressed. The poor clergyman at once perceived the drift of the question. Nothing could have been farther from his mind, and blushing at the thought, he acknowledged the suggestion with an expression of gratitude, and retired.
Perhaps a view of the unrest of the human heart appears most terrible when contrasted with the almost fabulous heaps of surrounding wealth, and one is thus led to the conclusion arrived at by Goldsmith:
'Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
That bliss which only centres in the mind;
With secret course which no loud streams annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy;
Still to ourselves in every place consigned,
Our own felicity we make or find.'
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Undercurrents is not a romance, and although its author calls it a 'Romance of business,' it is a life-like presentation of the deep things of trade, a series of dramatic scenes, holding the mirror up to a terrible reality. The characters are no fictions; they exist, they labor, they suffer daily, and will continue to do so, go long as the present system obtains, Mr. Kimball boldly lays bare the secret disease, like a demonstrator of anatomy. He is the only author who has succeeded in this department of literature, and here he shows himself a master.
[5] Since writing the above, we have heard of that masterpiece of munificence, the gift of fifty thousand dollars to the Theological Seminary of Princeton by the Messrs. Stuart.