The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 2, August, 1862

                                'Soon had his crewOpened into the hills a spacious woundAnd digged out ribs of gold. Let none admireThat riches grow in hell: that soil may bestDeserve the precious bane.'

The term 'almighty dollar' is stereotyped in modern slang, and yet the idea could not but have existed under other words in the days of those flush individuals, Midas and Crœsus. The first of these moneyed gentlemen found gold too plenty for comfort, while the latter, by his unfortunate end, proved that even at that early time riches had learned to fly away. Gold entered very largely into the politics of antiquity, and by this means Crassus got a partnership in the grand triumvirate of which Mark Antony and Octavius formed the more active parties. Poor Crassus found, however, that to be a sleeping partner in a concern was quite a dangerous position.

The danger in which money involves its possessor, is shown with dramatic power by Scott, in his splendid medieval dream, Ivanhoe—in the torture-scene, where the Jew is racked to obtain his gold. In connection with this, it may be noted as a surprising fact that while poverty has always been dreaded, it has ever been exempt from one term of peculiar wretchedness. With all his privation, who ever heard a poor man designated as a miser?

Wealth is a matter of comparison. The original term applied by the New-England savages to the white was, knifeman; the possession of one implement making the latter rich in the view of the Indian. What a vast investment in wampum would such a weapon be? Carrying out the same comparative idea, it is reported as one of John Jacob Astor's sayings: 'That a man worth fifty thousand dollars is as well off as though he was rich.' So strong is this comparative aspect, that the money-hunter finds his mark continually receding, and when he has attained his hundred thousand, he is appalled by finding himself but a mere beginner compared with others. He is but at the foot of the mountain which others have climbed, and which towers above him in

'Many a fiery, many a frozen Alp.'

Hence, there is nothing more clearly proven in the psychology of man than that accumulation utterly fails to fulfil the idea attached to riches; that is, satiety or even satisfaction, and there is often a bitter poverty of soul gnawing the owner of millions. The organic thought crops out of great and small alike. It is said that the chief of Boston merchants of the olden time, William Gray, when asked what would satisfy him, replied, 'A little more;' while the Indian to whom the same inquiry was made, replied with aboriginal simplicity: 'All the whisky and all the tobacco in the world.' 'Nothing else?' added the inquirer. 'Yes,' replied the Indian in an anxious tone, 'a little more whisky.' The same insatiable craving is shown in poor Isaac K–, the half-witted boy, whose droll sayings of a half-century ago are still remembered about Boston. 'Father,' he one day exclaimed, 'I wish every body was dead but you and me.' 'Why so, my son?' 'Why, then, father, you and I would go out and buy all the world.'

The power of gold to inflict pain on its possessor suggests deep philosophical inquiry. Even at a superficial view, one can not but be struck by the fatal facility which it affords to vice on the one hand, while on the other, how many suffer untold distress from the miser's self-inflicted poverty? There are multitudes of ruined youth, who, had they been bound to labor instead of being reared to a life of affluent ease, would have become useful men. Indeed, by merely changing the costume of Hogarth's Rake's Progress, we may see it enacted by scores of young men in any of our leading cities. The writer once knew a worn-out debauchee of thirty, who, even at that early age, had got rid of an inheritance of a half-million.

The miseries of poverty are severe, and such men as Johnson and De Quincey have painted them in colors drawn from their own experience; but what scenes vastly more terrible might they not have sketched had they held that master-key which unlocks the abodes of pleasure and summons the dreadful crew of temptation?

One can not but pity the former of these, as he thinks of his wandering the live-long night through the streets of London, unable to buy a lodging, and eating each occasional meal, not knowing when he would get another. Yet, had as this might have been, how vastly more pitiable would his case have been, had he fulfilled the infernal career of some of his rich cotemporaries, such as Lord Lyttelton or Lord Euston, whose dying horrors Young has so thrillingly described in his Altamont. Horace, who had so thoroughly studied the philosophy of life, could refer to his lowly condition:

'Sæva paupertas et avitus aptoCum lare fundus:'

and then cite the race reared in poverty as those who saved the commonwealth, by defeating Hannibal. His deep-toned objurgations at the degeneracy of Rome are brought to mind by the increased dissipation and licentiousness of American youth.

Who can read lines like these without thinking of our concert-saloons and other facilities of vice? (the former happily suppressed.)

Damnasa quid non immmuit dies

The history of capitalists would be interesting, if only as showing this single feature, namely, that the secret of great success lies in one's placing himself in some channel where the stream must soon flow, and thus anticipating the future.

Johnson, in the midst of his cheerless poverty, had some golden dreams, was sensible of this fact, and illustrates it in one of those Oriental apologues which occur in the Rambler, where he shows the tiny rivulet gradually filling a lake. With the same idea permeating his mind, he exclaims, when Thrale's brewery was to be sold: 'Here are the means of wealth beyond the dreams of avarice.'

The history of rich men also proves that it is not so much the art of getting as that of keeping which insures success. New-York and other of our great cities contain thousands of poor men who, but a few years ago, were heavy operators, and whose future seemed brilliant with promise. Yet here they are, now struggling for mere bread.

Riches are winged creatures, which break cage with strange facility and are not to be whistled back again. The array of agents, brokers, book-keepers, and decayed gentlemen who but lately were numbered among merchants, bankers, and ship-owners, is quite a moving spectacle. Thus A. B–, for thirty years connected with trade, during most of which period he was a leading member of the great cloth house of–, has been worth two hundred thousand dollars, but is now a book-keeper for a concern in John street. I. S– has been forty years in trade, and was considered successful beyond all liability to future risk; and for many years ranked among the rich men of the street, but has since failed, and is now poor. B– and M–, princes in the dry-goods line, built two palatial stores in Broadway, have been immensely rich, but after battling honorably with adverse fortune, have failed. J. R–, a retired merchant, estimated at five hundred thousand dollars, holding at one time fifty thousand dollars in Delaware and Hudson Canal stock, subsequently got involved and lost all. Instances like these might be multiplied to volumes, but they are sufficient to illustrate the transitory nature of earthly possessions.

The great capitalists of New-York are chiefly identified with its real estate, and their wealth has generally arisen from its advance in value. Few great fortunes have lasted long, when left to 'the caprices of trade, and the sons of our merchant-princes generally turn out poor men. The great estates of the city are of a very limited number, and are mainly included in the names of Whitney, Goellet, Lorrillard, Rhinelander, Stuyvesant, Lenox, and Astor. The first of these was so long an habitué of Wall street, Front street, and Coenties Slip, that even now, when wandering along those thoroughfares, we almost momently expect to meet him. We can not but think that at the next turn we shall see that shrunken and diminutive form, that meagre, hungry-looking countenance, and that timid, nervous eye, which indicated the fear of loss or the dread approach of charity. His office was held for years in the second story of a warehouse in Front street, a spot in whose vicinity he had passed nearly three-score years. Thither he had come in his boyhood, a poor, friendless, New-Jersey lad, had found friends and employment, had at last got to be a grocer, and had gradually accumulated a large capital, by the closest economy. At this time the war of 1812 broke out, and cotton became very low, in consequence of the difficulty of shipping it to England. Mr. Whitney had at that time a vast amount of outstanding accounts in the Southern States, and his debtors were glad to pay him in this depreciated article. We have been informed that Jackson's cotton defences of New-Orleans were of his property. As neutral ships were permitted to sail between the belligerent ports, Mr. Whitney exported large quantities of cotton to England, and held the balance of his stock until the close of the war, when it advanced enormously. This advance, together with the proceeds of his exports, at once made him a millionaire, and the capital thus acquired never lost a chance of increase. Giving up the details of trade, Mr. Whitney bought large quantities of real estate, on which he erected warehouses and obtained a princely rental. In addition to this, he dealt more largely in commercial paper than any other man in the city and perhaps in the Union. His habits of industry continued, and were a theme of remark, as we observed him in his daily walk from his office to the great moneyed centre of America, where the price of paper and money rates regaled his ears. He was a good judge of paper, and needed no one to advise him. He touched nothing but what in commercial parlance is termed 'gilt-edged,' and of this he purchased almost daily for thirty years. These notes being made payable to the order of the drawers, needed no other indorsement, and hence might pass through an hundred hands without this fact becoming known. Mr. Whitney's bills receivable falling due in Wall street must have been at the rate of thirty thousand dollars per day, and his purchases of paper, of course, were at about the same rate. Much of this paper brought rates but little better than interest, but on others from one to two per cent per month was obtained. The secrets of this trade are deep and little understood, and few even of the best dealers knew that when their notes had been given for invoices of merchandise, they passed almost directly into the hands of a few bill-buyers, and that perhaps in Stephen Whitney's portfolio might be found almost the whole amount of good paper made in Front or South streets. Mr. Kimball's recent work, Undercurrents, throws much light on this traffic, and exhibits the result of deep study of our mercantile system.4 Mr. Whitney's management of his estate soon brought him up to an estimate of ten millions. I used not only to meet him daily at the mart, but also attended the same church, (Dr. Alexander's.) He was a regular attendant, and a close listener, and I used to marvel how he could bear the plain truths that fell upon my ears. Here in the pulpit, at least, was one who was no money-worshiper. How well we remember the exclamation from that earnest preacher: 'Wealth! in comparison with this thing, (religion,) let it not be mentioned!' Whitney was a great admirer of plain preaching, though, we believe, he never got into the communion of the Church. Both the preacher and his millionaire listener are now dead, and the church has been pulled down, and the site is now covered by a block of splendid stores. Mr. Whitney's charities were on a very limited scale. When the congregation above referred to were building a mission-house, he was applied to, to head the subscription, which he did with a trifling sum. The gift was refused, and a larger one was demanded, as in better keeping with his position. 'Sir,' was his reply, 'if you go on this way, there will not be a rich man left in the city of New-York.' It is also said that on a certain occasion, he was called on to aid a political movement with his subscription. 'Sir,' was his reply, 'I have no money to spare, but I'll come and sit up all night to fold ballots for you.'

The Lorrillard estate was chiefly acquired through an immense tobacco business which the patriarch of that house started nearly a century ago, and which led to the purchase of large landed property. The original identity of the name continues, and 'short cut' and 'ladies' twist' are still sold under the sign and brand of the Lorrillards. We presume that it is the oldest house in America.

The Stuyvesant farm was a vast but unprofitable tract of marshes in the eastern part of New-York, but now covered by serried blocks, and among the most densely populated portions of the city. Forty years ago, these marshes were favorite skating-fields in winter, and here a lad was at that time actually drowned by the breaking of the ice. Being out of town, the drier portions were converted into an American Tyburn, and here the murderer Johnson was hanged. Such were the Stuyvesant meadows, whose worthless wastes have been raised to immense value by the growth of the city.

Among those of our city capitalists who are more identified with general benevolence, the names of Stuart and Lenox are chief. Messrs. Stuart are two brothers, who are largely engaged in refining sugars, and who have in this business made large sums. The concern originated in a small shop, where, some fifty years ago, a Scotchwomen sold candy, with her two boys as clerks. Instead of that little candy-shop, there stands on the same spot an enormous refinery, whose operations employ hundreds of hands, and whose purchases are by cargoes. What would the worthy mother say to this transformation of her shop, as by some act of magic? But it is the magic of industry and enterprise. The Stuarts use their wealth with judicious liberality, and evidently mean that the world shall be better for their living in it. Their contributions are large, and their opportunities are great, for be it remembered, such men are under incessant solicitation. Indeed, there are few things more fatal to one's peace than a reputation for liberality, which lays one open to a siege of begging faces and an inundation of begging letters, whose demands would exhaust all resources. It is our opinion that, avoiding ostentation on the one hand and importunity on the other, the Stuarts contribute conscientiously to every worthy enterprise, in a proportion corresponding to their profits.5

The name of Lenox appears among some of the early Scotch emigrants, such as the Irvings, Masons, Douglases, Grahams, etc. Robert Lenox became a distinguished New-York merchant. His profits were wisely invested in land, and this became very valuable. His only son, James, inherited the larger portion of this estate, whose increasing value made him a millionaire, and in its use, he has exhibited a remarkable benevolence.

We say exhibited, for though acting with studied secresy and silence, his life has been so full of good works, that they can not be hid. In these benefactions, Mr. Lenox exercises close discrimination, and for this purpose has for years refused personal applications. This measure, indeed, was necessary, in order to escape a perpetual siege, which would soon have driven any man distracted. He has been in the habit of considering written applications, and of selecting such as seemed worthy of his patronage. Mr. Lenox annually disburses an enormous sum in a most useful as well as most quiet manner. Indeed, his mansion is one of the benevolent institutions of the day, and to all intents and purposes, its occupant is but an actuary driven by perpetual duties and working with assiduity to fulfil an important trust. He is a thoroughly practical man, posted on all the details of business, and, inheriting the peculiar abilities and energy of his father, puts them to the best of use.

We may say that the whole purpose of his life is benevolence to all classes. Mr. Lenox will pardon us if we allude to his munificent gifts toward educational enterprise, and especially to those which enrich the institutions of Princeton. He has long been a trustee of Nassau Hall, in whose behalf he has expended large sums, and whose gallery is enriched with his portrait. The Theological Seminary is also an object of his affectionate care. A few years ago, he observed that it needed increased accommodation for its growing library. Carrying out a scheme which had its inception in this circumstance, he quietly employed an architect to draft plans, while at the same time a suitable range grounds was obtained, the materials hauled from New-York, and the present noble edifice, known as the Lenox Library, erected. That library has been of vast assistance to the institution, and not a student visits its alcoves, who does not gratefully remember its founder with a sentiment like that uttered by Gray in reference to Eton:

'Where grateful science still adoresHer Henry's sacred shade.'

We understand that it has been recently decided to change this structure into an oratory, and to build another library, and we presume that in this also Mr. Lenox takes the initiative. We have referred to the fact that Mr. Lenox only considers written applications, but lest this statement should lead to their increase, we would add a word of explanation. Their number has already become so large as to create a great burden, and the daily task of reading these his begging letters is very annoying. Mr. Lenox is greatly overladen, and we advise any one who may think of his name as a dernier resort, to refrain from adding to the labors of an overworked philanthropist. Rest assured, dear reader, that Mr. Lenox will do all possible good with his money, and if it fails to reach you, it may flow to a more deserving object.

Mr. Lenox is deeply interested in the Free Church of Scotland, and was one of its most efficient helpers at the time of its exodus. A correspondence between him and De. Chalmers conveyed his benefactions through the noblest of instrumentalities, and a portrait of the great Scottish theologian graces the mansion of his American friend. It was painted by Henry Inman, during his sojourn abroad, and is the finest picture of Chalmers we have ever seen. Mr. Lenox is a man of fine taste, and finds recreation in gathering rare books, of which he has a valuable collection, and he possesses, in addition, a splendid gallery of pictures. Among them are two of Turner's landscapes, and we know of no others in America.6 We might say more of this estimable man, but will not too soon anticipate the voice of fame. Our statements are made mainly to correct some false impressions about one who, with all his reticence, is one of the public men of his day, and who fulfills the idea of the poet:

'Do good by stealth and blush to find it fame.'

Such a man was George Douglas, one of the same circle of wealthy citizens of Scotch descent, who, though in a pecuniary view, hardly in the same rank with Mr. Lenox, was still very rich. Mr. Douglas preserved a studied retirement, and passed much of his time on his noble farm, but was still active in philanthropy. His estate can not be far from a half-million, yet it was used humbly in the service of his race.

'Though nursed in greatness, and to riches born,Yet in earth's fairest flower he saw the thorn.Beneath the finest linen sackcloth felt,And bound his purple with an iron belt;Lived Heaven's trustee, and lent, and gave away,To God's own heirs who never could repay;And died a rare example to the great,Of lowly virtue in a high estate.'

But among all American capitalists the name of Astor looms up in unapproachable solitude, and stands as it has stood for nearly forty years.

We may get the better idea of the Astor estate by a comparative view. Thus, a man worth one hundred thousand dollars is a rich man; a man worth five hundred thousand dollars is a very rich man; a millionaire is still more the ideal of wealth. Mr. Astor, then, is, if rightly estimated, equal to twenty-five millionaires, or two hundred and fifty rich men of the class first mentioned. In the seven hundred thousand inhabitants of New-York, there are not more than two hundred men worth one hundred thousand dollars; not more than twenty-five of the second; not more than ten of the last. Approaching the assessment-roll, we may estimate the Astor estate at one thirtieth of the entire city. Thus he stands one seven hundred thousandth in the proportion of population, and one thirtieth in that of wealth; or in other words, he owns what would be a fair proportion for twenty-five thousand of his fellow-citizens. The commencement of this estate was, as is well known, by small beginnings.

Among the emigrants who landed in New-York about the close of the French Revolution, was a rude German, from Baden Baden, whose life in the New World was commenced as a laborer. He afterward became a peddler of fancy goods, and eventually a dealer in peltries. In 1791 there appeared at Number 40 Little Dock street, the unpretending name of John Jacob Astor, and here the foundation of his estate was laid. Astor soon took fair rank among business men. He was prompt and snug in his dealing, honest and straightforward, and beside this, carried great weight of character in his countenance. No man could be much with him without being struck with his depth of character, and the solidity of his views. At that time the fur-trade was brisk along the Mohawk, and the peltries, after passing through the hands of frontier dealers, generally found their way into Astor's warehouse, in Liberty street. Here they were sorted with great care by his own hands, and prepared for foreign markets. An octogenarian merchant informed me that, calling once at Mr. Astor's store, he found him in an upper loft clad in a long, coarse wrapper, and engaged among his furs. 'I shall get for that,' said he, holding up the skin of a splendid silver fox, 'forty dollars, in St. Petersburg.' It probably cost him less than five dollars. Astor had no sooner gained a position as a thrifty trader, than he took a higher step by induction into Free-Masonry. We say a higher step, not with a view of glorifying this institution, but because at that time it was exceedingly popular and aristocratic, and gave tone to citizenship. Among the leading Free-Masons of New-York were Peter Irving and his brother William, Martin Hoffman, the founder of the great auction business, and father of the late L. M. Hoffman. Moving among these magnates, John Jacob Astor became Grand Treasurer. Mr. Astor had a brother of the same thrifty turn, though not so successful in acquiring wealth. He was a butcher by trade, and slaughtered himself into a pittance of one hundred thousand dollars, which, as he died early, he bequeathed to William B., his nephew. 'To him that hath shall be given.' Mr. Astor's oldest son is said to have been a very promising lad, but his brain became injured by a fall, and he soon fell into a state of derangement. A private asylum was arranged for his use years ago, and this, with its grounds, covers an entire block in the western part of the city.

Mr. Astor's profits rolled in upon him at a rate which no one could have dreamed of, and he kept their amount a secret until he had so penetrated the frontier by his agencies that he controlled the whole trade, when he occasionally acknowledged a degree of wealth which astonished those who heard. For instance, we may state this fact in illustration: He had occasion at a certain time to use a large amount of cash, and what was very rare with him, applied to his bank for a heavy discount. The unusual circumstance and the sum demanded startled the cashier, who in a plain, business way, put the question: 'Mr. Astor, how much do you consider yourself worth?' 'Not less than a million,' was the reply. A million! the cashier was overwhelmed. He supposed that he knew all his customers, and had rated Astor at hardly more than one tenth of that sum.

Mr. Astor commenced at an early day to buy real estate, and the habit grew upon him until it became a passion. He was for years a leading character at sheriff and other land sales, and it was the commonest thing at such places to hear the closing words of the auctioneer: 'Last call—going, going—gone—to John Jacob Astor.' At that time many large estates were broken up, and among others, that of Aaron Burr was put into the market, and speedily became the property of Mr. Astor. It embraced a small suburban principality, whose mansion, 'Richmond Hill,' was Burr's country-seat. The whole property is now in the heart of the city and is worth millions, where once it brought thousands. Mr. Astor boldly bought those wild lands, including swamps, rocky knolls, and barren commons, which lay at waste from Canal street onward to Bloomingdale, and while others affected to laugh at his judgment, the correctness of that judgment is now quite apparent. A case similar in character is that of the late eccentric Jonathan Hunt. This man, who had accumulated a vast fortune South, was quite noted, a few years ago, for his dashing land purchases in New-York, and his relatives actually served on him a warrant de lunatico inquirendo, with a view of preventing him from wasting his estate. Subsequently, however, it turned out that these incessant purchases which had made him a leading man at the Merchants' Exchange, and an object of distrust to his family, were splendid operations. Poor Hunt's bid was subsequently refused by the auctioneers, on the score of insanity, while the lots he bought on Madison avenue and elsewhere, were, in fact, as speculations, superior to the operations of the most sagacious speculators.