Astor lived to the age of eighty-four.  During the last few years of his life his faculties were sensibly impaired; he was a child again.  It was, however, while his powers and his judgment were in full vigor that he determined to follow the example of Girard, and bequeath a portion of his estate for the purpose of “rendering a public benefit to the city of New York.”  He consulted Mr. Irving, Mr. Halleck, Dr. Cogswell, and his own son with regard to the object of this bequest.  All his friends concurred in recommending a public library; and, accordingly, in 1839, he added the well-known codicil to his will which consecrated four hundred thousand dollars to this purpose.  To Irving’s Astoria and to the Astor Library he will owe a lasting fame in the country of his adoption.

The last considerable sum he was ever known to give away was a contribution to aid the election to the Presidency of his old friend Henry Clay.  The old man was always fond of a compliment, and seldom averse to a joke.  It was the timely application of a jocular compliment that won from him this last effort of generosity.  When the committee were presented to him, he began to excuse himself, evidently intending to decline giving.

“I am not now interested in these things,” said he.

“Those gentlemen who are in business, and whose property depends upon the issue of the election, ought to give.  But I am now an old man.  I haven’t anything to do with commerce, and it makes no difference to me what the government does.  I don’t make money any more, and haven’t any concern in the matter.”

One of the committee replied: 

“Why, Mr. Astor, you are like Alexander, when he wept because there were no more worlds to conquer.  You have made all the money, and now there is no more money to make.”  The old eye twinkled at the blended compliment and jest.

“Ha, ha, ha! very good, that’s very good.  Well, well, I give you something.”

Whereupon he drew his check for fifteen hundred dollars.

When all else had died within him, when he was at last nourished like an infant at a woman’s breast, and when, being no longer able to ride in a carriage, he was daily tossed in blanket for exercise, he still retained a strong interest in the care and increase of his property.  His agent called daily upon him to render a report of moneys received.  One morning this gentleman chanced to enter his room while he was enjoying his blanket exercise.  The old man cried out from the middle of his blanket,—­

“Has Mrs. ——­ paid that rent yet?”

“No,” replied the agent.

“Well, but she must pay it,” said the poor old man.

“Mr. Astor,” rejoined the agent, “she can’t pay it now; she has had misfortunes, and we must give her time.”

“No, no,” said Astor; “I tell you she can pay it, and she will pay it.  You don’t go the right way to work with her.”