"'What is this?' asked the captain.
"'A draft upon my son for ten thousand dollars,' was the reply.
"'But no one can read it.'
"'O yes, my son will know what it is. My hand trembles so that I can not write any better.'
"'But,' said the captain, 'you can at least write your name. I am acting for the owners of the ship, and I can not risk their property for a piece of paper that no one can read. Let one of the gentlemen draw up a draft in proper form; you sign it, and I will put you ashore.'
"The old gentleman would not consent to this mode of proceeding, and the affair was dropped."
During the last twenty years of his life Mr. Astor lived in the retirement of his family, leaving even the greater part of the management of his estate to the hands of others. He was exceedingly fond of literary men. Irving was his friend, and Halleck his business manager. He died at the age of eighty-four years and eight months, literally from old age. He was buried in St. Thomas's Church, on Broadway.
His immense estate was left to his children, the bulk of it being bequeathed to his eldest son. All of his relatives were made comfortable. The village of Waldorf, his native place, received a legacy of fifty thousand dollars for the benefit of its poor, and an amount in land and funds equal to four hundred thousand dollars was left to certain trustees to establish the Astor Library in the city of New York. Besides these, several charitable and benevolent associations received handsome donations from him.