Seattle would have bloomed and blossomed on the Pacific, fifty years
ago. But power at Astoria was subdivided among several little men, who
wore themselves out in a struggle for honors, and to see who would be
greatest in the kingdom of heaven. John Jacob Astor was too far away to
send a current of electricity through the vacuum of their minds, light
up the recesses with reason, and shock them into sanity. Like those
first settlers at Jamestown, the pioneers at Astoria saw only failure
ahead, and that which we fear we bring to pass. To settle a continent
with men is almost as difficult as Nature's attempt to form a soil on a
rocky surface. There came a grand grab at Astoria and it was each for
himself and the devil take the hindmost--it was a stampede.

System and order went by the board. The strongest stole the most, as
usual, but all got a little. And England's gain in citizens was our
loss.

Astor lost a million dollars by the venture. He smiled calmly and said:
"The plan was right, but my men were weak--that is all. The gateway to
China will be from the Northwest. My plans were correct. Time will
vindicate my reasoning."

When the block on Broadway, bounded by Vesey and Barclay Streets, was
cleared of its plain two-story houses preparatory to building the Astor
House, wise men shook their heads and said, "It's too far uptown." But
the free bus that met all boats solved the difficulty, and gave the cue
to hotel-men all over the world. The hotel that runs full is a goldmine.
Hungry men feed, and the beautiful part about the hotel business is that
the customers are hungry the next day--also thirsty. Astor was worth ten
millions, but he took a personal delight in sitting in the lobby of the
Astor House and watching the dollars roll into this palace that his
brain had planned. To have an idea--to watch it grow--to then work it
out, and see it made manifest in concrete substance, this was his joy.
The Astor House was a bigger hostelry in its day than the
Waldorf-Astoria is now.

Astor was tall, thin, and commanding in appearance. He had only one
hallucination, and that was that he spoke the English language. The
accent he possessed at thirty was with him in all its pristine
effulgence at eighty-five. "Nopody vould know I vas a Cherman--aind't
it?" he used to say. He spoke French, a dash of Spanish, and could
parley in Choctaw, Ottawa, Mohawk and Huron. But they who speak several
languages must not be expected to spe