No such place ever existed before, or will ever exist again. It was the personality of John Chamberlin, pervasive yet invisible, exhaling a silent, welcoming radiance. General Grant once said to me, “During my eight years in the White House, John Chamberlin once in a while—once in a great while—came over. He did not ask for anything. He just told me what to do, and I did it.” I mentioned this to President Arthur. “Well,” he laughingly said, “that has been my experience with John Chamberlin. It never crosses my mind to say him ‘nay.’ Often I have turned this over in my thought to reach the conclusion that being a man of sound judgment and worldly knowledge, he has fully considered the case—his case and my case—leaving me no reasonable objection to interpose.” John obtained an act of Congress authorizing him to build a hotel on the Government reservation at Fortress Monroe, and another of the Virginia Legislature confirming this for the State. Then he came to me. It was at the moment when I was flourishing as “a Wall Street magnate.” He said: “I want to sell this franchise to some man, or company, rich enough to carry it through. All I expect is a nest egg for Emily and the girls”—he had married the beautiful Emily Thorn, widow of George Jordan, the actor, and there were two daughters—“you are hand-and-glove with the millionaires. Won’t you manage it for me?” Like Grant and Arthur, I never thought of refusing. Upon the understanding that I was to receive no commission, I agreed, first ascertaining that it was really a most valuable franchise. I began with the Willards, in whose hotel I had grown up. They were rich and going out of business. Then I laid it before Hitchcock and Darling, of the Fifth Avenue Hotel in New York. They, rich like the Willards, were also retiring. Then a bright thought occurred to me. I went to the Prince Imperial of Standard Oil. “Mr. Flagler,” I said, “you have hotels at St. Augustine and you have hotels at Palm Beach. Here is a halfway point between New York and Florida,” and more of the same sort. “My dear friend,” he answered, “every man has the right to make a fool of himself once in his life. This I have already done. Never again for me. I have put up my last dollar south of the Potomac.” Then I went to the King of the transcontinental railways. “Mr. Huntington,” I said, “you own a road extending from St. Louis to Newport News, having a terminal in a cornfield just out of Hampton Roads. Here is a franchise which gives you a magnificent site at Hampton Roads itself. Why not?” He gazed upon me with a blank stare—such I fancy as he usually turned upon his suppliants—and slowly replied: “I would not spend another dollar in Virginia if the Lord commanded me. In the event that some supernatural power should take the Chesapeake & Ohio Railway by the nape of the neck and the seat of the breeches and pitch it out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean it would be doing me a favor.”