My Life in Many States and in Foreign Lands, Dictated in My Seventy-Fourth Year

When they told me of their failure to get into the nunnery, I said I was astonished that the representative of a big steamboat company and of a big express company could not get into any building they wished to enter. "I will show you what I can do," I said. I had already taken thought of the talismanic letter from Daniel Webster, countersigned by the President and Mr. Clay, the three biggest men, in popular estimation, in the United States at that time. As I shall afterward relate, this letter did me a good turn later in Scotland, opening doors to me that were closed to nearly all the world. It was now to serve me well; but this was the first time I had found occasion for its service since leaving Washington.

I went immediately to the nunnery, where I asked to see the Lady Superior. I told her I had visited the Convent of the Sacred Heart at New York and Georgetown, and that I wanted to see how they compared with this most famous convent in Canada. This did not impress her very much, it seemed to me, and I instantly had recourse to my letter. "As you do not know me," I said, "this letter may serve as a sort of introduction." Then I brought out with a flourish my Webster-Taylor-Clay letter. The doors at once flew open before me! After viewing the interior of the nunnery, I told the Lady Superior that I had a party of friends at the hotel who would like very much to see the building, and that if she would permit me, I should like to bring them around in the morning. She consented, and the next day I took the entire party to the nunnery and we were shown through by the Lady Superior.

My time was now running short, and I had to hasten back to New York, if I wanted to catch the Parliament. I went by way of Lake Champlain, Ticonderoga, and Lake George, and again saw something of Saratoga and the Hudson. At Ticonderoga I had the good fortune to meet Bishop Spencer of Jamaica, and his son-in-law Archdeacon Smith, and we traveled together to Saratoga. Here we met Commodore Trescot, of the Bermuda Yacht Club. I invited them all to dine with me at the George Hotel, at Lake Saratoga. I was struck by the bishop's dress, for it was the first time I had seen the black knickerbockers and the three-cornered chapeau. I do not mention the dinner—which was not a great affair—merely for the sake of referring to the knickerbockers or the chapeau, but because the bishop pressed upon me a special invitation to call upon him when I came to London.

CHAPTER VIII

A few days on the boat were enough to complete the wreck. I was as badly shaken up as Mont Pelée, and was ill for most of the voyage. When I reached Liverpool, I had lost thirty pounds, and had to be taken off the steamer, and was carried to the house of Mr. Thayer, the Liverpool partner of Colonel Train. It was two or three months before I completely recovered.

I had hardly reached England before I began to realize that the people there use a somewhat different version of the English language than we are accustomed to in America. My physician was Dr. Archer. He came to see me one morning just after I had had my breakfast, and took his stand immediately before the fire, with his back to it. "I am half starved," he said. I immediately rang the bell, and when the servant came turned to the physician and asked what he would have for breakfast. He said he had eaten breakfast and did not want anything more. "But," said I, "you said you were half starved; surely you must be hungry." He burst into a roar of laughter. "I meant that I was half starved with cold."

With this as a beginning, I began to pick up the vocabulary peculiar to the modern English. My next acquisition was "nasty." I was informed that a rather disagreeable day was a very "nasty" day, and that the weather was simply "beastly." After mastering these three words, which were entirely new to me, and adding such words as I could pick up from the daily speech of the men I met, I was soon able to get along in some fashion with the English of England.

My first British holiday was spent in Scotland, where I stayed for a week. When I was at Balmoral the Queen happened to be there. Leaving Balmoral, I went to Braemar, on the way to Aberdeen. A number of young students were there at the time, and I spent some moments talking with them. Suddenly, there was a tremendous uproar and excitement, and I saw a four-in-hand drive up. The students informed me that it was the Premier, Lord John Russell, who had just returned from an audience with the Queen at Balmoral. I saw there was a chance for some sport. Turning to the students, with a smile, I said: "I wonder how his lordship knew I had come to Braemar! I hope to have the pleasure of speaking with him."

The students laughed satirically. One of them said: "Look heah, Mr. Train, that sort of thing won't do heah, you know. We don't do things as you do in America." Another suggested that I should not be treated very civilly if I attempted to approach Lord John Russell.

For reply, I took out a card and wrote on it: "An American, in the Highlands of Scotland, is delighted to know that he is under the same roof with England's Premier, Lord John Russell, and, before he goes, would ask the pleasure of speaking with his lordship for a moment." I carefully folded the card in the letter that had been given to me by Mr. Webster, and afterward signed by the President of the United States and Henry Clay. I sent the two in to his lordship.

In a few minutes the door opened, and the secretary of Lord John Russell came in and asked for "Mr. Train." I said I was Mr. Train. "Lord John Russell," replied the secretary, "waits the pleasure of speaking with Mr. Train of Boston." I followed him out of the room, to the amazement of the young students, who didn't do things that way in England.

His lordship received me with that easy grace and courtesy which I have always observed in Englishmen of high rank. I told him I would not take up any of his time, and that I merely wanted to meet him. He made me talk about the United States, and insisted upon introducing me to his wife. She, also, received me graciously, saying she was "always glad to see Americans." She asked me many questions about this country and especially about Niagara Falls. A half hour passed by before I was aware of the time. I begged pardon for staying so long, and left.

In my book, Young America Abroad, I have referred to this incident and to the courteous reception I met at Braemar. When I had gone around the world, and returned to America, and was at Newport with Colonel Hiram Fuller, in '56, there came to me in the mail one morning a coroneted note. It was from London, and written by Lady Russell.

"It was so kind of you," it said, "to remember us at Braemar, and to send us your Young America Abroad, which his lordship and I have read with a great deal of pleasure. When you come to London, come to see us.—Fannie Russell."

Our Liverpool office was at No. 5 Water Street, George Holt's building. As soon as I was able to look after the company's interests, I went down to the office and took charge. Mr. Thayer returned to Boston, and later to New York. This left me in complete control. At twenty years of age, I was the manager of the great house of Train & Co., in Liverpool.

I at once began to reorganize things in Liverpool, and to develop our business. I put on two ships a month between Liverpool and Boston, and arranged the James McHenry line to Philadelphia, and sent transient ships to New York. We also had what was known as the "triangular line," handling cotton and naval stores.

Liverpool I found to be a great port, but very much belated. It was too conservative, and the old fogies there were quite content to keep up customs that their ancestors had followed without trying to improve upon them, or to introduce new and better ones. I set to work to improve everything in our business that was susceptible of improvement.

I was astonished, the very first day after I reached the office, to learn that nothing was done at night. The entire twelve hours from six in the afternoon to six the following morning were absolutely lost, and this in a business that requires every minute of time in the twenty-four hours. Ships can not be delayed, held at ports for day-light, or laid up while men sleep. The work of loading and unloading must proceed with all despatch, if there is to be any profit in handling the business, and ships must be sent on their voyages without loss of valuable time. I had supposed that the English shippers thoroughly understood these simple principles of the business in which they have led the world.

Our vessels were very expensive, and we could not afford to lose the twelve hours of the night. That much time meant a profit to us, and I determined to utilize it. What was my surprise, when I went to the proper authorities, to find that we should not be allowed to light up the Liverpool docks at night, or to have fires on them. It was feared that we should burn the structures and destroy the shipping and docks. These dignified gentlemen even laughed at me for suggesting such a foolhardy undertaking.

I said to myself, there is always one way to reach men, and I will find the way to reach these dignitaries. It occurred to me that I could reach them most surely through a plea for the prosperity of the port. I went at once to the representatives of all the American lines having offices in Liverpool, to organize them into a combined attack on the Liverpool port authorities. I saw Captain Delano of the Albert Gallatin, Captain French of the Henry Clay, Captain West of the Cope Philadelphia line, Captain Cropper of Charles H. Marshall's Black Ball line, Zerega of the Blue Packet line, and others, and we decided upon asking the dock board to give us a hearing. This the board very readily consented to do.

Prior to this meeting, I went to all the American representatives and outlined my plan of campaign. This was to say very plainly to the dock board that unless we could have fires and lights on the docks we would take the shipping to other ports. The captains and others were astonished, but they agreed to let me approach the board with this plain threat.

I then went to the board, with all the representatives of the American lines, and quietly told the members that we wanted fires and lights on the docks at night, that we needed this in order to carry on our business in our way, and that unless we could have them, we should at once go to other ports. Abandoning a mood of amused laughter, these gentlemen suddenly became very serious. Their hoary customs did not seem so sacred then, and they ended by throwing a complete somersault, and granting us full permission to light up the Liverpool docks at night.

Of course this made a tremendous difference to all of us. We could now load our ships at night, thus saving one half of the twenty-four hours, which we had been losing. I understand that the Morgan combination, fifty-two years after this, has again forced concessions from the Liverpool dock board by threatening to take the ships to Southampton.

Our principal freight from Liverpool at that time consisted of crockery from the Staffordshire potteries, Manchester dry-goods, and iron and steel, and what were known as "chow-chow," or miscellaneous articles. We often had as many as 150 consignees in a single cargo. Our principal business connections were the firms of John H. Green & Co. and Forward & Co., who shipped pottery; Bailey Brothers & Co., Jevons & Co., A. & S. Henry & Co., Crafts & Stell, Charles Humberston, and John Ireland. Our passenger agent was Daniel P. Mitchell, 18 Waterloo Road.

The first blunder that I made in Liverpool—and the only serious one, I believe—was in connection with shipping emigrants to the United States. One day a man came into the office and said he was from the estate of the Marquis of Lansdowne, and wanted to contract for the shipment of 300 passengers for New York. We soon came to terms, and I chartered the ship President. We charged the Marquis from £3 15s. to £4 a head. I learned afterward that these passengers were poor tenants of his estates. The Marquis of that time was the grandfather of the present Marquis of Lansdowne, Minister of War in the Salisbury cabinet.

At that time we had to pay $2 a head for all immigrants entering the country. I had tried to get this changed, through Mr. Webster, but had failed. We had also to give bond that the immigrants would not become a public charge. It proved a very expensive contract for us, as we had to bring back many of these paupers for the old Marquis to take care of.

When I left Boston, I had taken a partnership, one sixth interest, in the house of Train & Co. In Liverpool I had twenty-five clerks under me, and at one time had four ships in Victoria Docks. It may be inferred that I conducted the business with some degree of success, as my interest—one sixth—for the first year was $10,000. Next year, when in London, I was invited to a grand reception given by Abbott Lawrence, 138 Piccadilly, who was then United States minister at the court of St. James's. That day I dined with Lord Bishop Spencer of Jamaica, whom I had met in Saratoga, and took Lady Harvey in. This was my acceptance of the invitation he had extended to me in Saratoga. The bishop asked if I was going to the reception of the American minister that night, and, on my saying that I was, asked me to accept a place in his carriage. This I very gladly did, as I had, by this time learned a great deal about the value of state and ceremony in English life. The sequence will show how this worldly wisdom served me.

At the dinner, however, I had had a very narrow escape. It was the "closest call," as we say in the West, that my temperance Methodist principles ever had. I was asked, as a great mark of distinction, to taste the pet wine of the bishop. The bishop himself acted as chief tempter of my old New England principles. He handed me a glass, saying: "Mr. Train, this is the wine we call the 'cockroach flavor.' I want you to drink some of it with us," and he glanced around his table, at which were seated many titled Englishmen and women.

What was I to do? Should I, caught in so dire an emergency, drown my principles in the cup that cheers and inebriates? Was all my Methodism and New England temperance to go down in shipwreck? The exigency nerved me for the task, and I found a courage sufficient to carry me through. I had never tasted a drop of wine, and I was not going to begin now. I glanced about the room, and slowly raised the glass to my lips. I did not taste the wine, but the other guests thought that I did. "We all know," I said, "that the wine at your lordship's table is the best." This passed without challenge, and, in the ripple of applause, my omission to drink the wine was not observed.

Later in the evening I went with the bishop to the American minister's reception, and soon saw how well it was that I was in his lordship's carriage. Had I been in a hired cab, I should have fared badly. I should have had to wait in the long line of these vehicles, while flunkeys called out, in stentorian tones as if to advertise all London of the fact that you were in a hired concern, "Mr. Train's cab!" and other flunkeys, down the line, would take up the cry, "Mr. Train's cab!" until one would sink in a fever of chagrin. But as I came in the bishop's carriage, I heard respectful voices announce, "Lord Spencer and Mr. Train."

I observed several ladies bending over an elderly gentleman, and soon another lady asked me if I had seen the duke. As there were two or three dukes present, I asked which one. She looked very much surprised, as if there could be more than one duke in the world. "Why, the Duke of Wellington!" she exclaimed.

I now took occasion to get a good look at the venerable old man. It was the first time, and proved to be the only time, I ever saw him. He would not have impressed me, I think, had it not been for the light of history which seemed, after I once knew it was he, to illuminate his face and frame. It was the last year of his enjoyment of great renown. He died shortly afterward.

While in England, I availed myself of every opportunity to see the country, and study it from every possible point of view. I may add that this has been my invariable custom in all countries. I have gone through the world as an inquirer and an observer of men and things. As I had visited Scotland, I was desirous of seeing another of the islands, Wales, so I ran down into that curious country on a vacation, in 1850. I went to Bangor, on the Menai Straits, and hardly had got into the hotel when a tremendous commotion in the corridors told me that some guest of unusual importance had arrived. I asked who it was, and was informed that it was the Duke of Devonshire.

"That is exceedingly fortunate for me," I said. "There is no man that I would rather see at this moment than the Duke of Devonshire." At this, my companions—among whom were young Grinnell, of Grinnell, Bowman & Co., whose father sent the Resolute to find Sir John Franklin, young Russell, and young Jevons, an iron merchant—began laughing immoderately. I wrote on a card that an American, who happened to be at the George Hotel when he arrived, would like to see him, if it would not be too great an intrusion upon his time. I added that it had been one of the desires of my life to visit his famous estate at Chatsworth.

This note I sent to the duke by a messenger. Immediately came back a reply that the duke would be very glad to see me, and I was ushered into his presence. He was then an elderly man, his voice tremulous and uncertain. To make it still more difficult to converse with him, he was deaf, but used an ear-trumpet. I succeeded in telling him that his palace at Chatsworth was well known throughout America by reputation, and that I should like very much to see it, while I was in that part of Great Britain. He replied that I must certainly see it before leaving. He then called to his secretary to bring him a blue card, and wrote upon it a pass to enter the grounds and buildings. This was all very kind, and I thanked him for the courtesy.

He then completely stunned me by saying: "You must see the emperor!" I knew that the Czar of Russia had been his guest, but it was not likely that he was at Chatsworth at that time; so I endeavored to divine what the duke meant. My mind ran over horses, conservatories, and dogs.

I could not, for a moment or two, imagine what "the emperor" could be, and was about to commit myself irrevocably to a conservatory, a favorite horse, or hound; but before making any remark gave him an appreciative smile which seemed to please his grace. He called for the blue card again, and wrote on it: "Let the emperor play for Mr. Train." I learned afterward that it cost the duke $500 to have "the emperor" play, and so much the more appreciated his courtesy. I remarked that I had heard "the emperor" referred to as the highest fountain in all Europe.

As soon as I got back to Liverpool, I made up a little party to visit Chatsworth. When we reached the station I was astonished to see almost a regiment of uniformed servants waiting to meet us. I was even more astounded when the head of this body-guard of retainers approached and asked, in the most deferential manner: "When will your royal highness have luncheon?" I saw, of course, that they were taking me for some one else, and remarked that they were perhaps waiting for the arrival of the Prince of Hesse-Cassel, whom I had just seen at the hotel. The prince came up almost immediately afterward, and had the pleasure of seeing "the emperor" play, by special authority, on my card from the duke.

The palace is a magnificent residence, so far exceeding anything of the kind in England at that time, that George IV. is said to have felt offended when invited there, because his own residence was shabby in comparison. I made the acquaintance at Chatsworth of Sir Joseph Paxton, who the following year modeled the entire glass system of the first Crystal Palace at London. I was to see something of the Crystal Palace the next year.

Six years after this, when I published my book, Young America Abroad, I sent a marked copy to the Duke of Devonshire, and he wrote me a letter in which he said: "I am an old man now, sixty-two, but I have not forgotten the delightful day when I met you on the Menai Straits."

One day, in my office in Liverpool, I received a card from the Secretary, inviting me to the exhibition in London, and Mr. Riddle of Boston, who was then on his way to London, asked me to be present on the day when the Queen was to come, which was the day before the opening. I went to London, and that was the first and the only time I ever saw Queen Victoria. She was with Prince Albert, and they were accompanied, I remember, by a brilliant staff.

I recall an incident during my visit to London on this occasion which aptly illustrates the want of suggestiveness on the part of Englishmen. They are content to go along in old ruts, provided only they be old enough. Frank Fuller was the contractor for the Crystal Palace, and a problem arose, in the construction, as to what to do with a certain beautiful and aged elm that had been an object of reverence and stood in the way of the proposed building. It had finally been decided to cut it down, in order to get it out of the way.

"What!" said I, "cut it down—this exquisite tree?" Some one remarked that the authorities did not wish to cut it down, but it stood directly in the way of the great palace, and would have to be sacrificed. "The palace is here for time," I said, "and this tree may be here for eternity. Spare the tree." "But how?" they asked. They were bewildered—did not have a thought of what to do, except to hew down the venerable tree. "Build your palace around it," I said. This simple device had not occurred to them, but it saved the elm.

Mr. Fuller was so pleased by the suggestion, that he began asking me about hotels in America, and proposed that I undertake the building of an American hotel in London. I said that some time I should, perhaps, try the experiment, but that for the present my shipping business would keep me fully occupied.

I might as well mention here, although it is not in its chronological order, my later experience in trying to establish an American hotel in London. It was seven years after the exhibition when the question of an American hotel came up again. I had worked up the plan very thoroughly, and had some of the most prominent and influential men in England as directors of the proposed company. We had, also, obtained options on several acres of desirable land in the Strand as a site. In the board of directors was Lord Bury, private secretary of the Queen, son of the Earl of Albemarle; Mark Lemon, of Punch; and others. The only obstacle to our success was the passage of a bill through Parliament authorizing us to occupy the land. The hotel caused a great sensation in London, and there was much talk of it as a daring and not altogether agreeable invasion of England by Americans. On the other hand, there was much commendation, and George Augustus Sala, the leading editorial writer of the Telegraph, wrote a letter in which he mentioned my name as a guaranty that the hotel would be built and would succeed, as, he said, I had succeeded in everything.

Matters were well advanced, and it looked as if we should have the hotel. I wanted it constructed along distinctly American lines, and sent to Paran Stevens to get from him the plans of his three hotels, the Revere House in Boston, the Fifth Avenue Hotel in New York, and the Continental in Philadelphia. We had everything in readiness, when the news came that the bill had failed in the House of Lords by sixteen votes, although the House of Commons had passed it. I came as near as that to building the first American hotel in London. Fifty years later, the Hotel Cecil was built, a half century after I had suggested the idea and perfected the plan.

My experience in Saratoga had revealed to me the want of suggestiveness and resource in men in general. They will continue doing the same thing in the same old way generation after generation, without taking thought for improving methods in the interest of economy, of time, and of money. I have, from time to time, suggested a large number of little improvements, mechanical or other devices, for which I have never taken out patents or received a cent of profit in any way. I shall bring together here a few of these suggestions, made at different times and in different countries.

I used to go to the old cider-mill at Piper's, about a half mile from our farm. We went in an ox-cart, filled with apples. When we got to the cider-mill, all we had to do was to pull out a peg, and the apples would roll out into the hopper of the mill.

When I came to New York years afterward I was astonished to notice that there were a half-dozen men around every coal-cart, unloading the coal. I thought of the ox-cart, the peg, and the hopper, which I had used thirty years before. I suggested the use of a device for letting the coal run from the cart into the cellar, but could not get any one to listen to the proposition. Now, years after my suggestion, all of these carts in New York and other large cities of America have small scoops running from the cart to the coal-hole, and a single man unloads the cart by winding a windlass and lifting the front end of the wagon. In London they still keep up the old, clumsy, and expensive method of unloading with sacks. The English are in some things where we were a century ago.

Once in London I was astonished to see a man, after writing something with a lead-pencil, search through his pockets for a piece of india-rubber with which to erase an error. He had lost it, and could only smudge the paper by marking out what he had written. I said to him: "Why don't you attach the rubber to the pencil? Then you couldn't lose it." He jumped at my suggestion, took out a patent for the rubber attachment to pencils, and made money.

When Rowland Hill, the great English postal reformer, introduced penny-postage into England, he found it necessary to employ many girls to clip off the stamps from great sheets. I took a sheet of paper to him, and showed him how easy it would be by perforation to tear off the stamps as needed. He adopted my idea; and now a single machine does the whole work.

I noticed one day in England a lot of "flunkeys" rushing up to the carriages of titled ladies and busying themselves adjusting steps, which were separate from the carriage, and had been taken along with great inconvenience. I said to myself, why not have the steps attached? and I spoke about the idea to others. It was taken up, and carried out. Now every carriage has steps attached as a part of the structure.

In '50, I was with James McHenry in Liverpool, and in trying to pour some ink from a bottle into the ink-well, the bottle was upset, and the ink spilled all over the desk. This was because too much ink came from the mouth. "Give the bottle a nose, like a milk pitcher," I said; "then you can pour the ink into the well easily." Holden, of Liverpool, took up the idea, and patented it, and made a fortune out of it.

CHAPTER IX

I was quite ready to abandon the remainder of my Western trip, to get an opportunity to meet this girl. Taking my grip up hurriedly, I rushed over to the train she was on, supposing she was going to New York. I soon discovered that she was going the other way, and ran through in my mind the chances I could take, the risks I could run, and so took an opportunity by the throat. I knew that I was not compelled to leave Boston until July 25, and so I had ample time to get to my ship.

I entered the car where the girl was, and found a vacant seat opposite her. An elderly gentleman was with her, whom I took to be her father. I selected the seat opposite with the deliberate purpose of making the acquaintance of the pair at the first opportunity that occurred or that I could create.

My chance came sooner than I expected. The elderly gentleman tried to raise the sash of the window, and could not move it; it had, as usual, stuck fast. I sprang lightly and very quickly across the aisle and said, "Permit me to assist you," and adding my youthful strength to his, raised the window. Both he and the young lady thanked me. The old gentleman went further and asked me to take the seat directly opposite him and the young lady, on the same side of the car. I did so, and we entered into conversation immediately. I continued my speculations as to the relationship that existed between them. The gentleman seemed rather elderly for her husband, and she too young to be married at all. He did not look exactly as if he were her father.

Mrs. George Francis Train.

Before I could determine this question for myself, he came to my assistance, and told me the young lady was the daughter of Colonel George T. M. Davis, who was captain and aide-de-camp, under General Scott, in the Mexican War, and afterward chief clerk in the War Department at Washington. He introduced himself as Dr. Wallace, and said that he was taking Miss Davis to her home in the West. I also learned that they were going to Oswego, where they would take a boat. I immediately exclaimed that I, also, was going in that direction, and was delighted to know we should be fellow passengers. In such matters—for love is like war—quickness of decision is everything. I would have gone in any direction, if only I could remain her fellow passenger.

And so we arrived at Niagara Falls together. Dr. Wallace was kind enough to permit me to escort his charge about the Falls, and I was foolish enough to do several risky things, in a sort of half-conscious desire to appear brave—the last infirmity of the mind of a lover. I went under the Falls and clambered about in all sorts of dangerous places, in an intoxication of love. It was the same old story, only with the difference that our love was mutually discovered and confessed amid the roaring accompaniment of the great cataract. We were at the Falls forty-eight hours, and before we left we were betrothed.

Soon afterward I sailed for London, as already set forth. It was not till '51 that I came back to America, principally for the purpose of marrying Miss Davis and taking her back to England with me.

I arrived in Boston shortly before the celebration of Bunker Hill Day, which was always a great occasion in that city. General John S. Tyler was grand-marshal of the day, and he appointed me one of his aides. It was a time when young people were usually left out of all public business arrangements. Only the middle-aged or old took part in anything of the spectacular nature in this great parade. Probably I attracted a great deal of attention, therefore, because of my youth, being then only twenty-one.

In truth, I felt a little flattered by the appointment, and determined to make as good a show as possible. Having been born and reared on a farm, I knew how to ride, so I got the stableman to give me the finest stepper he could furnish. He found a beautiful animal, with a frolicsome spirit, and I felt that I should prove at least a good part of the exhibition. I was decked in a flowing red, white, and blue sash that swept below the saddle-girths, and my horse was a proud-looking and dainty-paced beast. With a little rehearsing of my part, I was fully prepared.

On the occasion of the parade, I am quite sure, I was the observed of many observers. The spectators were let into the mystery of the beautiful caracoling and dancing of my horse, whom I touched occasionally with the spur in a particular way, and who acquitted himself with great credit. The populace thought he was trying to unseat me, or to run away, and that it was only by excellent horsemanship that I was able to hold my seat and look like a centaur. I am ashamed to say, at this far distance in retrospect, that it was a proud moment for me, and that I took so much pleasure in so idle and empty a show. But youth must be served.

I had charge of the Colonial Governors, who were the guests of the city, and of the President, and I escorted them from Boston to Charlestown. There were Sir John A. MacDonald, of Canada; Governor Tilly, of New Brunswick; the Honorable Joseph Howe, ex-Governor of Nova Scotia; and Millard Fillmore, President of the United States. President Fillmore and Sir John MacDonald rode on the back seat of the first carriage, and Howe and Tilly on the front seat. Somehow, Boston seemed to regard the colonial officials as equal to, if not a little better than the President. I suppose this was because of the sentiment of Bunker Hill, and because the presence of British representatives was a matter of pride and gratification.

But the day was to end in gloom. As I was in the midst of the gaiety and at the height of my exultation, a messenger handed me a despatch. I tore it open, and found that it was from a friend in Louisville, Ky., and contained a warning. Miss Davis, to whom I was betrothed, lived in Louisville, and I was soon to marry her there. The telegram urged me to hasten my journey, as the report of the coming marriage had created a great deal of bad feeling. My friend advised me to lay aside everything and go to Louisville with all possible despatch.

I could not imagine, at first, what this meant. It seemed to convey only some presage of disaster. I left the gay scenes of the parade and hurried to my room at the hotel. There I made instant preparation for a trip to Louisville.

Before leaving Boston, however, I learned what it was that had caused my friend in Louisville so much concern. Some time before, there had been a marriage of a Kentucky girl with a Northerner—the much-talked of wedding of Bigelow Lawrence and Miss Sallie Ward. It had aroused a great deal of bitter feeling, because of the increasing tension and friction between the North and the South. This was none of my affair; nor did I share the feeling on either side. Indeed, at that time, I knew little and cared less about the sectional differences between the North and South. The only interest I had in the South at that time was a commercial one in our shipping business, and the more personal interest attaching to that portion of the South that held my future wife.

My own approaching marriage to Miss Davis had, it seems, been regarded as of sufficient importance to arouse the same feeling that had been created by the Lawrence-Ward marriage. My friends were manifesting much solicitude. What most alarmed them was the fact that a number of gallant Kentuckians were trying to marry Miss Davis themselves, and thus patriotically save her for the South. Among these patriots were Senator James Shields, Mexican hero of Belleville, Ill., Lieutenant Merriman of the navy, and an officer of the army. There was, also, a suitor from my side of the line—"Ned" Baker, of Springfield, Ill., who was afterward United States consul-general at Montevideo. In her letters to me she had mentioned all of these gentlemen, but I was not particularly anxious about the matter, feeling that there was safety in numbers. But now that my friends were interesting themselves, I thought it full time that I should be looking after affairs myself.

I was doomed to suffer from the inconsistency of woman. When I reached Louisville I wrote to her, mentioning the reports sent me by friends. This angered her. She became indignant because I had taken any notice of these rumors, and refused to see me on that day. But on the following day she was in a milder mood, ready to see me. This meeting put to rest forever all doubts, suspicions, and jealousies, and my fears melted into thin air.

But for all this, I was determined to take no further chances with three or four rivals, and decided that I should not again leave my affianced bride behind me. I insisted upon an immediate ceremony, and we were married by the rector of the Episcopal church in Louisville, October 5, '51. Her father, Colonel George T. M. Davis, was then editor of Haldeman's Louisville Courier. Belle Key, the famous Kentucky beauty, whose sister, Annie Key, married Matthew Ward, who killed a Kentuckian in a duel, was my wife's bridesmaid, and Sylvanus J. Macey, son of William H. Macey, was groomsman. My wife was only seventeen years old. She was very beautiful. Her picture appeared in the Book of Beauty the following year.

We came east from Louisville on our wedding journey, stopping at Cincinnati, where I had a curious experience. The Burnett House was the most popular hotel in the city at that time, and we stayed there. It had just fitted up the first "bridal chamber" in this country, if not in the world. Every little hotel has one now; but then such a thing was unheard of, so far as I have been able to ascertain. At any rate, Mr. Drake, the clerk, asked me if I did not wish to take the "bridal chamber." He told me it was the only one in the world. As I was ever keen and ready for a novelty, I replied that of course I would.

I had already been in a great many hotels in this country. The prevailing rate of charge was about $2 a day, at that time. I supposed that this splendid room would cost a little more, being a special apartment—perhaps about $5 a day. It cost $15! But I was willing to pay for the honor of occupying the first "bridal chamber" in the world.

From Cincinnati, we came directly on to Boston, and stayed at the Winthrop House, where I had been before. I soon had a conference with the Boston house which I represented, and it was determined that I should return to Liverpool and resume charge of the branch there, but in somewhat different and better circumstances. I returned in '52. The ship we sailed on was the Daniel Webster, built by Donald Mackay in East Boston, and which I had named in special honor of my friend, the great Daniel. Captain Howard was in command.

The trip was destined to be eventful. Five days after leaving Boston we ran into a heavy gale from the west. Our boat was very sturdy, and we had no fears, but I knew that many smaller and less seaworthy ships would suffer in such a driving storm. We were, therefore, on the lookout for vessels in distress.

For the greater part of the time, during the height of the gale, I stood on the bridge closely scanning the horizon line in front. Suddenly something seemed to rise and assume form out of the storm-wrack, and this gradually grew into the shape of a vessel. I saw that it was a wreck, shouted to the captain, but he, looking in the direction, could make out nothing. My eyes seemed to be better than his, although his had been trained by long practise at sea. He could not see much better when he got his glasses turned in the direction I indicated, but finally he discovered the vessel, though he did not seem desirous of leaving his present course to offer assistance.

I insisted that we should go to the rescue of the ship and her crew, and he turned and said: "Mr. Train, we sea captains are prevented from going to the rescue of vessels, or from leaving our course, by the insurance companies. We should forfeit our policy in the event of being lost or damaged."

"Let me decide that," said I. "We can not do otherwise than go to the assistance of these persons." And we went. The Webster bore swiftly down upon the wreck, which proved to be in worse plight than I had imagined. She was buffeted about by the waves, and seemed in peril of going down at any moment. Men and women were clinging to her rigging, hanging over her sides, and trying to get spars and timbers on which to entrust themselves to the sea. The doomed vessel was the Unicorn, from an Irish port, bound for St. John's, N. B., with passengers and railway iron. This iron had been the cause of the wreck, for in the rough weather it had broken away from its fastenings, or "shipped," as the sailors express it, and had broken holes in the sides of the boat and overweighted it on one side.

A brig that had sighted the Unicorn before we came up had taken off a few of the passengers—as many as it could accommodate. The Unicorn was a small vessel, and there seemed little chance for the rest of the passengers unless we could reach them. The sea was running very swift and high, and it was not possible to bring the Webster close to the side of the Unicorn. To make matters worse, the sailors had found that there was whisky in the cargo, and in their desperation, drank it without restraint. They were, consequently, unmanageable. They could not help us to assist the miserable passengers on their own boat.

There was nothing else to be done except to get into our small boats and try to save as many passengers as possible. The captain got into one boat and I into another, and we were rowed to the side of the Unicorn. There we discovered that many had already perished. Dead bodies were floating in the sea about the ship. We tried to get up close enough to reach the passengers, but found it impossible.

"Throw the passengers into the sea," I shouted to the captain of the Unicorn, "and we will pick them up. We can't get up to you." In this way, the crew of the Unicorn throwing men and women into the sea, and our boats picking them up, we succeeded in saving two hundred. All the rest—I do not know how many—were drowned. We finally got these two hundred persons safely on board the Daniel Webster.

Here we discovered other difficulties, and it seemed, for a time, as if starvation might do the work that had been denied to the waves. There was, also, the question of accommodations; but we solved this problem by taking some of our extra sails and tarpaulin and rigging up a protection for them on the deck and in the hold, so that we made them all fairly comfortable. The problem of food was far more difficult. We simply had no food, the captain said. There was hardly more than enough for the crew and passengers of our own vessel, as the delay caused by the rescue and the departure from our course had made an extra demand upon supplies.

Here a happy thought occurred to me. We happened to be carrying a cargo of corn-meal. I had heard that the Irish, in one of their famines, had been fed with corn-meal, learning to eat and even to like it.

"Open the hatches!" I cried, with the enthusiasm of the philosopher who cried "Eureka." The problem of food was soon solved. Two of the barrels were cut in half, making four tubs. From the staves of other barrels we made spoons, and from the meal we made mush which the half-starved men, women, and children ate with great relish. They lived on it until we got them safely landed on English soil, the entire two hundred persons reaching port without the loss of a single soul.

This was my first service at a rescue, and, of course, I was proud of it. Captain Howard received a handsome medal from the Life Saving Society of England, and the incident greatly increased the reputation of our packets.

On arriving at Liverpool, we went to No. 153 Duke Street, a house then kept by Mrs. Blodgett, whose husband saw service as consul in Spain. This house was at that time the favorite resort of American sea captains and shipping men, and was a sort of central point for all Americans in Liverpool. John Alfred Marsh, who had been with us in Boston, was with me in Liverpool at this time, in the branch of our house there; and I think he is the only man living among all of my friends of that year. He is now connected with the Guion Line steamships.

During the first year in Liverpool after my marriage, I had a peculiar and interesting experience with the science of phrenology. At that time every one was talking about its "revelations," and I became somewhat interested in it. My interest came chiefly, however, through James McHenry, whose line of ships to Philadelphia I had charge of. He suggested one day that I go to a phrenologist, saying that I had a most curious head. Up to this time, I had not taken any stock in the science, which I set down as charlatanry and mountebankism. But he insisted, and finally I consented to go with him to Bridges, then the most famous phrenologist in Liverpool or in the west of England.

Bridges astonished me so greatly by telling me things about myself that I had supposed no one knew but I, that my interest was awakened. Still I thought there must be something queer about the thing, and I accused McHenry of having told Bridges something about me beforehand so that I might be taken by surprise. McHenry so vehemently denied this that I knew he was telling me the truth. There was nothing to do but to accept the "chart" of Bridges as being at least sincere.

As I like to investigate everything for myself, I determined to see what there was in phrenology, and to have my head examined in circumstances where there could be no question that the phrenologist had had any information about me. So I went to London, and there consulted a still more famous phrenologist, the octogenarian Donovan. I said to him: "Mr. Donovan, I want you to tell me the plain truth about my head." "Phrenology does not lie," he said. "Put down your guinea."

I put down the guinea, and submitted to an examination. He told me almost the same things that Bridges had said, and thus confirmed the first chart of my head. After finishing his examination, Donovan looked at me and said: "You will be either a great reformer, or a great pirate. It merely depends upon the direction you take in Ethics!"

Even this examination did not entirely satisfy me. There were still higher authorities in phrenology, and I felt that I should not be satisfied until I had the verdict of the highest court of appeals. I consulted every phrenologist I could reach—a great professor in Paris, another from Germany, and finally, I reached the highest authority then living, the highest that has ever lived, possibly, the great Dr. Fowler, who was then lecturing in England.

He came to Liverpool to lecture, and I went to hear him. Fowler asked for some one from the audience to allow him to examine his head. As he had never seen me, I felt that I could in this way get an absolutely impartial and unprejudiced reading. I went on the stage, and my appearance caused a ripple of surprise, for I was known in Liverpool. The phrenologist placed his hands on my head and exclaimed: "Jehu, what a head!" The audience applauded, as if they thought I had a head, and had used it to good purpose in their city.

Beverley Tucker was American consul in Liverpool at that time, having been appointed by President Pierce. When the famous actor and dramatist, John Brougham, visited Liverpool, I suggested that we Americans, in whose country Brougham had lived and done his best work, should entertain him at a dinner at the Waterloo House. We had a large and lively company present, and Brougham was in his best vein. I asked Brougham for his autograph, and, at the same time, something about the poet Willis, who was then our favorite American poet. He gave me instantly, without apparent thought, the following verse: