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

The thing then seemed so easy to our hired man that he asked to try a dollar on the game. Then the irate man who had lost his money took up the other thimble and brushed the pea off the cushion. Our hired man, who let nothing that was going on about the green cushion escape his sight, saw the pea swept away, and eagerly bet the dealer that there was no pea there at all. The dealer took him up, and lifted the thimble, and lo! there was the pea. This did not satisfy the hired man, who kept on betting, and losing until he had no money left. Thus our savings went up in powder smoke and in guesses at the whereabouts of a fleeting pea. I did not gamble then, nor have I gambled since.

But the firecracker day had its lessons for me. It taught me some things about money and its power, and it got me interested in Cornwallis. I began to read American history.

CHAPTER IV

Our principal diversions were in the winter, when we had delightful sleighing parties. The school-children always had one great picnic. There would be a six-horse sleigh, and the teacher would be in charge of the party. We visited the surrounding towns, and it was a great affair to us. We looked forward to it from the very commencement of the school year. On examination day, at the close of the term, we children had to clean the schoolhouse. There was no janitor, as now. But we enjoyed the work, and took a certain childish pride in it.

I remember that one of my earliest ambitions was gratified at that period when I was chosen leader of the school. I stood at the head of everything. And it was no idle compliment. Boys are not, like their elders, influenced by envy or jealousy. They invariably try to select the best "man" among them for their leader. Jealousies, envy, and heart-burnings come afterward.

Reading the account of the collision between the Priscilla and the Powhatan in the Sound off Newport, this year, and the peril that threatened five hundred passengers, there came to my mind the recollection of a catastrophe that happened sixty-two years ago, and how the tidings were brought to me. I can live over again the horror of that day. I recall that it was in January, '40.

It was a stormy, bitter day, and I was in the little schoolhouse at Pond End, two and a half miles from the farm. The snow had been falling a long while, and everything was covered with it. As the day advanced, and the snow piled deeper and ever deeper about the little house, and covered the forests and fields with a thicker blanket of white, we began to grow anxious. Now and then a sleigh would drive up through the drifting, flying snow, and the father and mother of some child in the school would come in and take away the little boy or girl and disappear in the storm. I began to think, with dread, of how I, a little fellow, would be able to find my way home through the blinding snow, when suddenly there came a tap on the door. The teacher went to the door, and called to me: "George, your uncle Emery Bemis has just arrived from Boston in his sleigh, and wants to take you home with him."

When I got into the sleigh he seemed to be very sad. He sat quiet for some little time, and then turned to me and said: "George, I have some terrible news for your grandmother. She is at the farmhouse now, waiting to see her youngest daughter, your aunt Alice. Your grandmother expects me to bring her. She was coming from New York on the steamer Lexington, with the dead body of her husband [and his brother and father], which she wanted to bury in the family graveyard. There were three hundred passengers on the ship. The Lexington was wrecked and burned in the Sound, and three hundred persons were lost—burned or drowned. Your aunt was lost. Only five passengers were saved."

Such were the horrible tidings my uncle was bearing to my grandmother and my aunts, instead of the living presence they were expecting. This incident left an ineradicable impression upon my mind. There was one peculiar thing about the accident of the Lexington that struck me at the time as being weird and unforgettable. When the ship went to pieces the pilot-house was shattered, and a portion of it floated away and lodged against the rocks near the shore. The bell itself was uninjured, and still swung from its hangings, and there it remained, clanging dolorously in every wind. It seemed to my boyish fancy to be tolling perpetually for the dead of the Lexington.

Years afterward, while making a speech in a political campaign, I made use of this incident. I said the Democratic party of the day was adrift from its ancient moorings, and was always calling up something of the remote past. It was like the bell of the Lexington, caught upon the rocks that had wrecked the ship and tolling forever for the dead.

George Ripley, who was the leader at Brook Farm and, long afterward, was associated with Charles A. Dana in the preparation of the American Cyclopedia, was at one time my school-teacher on Waltham Plains. General Nathaniel P. Banks, who was a few years older than I, was chairman of our library committee. We used to have lectures in Rumford Hall. (By the way, this hall was named for Count Rumford, whom most persons take to have been a German or other foreigner, on account of his foreign title; but he was an American.) The lecture night was always a great event in Waltham. One day a man came to me and said, "Here is a remarkable letter." He read it to me, and it was as follows:

"To the Library Committee, Waltham:

"I will come to lecture for $5 for myself, but ask you for four quarts of oats for my horse.

"Ralph Waldo Emerson."

The lecture that Mr. Emerson delivered for us boys of the library committee in Waltham was entitled "Nature." We paid him $5 and four quarts of oats for it. He delivered it many times afterward, when his name was on every lip in the civilized world, and he received $150 to $500 for each delivery. He was just as great then, in that hour in the little old town of Waltham; it was the same lecture, with the same exquisite thought and marvelous wisdom; but it took years for the world to recognize the greatness and the beauty and the wisdom of him, and to value them at their higher worth. The world paid for the name, not for the lecture or the truth and beauty.

During this period I attended school for three months every summer. My grandparents wanted to make a clergyman of me. But that sort of thing was not in me. I was sent up to Mr. Leonard Frost, at Framingham, ten miles distant, and lived with him. Certainly my board could not have been more than $2 a week, and the tuition amounted to scarcely anything. I was with Mr. Frost just three months, at a total expenditure for educational purposes of about $25! This constituted my college education. I was then fourteen years old; and this is all the school education I have ever had.

The chief game we played when I was a boy was what we called "round ball," which has now developed into the national game of baseball. I was quite an adept at the game, as I took great interest always in all sports and easily excelled in them. I had also a fancy for chemistry, and my first experiment was the result of sitting down upon a bottle of chemicals. It cost me certain portions of my clothing, and made a lasting impression upon me. It effectually put an end to my desire to study chemistry further.

About this time a sweeping change came in my life. One day I happened to overhear my aunts talking about my future. The good ladies had come to the conclusion that a clergyman's life was not the life for me; so they were debating the question of sending me out to learn a trade. They said it was evident that I would not be a clergyman, a doctor, or a lawyer; so I must be a blacksmith, or a carpenter, or a mason. Now I did not want to be any of these things.

As soon as I got an opportunity I told my aunts that I did not intend to be a carpenter, or a mason, or a blacksmith. I said I was going down to Boston—not to the market, but to get a position somewhere. They were astounded. They could not believe their ears. But I went.

The city seemed bigger than ever, now that I had to face it and conquer it, or have it conquer me. But I was not beaten before the fight. I began walking through the streets with as bold a heart as I could summon, and kept searching the windows and doors for any sign of "Boy wanted." I had seen such notices pasted up in windows when I came into the town on marketing trips.

Finally I saw such a sign on a drug-store in Washington Street, and walked in. I told the druggist I should like to go to work. He offered me my board and lodging for looking after the place. I asked him what sort of clothes he wanted me to wear, and he replied that the suit I had on—my Sunday clothes—would do for every day. I was quite happy and started to work.

The first night I slept in the same building with the store, but above it. About one o'clock in the morning the bell rang. Some one wanted the doctor at once. I said I wasn't a doctor, and that the doctor was not there. The messenger ran off. This was bad enough, to be routed up in the middle of the night that way. The next day the druggist went away from the store on some business. I sampled everything edible in the place. I tried the different kinds of candy, and sirups, and then went out and bought some lemonade and a dozen raw oysters. The result may be imagined. After a few minutes of Mont Pelée, I decided that I had had enough of the drug business. I told the druggist my decision, shut the door, and left the store, a disappointed and lonely little fellow.

I hesitated as to my next step. But there was the old farmhouse—and it invited me very tenderly just then to return. I was not conquered yet, but would fight on. I turned, as if by instinct, toward Cambridgeport, the scene of my traffickings with the grocer. My uncle Clarke lived there, the uncle that had brought me on from New Orleans; but I could not make up my mind to go to him, either. The family would laugh at me. No! I would get another place—but it would not be in a drug-store!

Then I had an inspiration. There was the grocer named Holmes! Why not try him? I would. So I went to the store of Joseph A. Holmes, at the corner of Main Street and Brighton Road. To my eager inquiry, Mr. Holmes said: "You have come just in time. We want a boy." Then he asked me what wages I wanted. "Just enough to live on," I said. "You can live with us," he said; "and I will give you one dollar a week." That meant $50 a year. It was a great sum to me. I began to work at once.

This was the winter of '43-'44, and I was fourteen. My work was to drive the grocery wagon up to Old Cambridgeport, take orders, and fill them. I had to get up at four o'clock in the morning to look after the horse, just as I had done on the farm, and to get everything ready for the trip. I had the orders of the day before to fill and to deliver at the college. Besides, I had to work in the store after I came back from Old Cambridgeport. In the evening I had to look after the lamps, sweep out, put up the shutters, and do numberless other little things about the store. The store was closed at ten o'clock at night. Then I would put out the lights, which were old-fashioned oil lamps.

It was a long day for a boy—or for a man. I worked eighteen hours every day. And the laborers in the Pennsylvania coal-mines are now striking for an eight-hour day! I had six hours of night in which to go to bed and to find what sleep I could. This life continued for about two years. In that time I had learned to do almost everything that was to be done about a grocery store. I had really learned this in the first six months.

One of my many little duties was to make paper bags. I had to cut the paper and paste it together. Another task was to take a hogshead of hams, put each ham in bagging, and sew it up. Then I had to whitewash each particular ham. That was a nice business! It went against my nature more than any other part of my manifold labors in the store.

Mr. Holmes was a Baptist deacon, but the only thing about him to which my youthful taste objected was that he chewed tobacco all the time. Yes, there was another objection. He insisted upon my joining the Bible class in his Sunday-school. This I would not do. I could not explain it all to him; but the Santa Claus matter had not yet worn out of my mind.

One day at the grocery store, Mr. Holmes brought in an elderly gentleman and said to me: "George, I want you to take this gentleman" (naming him) "up to the college, and walk about with him." The gentleman seemed to me to be about sixty years old. Mr. Holmes cautioned me about keeping him out of any danger, as he was not very well. "Don't talk to him," he said to me, "unless he wants to talk to you."

The thing was like a holiday to me. I walked with him up to the college, and all around, as much as he wanted to; and it never occurred to me, in all the days I was with him in this way, to find out who he was, or to think about it at all.

He was John Jacob Astor, Jr., eldest son of the founder of the great house of the Astors. He was practically an invalid. He was then in charge of a Mr. Dowse, who generally left him to the care of Mr. Holmes, and who, in turn, left him to me. After this, he came to New York, where he was taken in charge by his brother, William B. Astor.

CHAPTER V

I could not understand it, but here were mysterious "somethings" in my grandmother's right side, and in her father's left side, that nullified the Methodist religious system and set at naught the additional commandments, "Thou shalt not drink," and "Thou shalt not smoke."

But the scheme of morality proved a good thing for me, and served to guide me aright in all my wanderings about the world and up and down in it. I think it very good testimony to the soundness and virtue of my moral training that I have wandered around the world four times, have lived in every manner known to man, have been thrown with the most dissolute and the most reckless of mankind, and have passed through almost every vicissitude of fortune, and have never tasted a drop of intoxicating liquor, and have never smoked. I have kept all of the commandments—those of Sinai and those of the Methodists.

In my period of wealth and prosperity, I have entertained thousands of men, have seen thousands drinking and drunken at my table—and under it; but I never touched a drop of my own wine or of the wine of others. I have paid a great deal of money for the purchase of all sorts of tobacco, and for all sorts of pipes—narghiles, hookas, chibouks—as presents for others; but never touched tobacco myself in any way. I have been in every rat-hole of the world—but I never touched the rats. It is for these reasons that I am seventy-three years young, and am hale and strong to-day, and living my life over again like a youth once more.

Years afterward, when I was lecturing, my cousin, George Pickering Bemis, ex-Mayor of Omaha, and my aunt Abbie and my cousin Abbie attended the one I delivered in Omaha, and all of them felt a little hurt by my allusions to the old Methodists, and to my grandmother and her father. Bemis wrote to me that they were horrified. But they forgot that what I said of the Methodists and of my ancestors was in their praise. I was not ridiculing them, but extolling them. I told of these incidents of my childhood, because I was speaking of my childhood, and these were facts. One of the strictest commandments of old Methodism was to tell the truth. They were not satisfied with the mild negative of the Sinaitic commandment, "Thou shalt not lie." They added a positive decree, "Thou shalt speak the truth." That was all I was doing. I was telling the truth about my childhood and boyhood. I have never spoken anything but the truth in all my life. This, too, I owe to the early training in Methodist virtues and precepts, and to the example and counsel of my dear old grandmother.

I could not join the Bible class, at the urgent request of the grocer, Mr. Holmes, because I could not see the necessity of God, and no one could ever explain to me the reason why there should be, or is, a God. I could never recognize the necessity. Morality and ethics I could see the necessity of, and the high and authoritative reason for; but religion never appealed to my intelligence or to my emotions. The story of the Prodigal Son only taught me that to be a Christian one must do something to be forgiven for, to repent of; and I could not see the strength of such an argument. The plain and sound "ethics" of Methodism, outside of "faith" and "belief," always seemed to me to be higher and better than this.

I feel that in an autobiography I should say this much about my moral creed and principles. Later in life the Bible got me into much trouble, involved me in persecutions, and finally landed me in jail—all of which I shall refer to in due season.

Children are born savages and cheats. It is only training that makes true and honest men and women of them. When a child of five and six, I slept with my aunt Alice, the one who was afterward lost on the Lexington. One night I saw a fourpence in her pocket-book. When I saw that she was asleep, I got up quietly, went to her pocket-book where it lay on the table and took the fourpence out of it. But I could not retain it. It seared into my conscience. Before she woke up, I went as quietly back to the purse and placed the fourpence exactly where I had found it. My Methodist training saved me.

On another occasion, my grandmother took me to Watertown to buy me a suit of clothes. In the store I noticed, while my grandmother was talking with the clerk, a lovely knife in the show-case. I wanted it. All my boyish instincts went out to that knife. I had never had a knife, and was hungry for one. I looked around, with all the inherited cunning of savage and barbarian and predatory ancestors in a thousand forests and for a hundred centuries. No one was observing me. Quietly, stealthily, I went to the case. I lifted the top, took the beautiful knife, and put it in my pocket. It was done. I had the knife, and no one would ever be any wiser. I was safe with my spoil. But again my Methodist-drilled conscience awoke. It made me go back to the show-case and replace the stolen knife. I actually felt better—for a time.

Then the appeal of nature came back stronger than before. I longed for the knife. There was no resisting the predatory impulse. Again I stole behind the counter, opened the case, took out the knife, and placed it securely in my pocket. Again it had been done without chance of detection. But again my Methodist-made conscience came to the fore. Again it saved me from being a thief. I went back to the case, and put the knife in its place, but with great reluctance. Still a third time I took the knife from the case and secreted it in my pocket, and again the Methodist conscience proved stronger than human nature, and I restored the treasure to its proper place. I was finally able to leave the store without the knife, and with a clean conscience.

These are the only instances when I started to do an evil thing, and in both of them I did not go the full length, but restored the property I coveted. Since that time, and with these exceptions, for the entire period of my life I have never cheated, stolen, or lied. And yet I have been in fifteen jails. For what?

When I was clerk in Mr. Holmes's grocery store I was in charge of the money-drawer. I received no salary from Mr. Holmes, but took out the $1 a week that I was allowed, and kept an account of it. I was trusted, and did not betray in the slightest degree this trust and confidence of my employer. Every cent that I took out of, or put into the cash-drawer was entered upon my account-book, and I was ready at any and all times to show exactly how my account stood with the store.

CHAPTER VI

"You don't mean to say you have come here without being invited?" "As I was not invited, that was about the only way for me to come," I said. "As I am here, I might as well stay." And I settled myself in the seat at the desk.

Colonel Train looked at the bookkeeper sorely perplexed. But I saw that he rather admired my persistence and bravado. I had won the first trial of arms.

"Well," said he, after a while, turning again to the bookkeeper, "we shall see if we can find something for you to do." "I will find something to do," I said. He smiled cordially at this, and said: "I will make a man of you." "I will make a man of myself," I replied.

Then the colonel asked Mr. Nazro, who had been the firm's bookkeeper for many years, to try to find something for me to do.

It so happened that the ship Anglo-Saxon had just arrived from Liverpool, Captain Joseph R. Gordon, with goods for 150 consignees. Mr. Nazro handed me the portage bill showing the amount to be collected from each of the 150 consignees. The amounts were set down in English money, and Mr. Nazro asked me to put them into American, or Federal, money. I fancied he was setting me what would prove to be an impossible task, just to dispose of me for all time. But he blundered, if this was his purpose. I had had some experience of English money at the grocery store, having often to change it into American money.

I coolly asked Mr. Nazro what was the prevailing rate of exchange, and he replied that it was $4.80 to the pound. "That is just 24 cents to the shilling, two cents to the penny," I said, and went to work. It was then noon. It would have taken some clerks a week to do the task; but I had completed it by six o'clock that afternoon.

When I handed the list back to him, he asked, with an astonished air, if I had finished it. "You can see for yourself," I replied. "There it is, all made out properly and correctly." "How do you know it is right?" said he. "Because I have proved it," I replied.

This little task decided my fate. Mr. Nazro told me the office hours were from eight until six, with the rest of the time, the evenings, all my own.

The next morning I arrived at the office promptly, and asked Mr. Nazro what I was to do. He handed me a package of bills. I saw they were the bills upon which I had worked the day before, changing English to American currency. There were 150 of them. Each was to contain the amount that must be collected from each of the consignees. I at once set to work on this new task, and completed it in less time than it had taken me to change the money. I went with the bills to Mr. Nazro, and asked what I was to do next. He gave me a collector's wallet into which to put the bills, and told me to go out and collect the amounts due. This was a staggerer, but I set about the difficult undertaking without any feeling of discouragement.

At that time Boston was a strange city to me. It is true that I had lived on the edge of it for years; but my ceaseless work at the grocery store had kept me from roaming over the town and learning anything about it. The only section I was at all familiar with was the neighborhood of the old Quincy Market, to which I had driven so many wagon-loads of garden and farm "truck" in my boyhood days. I was as green as a genuine countryman who had come to town for the first time in his life. I knew not a soul in the city. But off I started, nothing abashed, with the great wallet of bills under my arm. I intended to succeed at this task.

I soon picked out my course through the city. I worked through street after street, and collected as I went. I did not stop, but kept steadily on, and in the afternoon found myself at the end of the list. I had collected nearly every bill.

I returned to the office and handed the wallet and money to Mr. Nazro. Again he was astonished. He asked if I had collected all the bills, and when I told him nearly all, he asked me for the list. I said I had made out none, as it was not necessary. There was all the money; he could count it, and compare with the list on his books. He was very much surprised, but counted the money, and found it correct to a cent. I did not need a list, I told him, because I could carry the whole thing in my head.

From that day to this I have done everything I have undertaken in my own way, and have found that it was the best way—at least, for me.

My next duty was to see that every one of the 150 consignees received the goods that were billed to him. This gave me opportunity for meeting a large number of important persons. Among the rest, I met Nathaniel P. Banks, who was a Custom-House official at the time, and the great writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne, whom I saw in the Custom-House on a visit from Salem. He had been appointed by President Polk. Of course I knew nothing about him at the time, although he was then writing his greatest work, and perhaps was casting in his mind The Scarlet Letter. He had only just begun to be famous—an interesting fact enough, but one I did not learn till long afterward. He seemed very unassuming, and not in very affluent circumstances. I suppose his salary from the Government at the time was not more than $1,000 a year.

My life in the old shipping house of Train & Co., in Boston, lasted some four years. The first vessel that came in, after I began working with the company, was the Joshua Bates, named after the American partner of the famous house of the Barings. It was of 400 tons, quite a big ship for the time. The next was the Washington Irving, 500 tons; and the third was the Anglo-Saxon, the bills of which, on a previous voyage, I had made out in my trial under Mr. Nazro. The Anglo-Saxon was lost the following year—this was in '46—off Cape Sable, with several passengers, the captain and crew escaping. After this the Anglo-American came in, then the Parliament, the Ocean Monarch, and the Staffordshire. All of these were famous ships in their day.

In '48, I was at the pier one day on the lookout for the Ocean Monarch. Although the telegraph had been established in '44, it had not been brought from Nova Scotia to Boston, and we had only the semaphore to use for signaling. When a ship entered the harbor, the captain would take a speaking-trumpet and, standing on the bridge, shout out the most interesting or important tidings so that the news would get into the city before the ship was docked. The Persia was also due, with Captain Judkins, and it came in ahead of the Ocean Monarch. Some three or four thousand persons were on the pier waiting eagerly for the captain's news. I was at the end of the pier, and saw Captain Judkins place the trumpet to his lips, and heard him shout the tidings. And this is what I heard:

"The Ocean Monarch was burned off Orm's Head. Four hundred passengers burned or drowned. Captain Murdoch taken off of a spar by Tom Littledale's yacht. A steamer going to Ireland passed by, and refused to offer assistance. Complete wreck, and complete loss."

The captain shouted hoarsely, like a sentence of doom from the "last trump." Every one was stunned. The scene was indescribable, both the dead silence with which the dreadful tidings were received, and the wild excitement that soon burst forth.

I took advantage of the awed hush of the people, and rushed toward the street end of the pier. There I leaped on my horse that was waiting for me, and galloped off. Crossing the ferry, I went madly through Commercial Street, up State Street, and to the Merchants' Exchange. There I mounted a chair, and amid a great hush, shouted out the tidings, word for word, and in almost the exact intonation the captain had used.

One day a gentleman, looking like a farmer, came into the office and asked to see Mr. Train. I remember that it was the 5th of October, '47. I replied to his question that my name was Train. "I mean the old gentleman," he said.

I told him that Colonel Train was out of the office at the time, but that as I had charge of the ships, I might be able to attend to his business. But I added that I was in a hurry, as the Washington Irving was to sail in an hour. "That is just what I am here for," said he. "I want to sail on that ship; I want passage for England."

I told him there was one state-room left, and that he could have both berths for the price of one—$75, but that he must get aboard in great haste, as everything was ready and the ship waiting for final orders. He said he was ready, and I started to fill up a passenger slip. "What is your name?" I asked. "Ralph Waldo Emerson," he replied.

Then he took out of his pocket an old wallet, with twine wrapped around it four or five times, opened it carefully, and counted out $75. I could not wait to see whether it was correct, but threw it in the drawer, and took him on board.

Mr. Emerson was then starting on his famous visit to England, during which he was to visit Carlyle. He afterward mentioned the occurrence in his English Traits, where he said: "I took my berth in the packet-ship Washington Irving." From the moment when I thus met Emerson for the second time, I began to take great interest in him, read him carefully, and have continued to read him throughout my life. He has had more influence upon me than any other man in the world.

We once chartered the ship Franklin to take a cargo of tar, pitch, and turpentine from Wilmington, N. C., consigned to the Baring Brothers, London, and return with a cargo of freight. She was about due from England, thirty-five days having elapsed since she had started to return. By this time I had been placed in charge of all the shipping, and I was on the lookout for the Franklin. One day the news came by semaphore that a large ship had been wrecked just off the lighthouse, while coming into Boston harbor. It was not known what ship it was. The sender of the message asked if Train & Co. had a ship due. I thought at once it might be the Franklin, making a somewhat faster passage than we had expected.

The next day some of the wreckage came into the harbor, and, strangely enough, a piece of the floating timbers bore the name Franklin on it. I was at the pier when this discovery was made, and rushed at once to the insurance office to see whether the policy covering the freight had been arranged. It was all right. On the following day, to the astonishment of all Boston, the valise of one of the officers of the Franklin was washed ashore at Nantasket. In it were many letters, and among them were instructions telling how "to sink the vessel off the lighthouse, as she was fully insured." When the ship went down the captain was drowned with the rest of the crew and the passengers.

I saw at once that here was a case of barratry of the master, and that the letter would jeopardize the whole affair of the insurance. It was a matter that needed prompt and able legal work. I hastened to the office of Rufus Choate, the most famous lawyer in New England of that time. I hurriedly explained to Mr. Choate that we had lost a ship, and needed a lawyer. "Will you accept a retainer of $500?" I added. He accepted it at once, and turned to his desk to write out a receipt. I said there was no necessity for a receipt, as the check would be receipt enough, and hurried away.

I then went directly across the street to the office of Daniel Webster, who was then practising law in Boston. I was particularly anxious to have Mr. Webster retained. I remember now the roar of his great, deep voice as he responded to my knock with a "Come in" that was like a battle peal. And I recall well the picture of the great man, as I saw him for the first time. He sat at his flat desk, a magnificent example of manhood, his massive head set squarely and solidly upon his shoulders. He did not have very much business in those days, and the clients that found a way to his office were few.

"Mr. Webster," I said, "we want your services in a very important case. Will you accept this as a retainer?" I handed him a check for $1,000. He accepted it very promptly, and it seemed to me at the time that the check loomed large to him. Such sums came seldom.

One incident in the trial of the case impressed me deeply. It was the masterly manner in which Mr. Choate examined the witnesses. He had the reputation of being the most effective cross-examiner in New England. Before him, in the witness-box, stood one of the owners. Mr. Choate wanted to confuse him in his testimony as to the way in which he had done a certain thing. He began by asking the longest and most complex question that I ever heard. It wound all around the case, and straggled through every street in Boston. "You say," Mr. Choate began, "you say that you did so and so, that you went to such and such a place, that after this you did so and so, and thus and so," and he kept on asking him if after doing this and that if such and such was not the case, until there was no answering the question, or understanding it.

But Mr. Choate had tackled the wrong man for once. The man was an Irishman, and the most nonchalant person I ever saw. Nothing seemed to confuse him. While Mr. Choate was firing his complicated questions at him, he sat perfectly unmoved, unshaken. He seemed to be taking it all in. Then when the astute lawyer had finished, the witness looked at him quietly, and said: "Mr. Choate, will yez be after rapatin' that again?"

Bar and bench and spectators broke into roars of laughter. For once Mr. Choate was confused. But we won the case, as was to be expected, thanks to our matchless array of legal ability.

We had two ships engaged in making what was known as "the triangular run"—from Boston to New Orleans, New Orleans to Liverpool, and Liverpool back to Boston. They were the St. Petersburg, built in '40 for the cotton trade, and having for a figurehead the head and shoulders of the Emperor Nicholas; and the Governor Davis, named for the governor of the Bay State, whose son is now living at Newport. Once we were expecting the Governor Davis to arrive at New Orleans, where the freight rates were higher than they had been in many years—three farthings the pound. The vessel was to be loaded with cotton for Liverpool. We were elated at the prospect of big profits, when a telegram came from our agent, Levi H. Gale, at New Orleans. It read: "The Governor Davis is burned up."

Our hearts sank. A fortune had been lost, or at least the opportunity to make one. I went immediately to the insurance office to see that the policies were all right, and found them in good shape. Then it occurred to me that there might be a possibility of error in the message. Eager with my thought, I rushed to the telegraph office and asked to have the message repeated carefully, no matter what it might cost. After awhile there came back what had been a terrifying message in this new form: "The Governor Davis is bound up." The vessel was safe, and so were our profits.

My connection with the packet lines brought me into contact with many prominent business men of Boston. Very often I was able to do some little thing for them, and once a very amusing incident occurred in connection with the attempt of Mr. Milton, of the firm of Milton, Cushman & Co., to get some English pigs for breeding purposes. I had charge of the catering for our vessels, and made the purchases. Mr. Milton asked me to get him some English pigs, and I promised that we would bring some over by the very next ship. As the vessels were out for quite a time, we frequently carried live animals aboard for food, and usually hogs and pigs. It so happened that on this particular trip, when going east, one of the sows gave birth to a litter of pigs. They were taken to Liverpool. By some mistake they were brought back and delivered to Mr. Milton. He prized them very highly, until later on he discovered that they were American pigs, born under the American flag on the high seas. The mistake subjected him to much good-natured chaffing. No one forgot the incident during the old gentleman's life.

Of course, there was always present the temptation to do a little business on my own account, during my connection with the Train Packet Lines. Indeed, the desire to do this, and the experience I got in it, were the foundations of my subsequent business success. It was inevitable that I should have undertakings of my own.

My first speculation was the shipment of a cargo of Danvers onions to Liverpool in consignment of Baring Brothers. I was eager to have my first venture turn out a success. The onions were packed carefully in barrels, and I saw myself that they were in the best condition before they were shipped. I felt as if I had taken every precaution, and that I was assured of a pretty good thing. Then came the news from England: "Onions arrived; not in good order. Debit, £3 17s. 6d."

That was the disappointing result of my first venture. I was a loser. Years afterward, when I was launching shipping lines between Australia and America, I cited this little experience of mine as an example of what might be expected by many who sent cargoes to the other end of the world.

My second venture proved more successful. This was the shipping of fish on ice to New Orleans. It paid me well. But my real career as a shipper started in quite another and different way. I am ashamed to confess how I began this career, which made me a shipper of cargoes to the other end of the earth. But as I was too ignorant at the time to know much better, or, indeed, to give any thought at all to the matter, I shall, in the interest of truth, make a full confession. I became a smuggler of opium into China!

It happened in this way. One of our captains, who was about to start with a cargo for the Orient, asked me if I did not want to send over something for sale, as he thought a good profit might be made on a shipment of something in demand there. "What would be a good thing to send?" I asked. "Opium," said he laconically.

Opium meant nothing to me then. I had never thought of it in any way other than as a marketable product and an object in cargoes. So I went to Henshaw's, in Boston, and got three tins of opium, the best he had. This I placed in charge of the captain, and he smuggled it into China, and got a good price for it, to the profit of himself and me.

But the smuggling did not end there. I had instructed him to lay in a supply of curios, silks, and other oriental things, and bring them to Boston. This part of the venture was as successful as the first, and I made quite a snug little sum. It was my first considerable profit. That was in '46-'47.

I do not think any one in good standing in business has an idea now of cheating the Government out of tariff duties. I had not, at that time, the slightest idea that I was doing wrong. I felt entirely innocent of defrauding two governments, and did not realize that I was a smuggler. The wrong of the transaction I fully understood afterward.

But I fear that the moral sense as to smuggling, to use an ugly term, was not so delicate in those days. Even patriotic and good men thought that it was not very bad to bring in articles from Europe and the Orient without stopping to pay the duty levied by the United States. There was no systematic attempt to defraud the Government. There was just no thought at all, except to get in a few luxuries upon which it did not seem worth while to pay the customs dues. I can recall a few examples of this lax way of treating the tariff regulations. They were the acts of men of great social and business prominence. If done to-day, they would shock the whole country—even the Democratic and low tariff, or no tariff, part of it.

One day a banker, who was a famous figure in Boston, a leader in the world of business, asked me if I could not bring over for him some silver he had ordered sent to the Train offices in Liverpool. I consented. Shortly after this, the steward of the Ocean Monarch told me he had a very heavy package addressed to "George Francis Train." I directed him to bring it into the office. Then I saw that the heavy package was addressed, in the corner, from the shippers to this famous Boston banker. And so, without any intent to defraud the Government on my part, and, I suppose, without any intent on the part of the great banker to do a distinctly wrong act, we had actually conspired to smuggle in some exquisite silver plate for the richest banker in New England, to save a few dollars' tariff duty!

Once while I was in Paris, in '50, I wanted to buy some presents for the young lady to whom I was engaged to be married—Miss Davis—who was then living in Louisville, Ky. I called at the Paris office of a famous American firm of jewelers, and the resident agent took me to a magnificent establishment, where I saw the wealth of a world in gems.

An amusing thing happened, which I shall relate before I complete the story of this smuggling incident. I asked at once to see the most beautiful things the shop contained, the latest, and most charming. Imagine my surprise and horror when the young girl who was showing me around the shop exhibited to me a package of pictures that would have subjected me to immediate arrest and incarceration had they been found on my person in this city. She explained to me that this was the part of the business in her charge, and that she thought, as I was an American and new to Paris, I wanted to get hold of some startling pictures to carry back to the United States.

Passing through this temptation unscathed, I finally got to the jewels and gems of all sorts, and selected some for my betrothed. I bought about $1,000 worth. Suddenly the agent of an American house turned on me and said he was thinking of sending a present to his firm in New York, and asked if I would not take charge of it and deliver it, or have it delivered direct. Of course I did not know what this meant—that he wanted me to get a package of jewels to his firm without paying the tariff duty. I consented, however, before I went into the ethical question, and brought over, perhaps, a package of splendid and costly diamonds for one of the richest houses in the world.

While in charge of the ships of the house in Boston I had a little yacht, called The Sea Witch, that I used in boarding vessels in the harbor. One day there arrived a very great man, in my opinion a tower of strength in finance—Thomas Baring, afterward Lord Revelstoke, who succeeded Lord Ashburton as the representative of England in this country. I had prepared to take him on a trip around the harbor, and everything was ready for the sail the following day, when he was suddenly called to Washington, and sent me a note which read as follows:

"Dear Mr. Train:

"As I leave for Washington in the morning, I regret that it will not be possible for me to go with you on The Sea Witch to see Boston harbor. I remember with pleasure the canvasback ducks that you sent to me at London, and which gave me and my friends so much pleasure. I hope to see you on my return.

"Thomas Baring."

The great development of the clippers, the boats that soon made the reputation of the United States on the seas, was due chiefly to the discovery of gold in California. This made it necessary to send a great number of ships to the Pacific coast, and I saw that it was essential to the success of the trade to send large boats that could make profits on this long voyage.

Gold was discovered in '48. At that time our packets had attained to the size of only 800 tons. They were considered large boats at the time, but now would be called mere tubs. I saw that if we wanted to enter the trade with the Pacific we should have to get larger ships. Our first packets had been built at East Boston by Donald Mackay: the Joshua Bates, 400 tons; the Washington Irving, 500 tons; the Anglo-Saxon, 600 tons; the Anglo-American, 700 tons; the Ocean Monarch, 800 tons. In a few years we had enlarged the packet clipper from a vessel of 400 tons to one of 800 tons, or twice the size. The Ocean Monarch was regarded as a veritable monster of the seas.

When the gold-fever was setting the country frantic, and every one, apparently, wanted to go to California, I said to Mackay: "I want a big ship, one that will be larger than the Ocean Monarch." Mackay replied, "Two hundred tons bigger?" "No," said I, "I want a ship of 2,000 tons." Mackay was one of those men who merely ask what is needed. He said he would build the sort of ship I wanted. "I shall call her the Flying Cloud," I said. This is the history of that famous ship, destined to make a new era in ship-building all over the world.

Longfellow sent me a copy of his poem, The Building of the Ship, which he had written to commemorate the construction of a much smaller vessel. Not only ship-builders, but the whole world, was talking of the Flying Cloud. Her appearance in the world of commerce was a great historic event.

No sooner was the Flying Cloud built than many ship-owners wanted to buy her. Among others, the house of Grinnell, Minturn & Co., of the Swallow-Tail Line, of Liverpool, asked what we would take for her. I replied that I wanted $90,000, which meant a handsome profit. The answer came back immediately, "We will take her." We sent the vessel to New York under Captain Cressey, while I went on by railway. There I closed the sale, and the proudest moment of my life, up to that time, was when I received a check from Moses H. Grinnell, the New York head of the house, for $90,000.

The Flying Cloud was sent from New York to San Francisco, and made the passage in eighty-six days, with a full cargo of freight and passengers, paying for herself in that single voyage out and back. Her record has not been beaten by any sailing ship in the fifty-three years that have since elapsed.

The building of this vessel was a tremendous leap forward in ship-building; but I was not satisfied. I told Mackay that I wanted a still larger ship. He said he could build it. And so we began another vessel that was to outstrip in size and capacity the great Flying Cloud.

I was desirous to name this ship the Enoch Train, in honor of the head of the Boston house, and had said as much to Duncan MacLane, who was the marine reporter for the Boston Post. MacLane had usually written a column for his paper on the launching of our ships. He wanted to have something to write about the new vessel. I told him the story of Colonel Train's life, and that we were going to christen the new vessel with his name. I did not consult Colonel Train, thinking that, of course, it was all right.

The Post published a long account of the ship, and gave the name as the Enoch Train. When I went down to the office that morning Colonel Train had not yet arrived, but he soon came in, walking straight as a gun-barrel, and seeming to be a little stiff. "Did you see the Post this morning?" I asked. "Premature," he replied. That was all he said. He would not discuss the matter. I was nettled that he did not appreciate the honor I thought I was conferring on him. It was not for nothing that a man's name should be borne by the greatest vessel on the seas. I said to myself that the name should be changed at once. The ship was to be of 2,200 tons burden, larger than the Flying Cloud and the Staffordshire, both of 2,000 tons, and I decided to call her the Sovereign of the Seas.

The news that we were building a still bigger ship was rapidly circulated throughout the world. Many shipping lines wanted to buy her before she was off the ways. Despatches from New York shipping lines making inquiry as to price came almost daily. I invariably replied that we would take $130,000. But this was a little too stiff a price at that time, although the Flying Cloud had paid for herself in a single trip. I finally sold her to Berren Roosen, Jr., of Hamburg, Germany, through the brokers Funch & Menkier, of New York, for $110,000. She was entered in my name, although I was at the time only nineteen years of age. I was quite proud to have the greatest vessel then afloat on any water associated with my name. She was sent to Liverpool.

The California business had grown steadily, and the house of Train had taken a leading part in it. One of the biggest of our ships was built expressly for it, and employed on the long run from Boston to San Francisco. This was the Staffordshire, which we had named for the great potteries in England from which we got so much of our import freight. She was of the same size and tonnage as the Flying Cloud—2,000 tons. We sent her to California on her first trip under Captain Richardson, full of freight and passengers. There were three hundred passengers, each paying $300 for the trip around the Horn. This brought us in $90,000, completely paying for the cost of building and equipping, with cash in hand, before she sailed.

The Flying Cloud and the Staffordshire were followed by about forty fast clippers during the great gold-fever of '49. I was still in my teens, and consider it not an insignificant thing to have accomplished the initiation of this magnificent clipper service which revolutionized sailing vessels all over the world, and gave to America the reputation for building the fastest ships on the seas.

When the California business first opened up, I was bent upon going to the Golden Horn myself. I felt that there was to be a great development in trade and permanent business there, and wanted to "get in on the ground floor." But this was not to be, and my destiny detained me at Boston to take my share in the building of fast clippers and in developing the trade from the Atlantic side of the continent. I saw that MacKondray & Co., and Flint, Peabody & Co., who went to California about this time, were making fortunes out of commissions. I also saw men go there later to become millionaires in a few years—men like John W. Mackay, the pioneer, who died recently in London, worth somewhere approximating $100,000,000, most of it taken out of the Comstock Lode, the last of the "Big Four"—Mackay, Flood, Fair, and O'Brien—all of whom are dead. But my fortunes led in another direction. I was to go East, and not West.

In connection with the clipper service to California, I should mention here the beginning of the Irish immigration to this country, which started at the time of the gold-fever. I saw that this country was very sparsely populated, that there were vast areas entirely unoccupied, and that there was not only room, but need, for more people. I also had an eye to increasing our own business, as our ships were returning from Liverpool with very few passengers. In casting about in my mind to create business, it occurred to me that the Irish, who were particularly restive and desirous of coming to America, might be turned into passengers for our boats and into settlers of our waste places.

My first step was to engage the services of as many Irish 'longshoremen and stevedores as possible. These were always talking of their friends in Ireland, and their friends in the old country were asking them for information about the United States. I got the 'longshoremen and stevedores to scatter throughout Ireland information about this country and about the way to get here. I then set to work to arrange for giving to the poor Irish immigrants a cheap and convenient means of passage.

I invented the prepaid passenger certificate, and also the small one-pound (English money) bill of exchange. To disseminate information about the plan, I had inserted in the Boston Pilot, the Catholic organ of the day, the following advertisement, it being a letter from the Catholic archbishop:

"The Boston and Liverpool Packet Line of Enoch Train & Co. have arranged to issue prepaid passenger certificates and small bills of exchange for one pound and upward. This firm is highly respectable, and has established agencies throughout Ireland for the benefit of Irish immigrants.—☨Fitzpatrick, Archbishop of Boston."

This advertisement, and this indorsement from a high Catholic authority, gave a marked impetus to the flow of Irish immigrants into America.

CHAPTER VII

I hurried on to Washington from Cape May. The trip was then made by boat, rail, and stage. As soon as I reached Washington, I called on Daniel Webster, then Secretary of State. I was shown into his office, gave him news of New England, and said that every one was discussing his great speech of the 7th of March of that year. He looked at me inquiringly. "Some are hostile toward your sentiments," I said; "but most of the people are with you." "They are talking about it, are they?" This was the only comment he made.

Afterward he introduced me to his wife, Mrs. Leroy Webster, and asked if I would like to meet the President. I was delighted, and said so. "Just wait a moment," he said, and sat down at his desk, took a quill pen and wrote on a sheet of blue paper, nearly a foot square, "To the President of the United States, introducing a young friend of mine from Boston, George Francis Train, shipping merchant, who merely wishes to pay his respects to the president.—Daniel Webster." The large writing covered almost the whole page. I thanked him, and started at once for the White House.

On arriving there, I was at once ushered into the presence of General Taylor, who sat at his desk. The presidential feet rested on another chair. I begged him not to rise, but to let me feel at home, and handed him the letter from Mr. Webster.

At his request, I seated myself opposite him, and from this point of vantage made a hurried study of his appearance. He wore a shirt that was formerly white, but which then looked like the map of Mexico after the battle of Buena Vista. It was spotted and spattered with tobacco juice.

Directly behind me, as I was soon made aware, was a cuspidor, toward which the President turned the flow of tobacco juice. I was in mortal terror, but I soon saw there was no danger. With as unerring an aim as the famous spitter on the boat in Dickens's American Notes, he never missed the cuspidor once, or put my person in jeopardy.

My conversation—because, I suppose, it was new to him—interested him, and he would not let me go for half an hour. I told him the news of New England, and about my journey to Liverpool and its object. This particularly interested him, and he asked me a hundred questions about the shipping business and the prospects of developing trade with England.

As I was about to leave, I said to him that I prized very highly the letter from Mr. Webster, and should be very glad to be able to keep it; "and I should prize it still more highly, Mr. President, if you would add your autograph to it." "Certainly," he replied, and then took up a quill pen, and wrote "Z. Taylor." He courteously asked me to call to see him again before I left for England.

From the White House, I went direct to the National Hotel, where I asked to see Mr. Clay. I was shown up to his room, and soon stood in the presence of the great Southern orator. I observed that his shirt also bore the same marks as that of the President—stained and smeared with tobacco juice.

I told him that I was about to start for England, and that, as I had a letter signed by Mr. Webster and the President, I should like to add his signature also. "I believe that two signatures are usually necessary on Mr. Webster's paper," said Mr. Clay with a smile. He then added his autograph to the paper.

Before leaving for Liverpool, I visited Mount Vernon, of course, while in Washington, saw the Georgetown Convent, and, indeed, everything of interest in the capital at that time. Then I went back to New York and up the Hudson to West Point.

My visit to West Point was especially pleasant. I comraded with the cadets, who invited me to sleep in their tent on the campus. Among the young fellows there at the time, who was very pleasant and friendly, was Alfred H. Terry, afterward one of the most distinguished of our officers. I attended the cadets' ball at Cozzens's Hotel, messed with them, and entered into all of their sports and daily routine. I was astonished to notice that in the morning the roar of the gun did not disturb their slumbers, although it shook me from sleep. But the lightest tap of the drum aroused them instantly. It was force of habit, which, I was to learn later, enables men to sleep amid the roar of artillery on the battlefield, or amid the howling of storms on the ocean. In sleep, as in our waking hours, the trained and disciplined mind hears what it wants to hear.

From West Point I went on to Saratoga Springs. It was my first visit to these famous springs, and I enjoyed it immensely. On the boat up the Hudson I met a beautiful lady, Mrs. Carleton, who was with her sister. Mrs. Carleton was the wife of a wealthy New York merchant, who had a villa on Staten Island. I stopped at Marvin's United States Hotel. This was fifty-two years ago, and the hotel is still there, while Marvin, who entertained me more than half a century ago, died last year, his age somewhere in the nineties. I enjoyed every moment of my stay at Saratoga, for I had never seen anything of social life, and it was all new and delightful. The enormous caravansary, with its throngs of guests, its never-ceasing round of gaiety, and its own liberal life, entranced me. Manners seemed less formal then at the famous spa, and the ladies were pleased to meet any one in the most unconventional and charming way.

As I say, I was very unsophisticated. I knew little or nothing of the "great world," and I was completely horrified one evening when one of the ladies said to me in a whisper: "Can you not get me a glass of brandy?" I had never touched a drop of brandy, whisky, or even wine, and to have this beautifully dressed and refined lady ask me for a glass of brandy was a decided shock to me. I understand that now, however, it is not very uncommon for ladies to drink wine, whisky, and brandy.

I have seen it stated in the papers recently that the waters at Saratoga have the effect of lessening thirst for more ardent waters of a spirituous nature. I did not happen to observe any such effect of the waters when I was there a half century ago. Drinking was quite general, and certainly little restraint seemed to be practised.

I found in society, as elsewhere in the greater affairs of life, that leadership was wanting. People stood by and waited for some one to take the initiative. One evening one of the ladies said to me that the ball had not been arranged for. I asked what ball, and she said the regular season ball. For some reason, it had not been arranged by the hotel people, and no one seemed disposed to take hold of it. I said, "It should be arranged immediately." I saw a few of the leaders, talked it over with them, and got them together. We brought off the ball—my first experience in these deep waters of social life—with great success. I had then been in Saratoga just two days. While I was there I had the honor of meeting the social leader of Boston, Mrs. Harrison Grey Otis, and the social leader of Philadelphia, Mrs. Rush. There were also present at the Springs many representatives of the most prominent families in the social life of New York.

I saw in Saratoga the first "gambling hell" that I had ever seen, and I was so green about such things—another tribute to my dear old Pickering grandmother and New England Methodism—that I did not know what a "gambling hell" was when asked if I should like to see one. While I possess an inquisitive nature, I have found it a good rule not to ask too many questions, until you have tried to find out things without betraying your ignorance. I went to the "hell," and was properly shocked. The scene suggested to me the gaming at Monte Carlo. I saw a number of men sitting around a table playing as intently as if their lives depended upon the fall of a card.

My attention was attracted toward a young man, apparently of about twenty-five, who was in a desperate plight. Agony was visibly graved in every feature and in every line of his face. I asked who he was, and heard the name of a distinguished family of northern New York. "What is the matter with him!" I asked. My cicerone seemed astonished at my stupendous ignorance. "Why, can you not see they are 'going through' him?" he said in turn. The expressive term was sufficient even for my unsophisticated mind. It told the whole story, like a "scare-head" in a "yellow" newspaper.

Then I turned from the victim to the predatory players about him. Who were they? To my surprise, the names were those of men famous the world over as bankers, merchants, and financiers. There was one man that especially interested me. It was the American representative of an English house whose commercial paper our house frequently used. I said to myself, "I will cut his name from our list," and I did—for a time. I learned afterward that banking was only one form of gambling. Great financiers are often clever gamesters—players for desperate stakes, but infinitely better players than their victims. This world of finance is a great Monte Carlo. It was vain to entertain a prejudice against only one of the players.

It was now necessary for me to hurry back to Boston in order to catch the Parliament, on which I had already engaged passage. But before leaving America, I wanted to see something of Canada, and resolved upon a rapid trip to Montreal, especially as I found that I could return to New York that way almost as quickly as to go across the State. I went on to Niagara, and then sailed for Montreal, and had the novel experience of shooting La Chine Rapids, an Indian piloting the boat. This was a great thing in those days, and I was amazed to see how skilfully the Indian guided the boat in and out among the rocks, never doubtful of his course, never touching the edges of the reefs and boulders, never imperiling human life. I understood that for years these pilots had guided the boats down the rapids without a single accident.

On the boat on which I went down the St. Lawrence I met Captain Stoddard, of the Crescent City Steam Packet, New York and Havana, and Mr. Dinsmore, of the Adams Express Company, with the ladies of their families. We all saw Montreal together, and some members of the party made excursions to places elsewhere. One of these was to the famous Grey Nunnery, the doors of which were closed to the outside world. But these Americans, with true American spirit, expected all doors to open to them, and would not accept the situation.