CHAPTER VI

IN A SHIPPING HOUSE IN BOSTON

1844-1850

The next change in my life, and the real beginning of my career as a business man, was soon to come. I had got as much out of the grocery store as it could give me, and was yearning for a change and a wider field of labor.

One day a gentleman drove up to the store in a carriage drawn by an elegant team of horses, and asked if there was a boy there named Train. Mr. Holmes thereupon called to me, and said to the strange gentleman, "This is George Francis Train." He then told me that the stranger was Colonel Enoch Train, and that he wanted to speak to me.

The first thing Colonel Train said was, "I am surprised to see you, George. I thought all your family were dead in New Orleans. Your father was a very dear friend of mine--and your mother, too." He said, as if repeating it to himself, like a sort of formula, "Oliver Train, merchant in Merchants' Row." Then he continued: "He was my cousin. But we had heard that you were all dead. Where have you been?" I told him where I had been living for the past ten years, with my grandmother at Waltham, and how my uncle Clarke had brought me back from New Orleans.

After he had made a number of inquiries of me, and I had given him all the stock of information I had, Colonel Train drove back to Boston. I watched the retreating carriage, and brave and disturbing thoughts came to me.

The following day I went to Boston. I had no very definite plan of action, but I knew that when the time and opportunity came I should find my way, as usual. And so I went directly to the great shipping house of Train & Co., at 37 Lewis Wharf. The big granite building seemed titanic to my eyes then, as if it contained the whole world of business and enterprise. When I went back to Boston years and years afterward, it seemed only a plain, ordinary affair. At first sight of it the place was simply ahead of and greater than anything I had seen. When I had outgrown it, it seemed small.

When I came up to the building, my purpose was at once clear. I walked in and asked to see Colonel Train. The colonel shook hands cordially, and said he was very glad to see me. "Where do I come in?" I asked.

"Come in?" he almost gasped at this effrontery. "Why, people don't come into a big shipping house like this in that way. You are too young."

"I am growing older every day," I replied. "That is the reason I am here. I want to make my way in the world." "Well," said the colonel, smiling at me, "you come in to see me when you are seventeen years old."

"That will be next year," I replied. "I am sixteen now. I might just as well begin this year--right away." He tried to put me off one way after another; but I was not to be got rid of. I was there, and I meant to stay.

"I will come in to-morrow," I said. Then I left, quite content with myself and the turn my venture had taken. Of the issue I had no doubt.

Early on the following day, I went to the shipping office, and took my seat at one of the desks. I sat there and waited. After a little while, Colonel Train came in. He was astonished to see me sitting there, ready for work.

"You here?" he stammered. "Have you left the grocery store?" "Yes, sir," I said; "I have learned everything there is to learn there and in fact had done so before I had been there six months. I want a bigger field to work in."

"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.--[Symbol: Cross]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.