There appeared upon the scene in Washington toward the middle of the
seventies one of those problematical characters the fiction-mongers delight
in. This was John Chamberlin. During two decades "Chamberlin's," half
clubhouse and half chophouse, was all a rendezvous.
"John" had been a gambler; first an underling and then a partner of the
famous Morrissy-McGrath racing combination at Saratoga and Long Branch.
There was a time when he was literally rolling in wealth. Then he went
broke--dead broke. Black Friday began it and the panic of '73 finished
it. He came over to Washington and his friends got him the restaurant
privileges of the House of Representatives. With this for a starting point,
he was able to take the Fernando Wood residence, in the heart of the
fashionable quarter, to add to it presently the adjoining dwelling of
Governor Swann, of Maryland, and next to that, finally, the Blaine
mansion, making a suite, as it were, elegant yet cozy. "Welcker's," erst a
fashionable resort, and long the best eating-place in town, had been ruined
by a scandal, and "Chamberlin's" succeeded it, having the field to itself,
though, mindful of the "scandal" which had made its opportunity, ladies
were barred.
There was a famous cook--Emeline Simmons--a mulatto woman, who was equally
at home in French dishes and Maryland-Virginia kitchen mysteries--a very
wonder with canvasback and terrapin--who later refused a great money offer
to he chef at the White House--whom John was able to secure. Nothing could
surpass--could equal--her preparations. The charges, like the victuals,
were sky-high and tip-top. The service was handled by three "colored
gentlemen," as distinguished in manners as in appearance, who were known
far and wide by name and who dominated all about them, including John and
his patrons.
No such place ever existed before, or will ever exist again. It was the
personality of John Chamberlin, pervasive yet invisible, exhaling a silent,
welcoming radiance. General Grant once said to me, "During my eight years
in the White House, John Chamberlin once in a while--once in a great
while--came over. He did not ask for anything. He just told me what to do,
and I did it." I mentioned this to President Arthur. "Well," he laughingly
said, "that has been my experience with John Chamberlin. It never crosses
my mind to say him 'nay.' Often I have turned this over in my thought
to reach the conclusion that being a man of sound judgment and worldly
knowledge, he has fully considered the case--his case and my case--leaving
me no reasonable objection to interpose."
John obtained an act of Congress authorizing him to build a hotel on the
Government reservation at Fortress Monroe, and another of the Virginia
Legislature confirming this for the State. Then he came to me. It was at
the moment when I was flourishing as "a Wall Street magnate." He said: "I
want to sell this franchise to some man, or company, rich enough to carry
it through. All I expect is a nest egg for Emily and the girls"--he had
married the beautiful Emily Thorn, widow of George Jordan, the actor, and
there were two daughters--"you are hand-and-glove with the millionaires.
Won't you manage it for me?" Like Grant and Arthur, I never thought of
refusing. Upon the understanding that I was to receive no commission, I
agreed, first ascertaining that it was really a most valuable franchise.
I began with the Willards, in whose hotel I had grown up. They were rich
and going out of business. Then I laid it before Hitchcock and Darling, of
the Fifth Avenue Hotel in New York. They, rich like the Willards, were
also retiring. Then a bright thought occurred to me. I went to the Prince
Imperial of Standard Oil. "Mr. Flagler," I said, "you have hotels at St.
Augustine and you have hotels at Palm Beach. Here is a halfway point
between New York and Florida," and more of the same sort. "My dear friend,"
he answered, "every man has the right to make a fool of himself once in his
life. This I have already done. Never again for me. I have put up my
last dollar south of the Potomac." Then I went to the King of the
transcontinental railways. "Mr. Huntington," I said, "you own a road
extending from St. Louis to Newport News, having a terminal in a cornfield
just out of Hampton Roads. Here is a franchise which gives you a
magnificent site at Hampton Roads itself. Why not?" He gazed upon me with
a blank stare--such I fancy as he usually turned upon his suppliants--and
slowly replied: "I would not spend another dollar in Virginia if the Lord
commanded me. In the event that some supernatural power should take the
Chesapeake & Ohio Railway by the nape of the neck and the seat of the
breeches and pitch it out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean it would be
doing me a favor."
So I returned John his franchise marked "nothing doing." Afterward he put
it in the hands of a very near friend, a great capitalist, who had no
better luck with it. Finally, here and there, literally by piecemeal, he
got together money enough to build and furnish the Hotel Chamberlin, had a
notable opening with half of Congress there to see, and gently laid himself
down and died, leaving little other than friends and debts.