MY COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE--RETURN TO LIVERPOOL
1850-1852
After the first short stay in Saratoga during my vacation trip in
America, I had started for a journey West; and was soon to meet with an
experience that turned the current of my life. At Syracuse I saw a half
dozen students talking to a lovely girl, bidding her good-by. Her
appearance struck me in a peculiar way. I turned to Alfredo Ward, who,
with his wife, was traveling with me, they having just come from
Valparaiso, Chili. "Look at that girl with the curls," said I. "Do you
know her?" he asked. "I never saw her before," I answered, "but she
shall be my wife."
I was quite ready to abandon the remainder of my Western trip, to get an
opportunity to meet this girl. Taking my grip up hurriedly, I rushed
over to the train she was on, supposing she was going to New York. I
soon discovered that she was going the other way, and ran through in my
mind the chances I could take, the risks I could run, and so took an
opportunity by the throat. I knew that I was not compelled to leave
Boston until July 25, and so I had ample time to get to my ship.
I entered the car where the girl was, and found a vacant seat opposite
her. An elderly gentleman was with her, whom I took to be her father. I
selected the seat opposite with the deliberate purpose of making the
acquaintance of the pair at the first opportunity that occurred or that
I could create.
My chance came sooner than I expected. The elderly gentleman tried to
raise the sash of the window, and could not move it; it had, as usual,
stuck fast. I sprang lightly and very quickly across the aisle and said,
"Permit me to assist you," and adding my youthful strength to his,
raised the window. Both he and the young lady thanked me. The old
gentleman went further and asked me to take the seat directly opposite
him and the young lady, on the same side of the car. I did so, and we
entered into conversation immediately. I continued my speculations as to
the relationship that existed between them. The gentleman seemed rather
elderly for her husband, and she too young to be married at all. He did
not look exactly as if he were her father.
[Illustration: Mrs. George Francis Train.
From a photograph.]
Before I could determine this question for myself, he came to my
assistance, and told me the young lady was the daughter of Colonel
George T. M. Davis, who was captain and aide-de-camp, under General
Scott, in the Mexican War, and afterward chief clerk in the War
Department at Washington. He introduced himself as Dr. Wallace, and said
that he was taking Miss Davis to her home in the West. I also learned
that they were going to Oswego, where they would take a boat. I
immediately exclaimed that I, also, was going in that direction, and was
delighted to know we should be fellow passengers. In such matters--for
love is like war--quickness of decision is everything. I would have gone
in any direction, if only I could remain her fellow passenger.
And so we arrived at Niagara Falls together. Dr. Wallace was kind enough
to permit me to escort his charge about the Falls, and I was foolish
enough to do several risky things, in a sort of half-conscious desire to
appear brave--the last infirmity of the mind of a lover. I went under
the Falls and clambered about in all sorts of dangerous places, in an
intoxication of love. It was the same old story, only with the
difference that our love was mutually discovered and confessed amid the
roaring accompaniment of the great cataract. We were at the Falls
forty-eight hours, and before we left we were betrothed.
Soon afterward I sailed for London, as already set forth. It was not
till '51 that I came back to America, principally for the purpose of
marrying Miss Davis and taking her back to England with me.
I arrived in Boston shortly before the celebration of Bunker Hill Day,
which was always a great occasion in that city. General John S. Tyler
was grand-marshal of the day, and he appointed me one of his aides. It
was a time when young people were usually left out of all public
business arrangements. Only the middle-aged or old took part in anything
of the spectacular nature in this great parade. Probably I attracted a
great deal of attention, therefore, because of my youth, being then only
twenty-one.
In truth, I felt a little flattered by the appointment, and determined
to make as good a show as possible. Having been born and reared on a
farm, I knew how to ride, so I got the stableman to give me the finest
stepper he could furnish. He found a beautiful animal, with a frolicsome
spirit, and I felt that I should prove at least a good part of the
exhibition. I was decked in a flowing red, white, and blue sash that
swept below the saddle-girths, and my horse was a proud-looking and
dainty-paced beast. With a little rehearsing of my part, I was fully
prepared.
On the occasion of the parade, I am quite sure, I was the observed of
many observers. The spectators were let into the mystery of the
beautiful caracoling and dancing of my horse, whom I touched
occasionally with the spur in a particular way, and who acquitted
himself with great credit. The populace thought he was trying to unseat
me, or to run away, and that it was only by excellent horsemanship that
I was able to hold my seat and look like a centaur. I am ashamed to say,
at this far distance in retrospect, that it was a proud moment for me,
and that I took so much pleasure in so idle and empty a show. But youth
must be served.
I had charge of the Colonial Governors, who were the guests of the city,
and of the President, and I escorted them from Boston to Charlestown.
There were Sir John A. MacDonald, of Canada; Governor Tilly, of New
Brunswick; the Honorable Joseph Howe, ex-Governor of Nova Scotia; and
Millard Fillmore, President of the United States. President Fillmore and
Sir John MacDonald rode on the back seat of the first carriage, and Howe
and Tilly on the front seat. Somehow, Boston seemed to regard the
colonial officials as equal to, if not a little better than the
President. I suppose this was because of the sentiment of Bunker Hill,
and because the presence of British representatives was a matter of
pride and gratification.
But the day was to end in gloom. As I was in the midst of the gaiety and
at the height of my exultation, a messenger handed me a despatch. I tore
it open, and found that it was from a friend in Louisville, Ky., and
contained a warning. Miss Davis, to whom I was betrothed, lived in
Louisville, and I was soon to marry her there. The telegram urged me to
hasten my journey, as the report of the coming marriage had created a
great deal of bad feeling. My friend advised me to lay aside everything
and go to Louisville with all possible despatch.
I could not imagine, at first, what this meant. It seemed to convey only
some presage of disaster. I left the gay scenes of the parade and
hurried to my room at the hotel. There I made instant preparation for a
trip to Louisville.
Before leaving Boston, however, I learned what it was that had caused my
friend in Louisville so much concern. Some time before, there had been a
marriage of a Kentucky girl with a Northerner--the much-talked of
wedding of Bigelow Lawrence and Miss Sallie Ward. It had aroused a great
deal of bitter feeling, because of the increasing tension and friction
between the North and the South. This was none of my affair; nor did I
share the feeling on either side. Indeed, at that time, I knew little
and cared less about the sectional differences between the North and
South. The only interest I had in the South at that time was a
commercial one in our shipping business, and the more personal interest
attaching to that portion of the South that held my future wife.
My own approaching marriage to Miss Davis had, it seems, been regarded
as of sufficient importance to arouse the same feeling that had been
created by the Lawrence-Ward marriage. My friends were manifesting much
solicitude. What most alarmed them was the fact that a number of gallant
Kentuckians were trying to marry Miss Davis themselves, and thus
patriotically save her for the South. Among these patriots were Senator
James Shields, Mexican hero of Belleville, Ill., Lieutenant Merriman of
the navy, and an officer of the army. There was, also, a suitor from my
side of the line--"Ned" Baker, of Springfield, Ill., who was afterward
United States consul-general at Montevideo. In her letters to me she had
mentioned all of these gentlemen, but I was not particularly anxious
about the matter, feeling that there was safety in numbers. But now that
my friends were interesting themselves, I thought it full time that I
should be looking after affairs myself.
I was doomed to suffer from the inconsistency of woman. When I reached
Louisville I wrote to her, mentioning the reports sent me by friends.
This angered her. She became indignant because I had taken any notice of
these rumors, and refused to see me on that day. But on the following
day she was in a milder mood, ready to see me. This meeting put to rest
forever all doubts, suspicions, and jealousies, and my fears melted into
thin air.
But for all this, I was determined to take no further chances with three
or four rivals, and decided that I should not again leave my affianced
bride behind me. I insisted upon an immediate ceremony, and we were
married by the rector of the Episcopal church in Louisville, October 5,
'51. Her father, Colonel George T. M. Davis, was then editor of
Haldeman's Louisville Courier. Belle Key, the famous Kentucky beauty,
whose sister, Annie Key, married Matthew Ward, who killed a Kentuckian
in a duel, was my wife's bridesmaid, and Sylvanus J. Macey, son of
William H. Macey, was groomsman. My wife was only seventeen years old.
She was very beautiful. Her picture appeared in the Book of Beauty the
following year.
We came east from Louisville on our wedding journey, stopping at
Cincinnati, where I had a curious experience. The Burnett House was the
most popular hotel in the city at that time, and we stayed there. It had
just fitted up the first "bridal chamber" in this country, if not in the
world. Every little hotel has one now; but then such a thing was unheard
of, so far as I have been able to ascertain. At any rate, Mr. Drake, the
clerk, asked me if I did not wish to take the "bridal chamber." He told
me it was the only one in the world. As I was ever keen and ready for a
novelty, I replied that of course I would.
I had already been in a great many hotels in this country. The
prevailing rate of charge was about $2 a day, at that time. I supposed
that this splendid room would cost a little more, being a special
apartment--perhaps about $5 a day. It cost $15! But I was willing to pay
for the honor of occupying the first "bridal chamber" in the world.
From Cincinnati, we came directly on to Boston, and stayed at the
Winthrop House, where I had been before. I soon had a conference with
the Boston house which I represented, and it was determined that I
should return to Liverpool and resume charge of the branch there, but in
somewhat different and better circumstances. I returned in '52. The ship
we sailed on was the Daniel Webster, built by Donald Mackay in East
Boston, and which I had named in special honor of my friend, the great
Daniel. Captain Howard was in command.
The trip was destined to be eventful. Five days after leaving Boston we
ran into a heavy gale from the west. Our boat was very sturdy, and we
had no fears, but I knew that many smaller and less seaworthy ships
would suffer in such a driving storm. We were, therefore, on the lookout
for vessels in distress.
For the greater part of the time, during the height of the gale, I stood
on the bridge closely scanning the horizon line in front. Suddenly
something seemed to rise and assume form out of the storm-wrack, and
this gradually grew into the shape of a vessel. I saw that it was a
wreck, shouted to the captain, but he, looking in the direction, could
make out nothing. My eyes seemed to be better than his, although his had
been trained by long practise at sea. He could not see much better when
he got his glasses turned in the direction I indicated, but finally he
discovered the vessel, though he did not seem desirous of leaving his
present course to offer assistance.
I insisted that we should go to the rescue of the ship and her crew, and
he turned and said: "Mr. Train, we sea captains are prevented from going
to the rescue of vessels, or from leaving our course, by the insurance
companies. We should forfeit our policy in the event of being lost or
damaged."
"Let me decide that," said I. "We can not do otherwise than go to the
assistance of these persons." And we went. The Webster bore swiftly down
upon the wreck, which proved to be in worse plight than I had imagined.
She was buffeted about by the waves, and seemed in peril of going down
at any moment. Men and women were clinging to her rigging, hanging over
her sides, and trying to get spars and timbers on which to entrust
themselves to the sea. The doomed vessel was the Unicorn, from an Irish
port, bound for St. John's, N. B., with passengers and railway iron.
This iron had been the cause of the wreck, for in the rough weather it
had broken away from its fastenings, or "shipped," as the sailors
express it, and had broken holes in the sides of the boat and
overweighted it on one side.
A brig that had sighted the Unicorn before we came up had taken off a
few of the passengers--as many as it could accommodate. The Unicorn was
a small vessel, and there seemed little chance for the rest of the
passengers unless we could reach them. The sea was running very swift
and high, and it was not possible to bring the Webster close to the side
of the Unicorn. To make matters worse, the sailors had found that there
was whisky in the cargo, and in their desperation, drank it without
restraint. They were, consequently, unmanageable. They could not help us
to assist the miserable passengers on their own boat.
There was nothing else to be done except to get into our small boats and
try to save as many passengers as possible. The captain got into one
boat and I into another, and we were rowed to the side of the Unicorn.
There we discovered that many had already perished. Dead bodies were
floating in the sea about the ship. We tried to get up close enough to
reach the passengers, but found it impossible.
"Throw the passengers into the sea," I shouted to the captain of the
Unicorn, "and we will pick them up. We can't get up to you." In this
way, the crew of the Unicorn throwing men and women into the sea, and
our boats picking them up, we succeeded in saving two hundred. All the
rest--I do not know how many--were drowned. We finally got these two
hundred persons safely on board the Daniel Webster.
Here we discovered other difficulties, and it seemed, for a time, as if
starvation might do the work that had been denied to the waves. There
was, also, the question of accommodations; but we solved this problem by
taking some of our extra sails and tarpaulin and rigging up a protection
for them on the deck and in the hold, so that we made them all fairly
comfortable. The problem of food was far more difficult. We simply had
no food, the captain said. There was hardly more than enough for the
crew and passengers of our own vessel, as the delay caused by the rescue
and the departure from our course had made an extra demand upon
supplies.
Here a happy thought occurred to me. We happened to be carrying a cargo
of corn-meal. I had heard that the Irish, in one of their famines, had
been fed with corn-meal, learning to eat and even to like it.
"Open the hatches!" I cried, with the enthusiasm of the philosopher who
cried "Eureka." The problem of food was soon solved. Two of the barrels
were cut in half, making four tubs. From the staves of other barrels we
made spoons, and from the meal we made mush which the half-starved men,
women, and children ate with great relish. They lived on it until we got
them safely landed on English soil, the entire two hundred persons
reaching port without the loss of a single soul.
This was my first service at a rescue, and, of course, I was proud of
it. Captain Howard received a handsome medal from the Life Saving
Society of England, and the incident greatly increased the reputation of
our packets.
On arriving at Liverpool, we went to No. 153 Duke Street, a house then
kept by Mrs. Blodgett, whose husband saw service as consul in Spain.
This house was at that time the favorite resort of American sea captains
and shipping men, and was a sort of central point for all Americans in
Liverpool. John Alfred Marsh, who had been with us in Boston, was with
me in Liverpool at this time, in the branch of our house there; and I
think he is the only man living among all of my friends of that year. He
is now connected with the Guion Line steamships.
During the first year in Liverpool after my marriage, I had a peculiar
and interesting experience with the science of phrenology. At that time
every one was talking about its "revelations," and I became somewhat
interested in it. My interest came chiefly, however, through James
McHenry, whose line of ships to Philadelphia I had charge of. He
suggested one day that I go to a phrenologist, saying that I had a most
curious head. Up to this time, I had not taken any stock in the science,
which I set down as charlatanry and mountebankism. But he insisted, and
finally I consented to go with him to Bridges, then the most famous
phrenologist in Liverpool or in the west of England.
Bridges astonished me so greatly by telling me things about myself that
I had supposed no one knew but I, that my interest was awakened. Still I
thought there must be something queer about the thing, and I accused
McHenry of having told Bridges something about me beforehand so that I
might be taken by surprise. McHenry so vehemently denied this that I
knew he was telling me the truth. There was nothing to do but to accept
the "chart" of Bridges as being at least sincere.
As I like to investigate everything for myself, I determined to see what
there was in phrenology, and to have my head examined in circumstances
where there could be no question that the phrenologist had had any
information about me. So I went to London, and there consulted a still
more famous phrenologist, the octogenarian Donovan. I said to him: "Mr.
Donovan, I want you to tell me the plain truth about my head."
"Phrenology does not lie," he said. "Put down your guinea."
I put down the guinea, and submitted to an examination. He told me
almost the same things that Bridges had said, and thus confirmed the
first chart of my head. After finishing his examination, Donovan looked
at me and said: "You will be either a great reformer, or a great pirate.
It merely depends upon the direction you take in Ethics!"
Even this examination did not entirely satisfy me. There were still
higher authorities in phrenology, and I felt that I should not be
satisfied until I had the verdict of the highest court of appeals. I
consulted every phrenologist I could reach--a great professor in Paris,
another from Germany, and finally, I reached the highest authority then
living, the highest that has ever lived, possibly, the great Dr. Fowler,
who was then lecturing in England.
He came to Liverpool to lecture, and I went to hear him. Fowler asked
for some one from the audience to allow him to examine his head. As he
had never seen me, I felt that I could in this way get an absolutely
impartial and unprejudiced reading. I went on the stage, and my
appearance caused a ripple of surprise, for I was known in Liverpool.
The phrenologist placed his hands on my head and exclaimed: "Jehu, what
a head!" The audience applauded, as if they thought I had a head, and
had used it to good purpose in their city.
Beverley Tucker was American consul in Liverpool at that time, having
been appointed by President Pierce. When the famous actor and dramatist,
John Brougham, visited Liverpool, I suggested that we Americans, in
whose country Brougham had lived and done his best work, should
entertain him at a dinner at the Waterloo House. We had a large and
lively company present, and Brougham was in his best vein. I asked
Brougham for his autograph, and, at the same time, something about the
poet Willis, who was then our favorite American poet. He gave me
instantly, without apparent thought, the following verse:
"Hyperion curls his forehead on,
Behold the poet Willis!
For love of such a Corydon,
Who would not be a Phyllis?"
Thus have I narrated, in this and the previous chapters, the most
interesting events and experiences of my life in Liverpool. The life
there was particularly varied and altogether delightful. It was, of
course, a very busy time, but I managed to get a great deal of pleasure
out of it. There was a constant round of entertainments, and the social
life of the city was generally gay and interesting. At this period I had
two portraits of my wife and myself made. They are now in the possession
of my daughter, who keeps them in the room which she always has ready
for me in the country.
As for my standing in the city, I may give here the opinion of Charles
Mackay, the poet, author of Cheer, Boys, Cheer, and other well-known
poems, who wrote, in reviewing my book, Young America in Wall Street,
that I "walked up the Liverpool Exchange like a Baring or a Rothschild."
I remained in Liverpool one year with my wife, and then returned to the
United States. This was in '52. The best men of Liverpool had made me
welcome everywhere, in all circles of business or of society.