The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, May 3, 1896, Page 17

EORGE FRANCIS TRAIN has been_treated -still again by an Eastern magazine under the title of “The Most Eccentric Man in the Worid.”’ - The-author:is not to be found fault with for -having missed his estimate of Train. Two ‘generations have tried to guessout the mystery .of this man, The superficial view - has”always made of him ‘““‘the most éccentric-man in-the world.” To me, who claim . to “know him bettéer than does any- of the time: denrce but with certainty, that some mor: ing ‘I’ ghall- dfaw’ back my biinds to d cover-myself ‘faimous, having the night béfore written “the simple story-of his life | as'I know-it. When Ltalk of certainty it is qualified, of tourse,’by the:exactions of the news- paper ‘grind’ and -the also certain onset of jts. incidental- paresis, which in my case must be sufliciéntl¥ postponed beyond that gue day *witen I shall have time.” t while setting this intention of mine ou - the light am T forgetting that the aisles are crowded Wwith eager writing veo- : *..ple'seeking themes. For no other man | can.gain the end with thisone. Toalloth- | “ers it is threadbare. "“They'will altend with “the shaliow reiteration “‘Thie most eccen- trie man in’ the world.”” | For gixty-seven days I was the constant | coriipanion “of-Train in his tour of the world .against tinie—the swittest tour of the-world. To-be sure, one other man has had that experience since then, but he is atready in an’insane asylum. For the time being; I 'bave him 4t a disadvantage. Besides, he had only opportunity—neither interest. application or talent. . Away back soméwhere in thefog, George Francis. Train " door of the editor’s room of the Louisville, Courier-Jouriial, and was “Will. Visscher, who has smce developed into ‘one. of theé- best story-teHers and sweetest - singers of the South.- Visscher was then secretary to George D. Prentice, * and the story of that meeting between the . handsomest and best-dressed young man " he had -€yer seen and the ‘most slipshod nd illzlooking—the latter being Prentice— is ofie-of the best “that he tells. Afteran iew.of fwenty minutes between the meanners of a courtier, himself out, and Prentice, begin- or in- bis torn old pers, dictated to ription ‘of Train that ermanent place in lizerature »d-for all othér descriptions ning to:, pace..thé’ amd s _dressing-gawn isscher ithat " ‘has_faken ::and has st de down, its cow- ruck in a stump, its wheels turn- hqusand revolutions & minute; the fains of twenty men all pulling in differ- t-directions,”. etc. “Prain’s crime’ of eccentricity is not ‘new to him.. - And out of:ity reiteration he invented this word “crank” many vears ago. - For a crank is not acrank without * catcher.: body, heis.the most picturesque character | I'have had opportunity and | interest ta stady bim as no other man has | had, and" I-laok ferward, not with confi- | knoched one day.at the | admitted by | Singapore the one night we stopped there. on the balcony and under the electric lights of the Hotel de I’Europe. here were twenty people at the table— government officials and newspaper men —and I imagine, though tiger-hunting and such things are common diversions down there, they have not ofzen had such an entertainment as they had that night. Train sat at tne head of the table and li tle was expected of the others but to listen. “I have been fooling the world for thirty vears with this word ‘crank,”” he said. “Do you not know that it is » crank that moves_the world? It is by acrank that flour is grou ines are run, and light and water are furnished. E: i worth speaking about is done ¥ rank. - They have been calling me ec- | centric. I turned the joke on them with | do not stop to think of. Iam the cl and prince of cranks—they have been say- ing so for years.” Now this is really the cue to Train, and answers 10,000 questions. He is impatient | of the people. His so-called eccent | grow_out_of his contempt for the crow; Starting in with ‘*‘the brains of twen men,” and knowing that most others have barely enough for one. he expected “‘recog- nition’” still expecting it. His brains taught him the value of clothes and courtesy. With a fascinating per- sonality, applauded on every hand, a long series of big things done standing to his At Singapore one can throw stones on tbe | Equator, so the table was placed outdoors | | this word, the real meaning of which they | | children, throwing crumbs to the birds. | in the big cities of the Eastand the min. | “‘chief,” he commands’ himself, and all THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, MAY 3, 1896. credit at a time of life when most men are coming, callow, out of college, he became | “the people’s”’ candidate for the Presi- | dency by his own motion. Proclaiming himself ‘‘citizen,”’ the only citizen in the country, there was yet always that within him that taught him his right to nom- inate himseli—to place the crown upon his own head. He traveled over the country making his own canvass. Tumult followed him everywhere. There was na doubt about it—he was the one man of the people, he was the citizen born to lead. The evidences lay spread out in the daylight and cried everywhere in the night. If he entered a theater to witness the play, he became the play. The audience rose up and would not be satisfied until bhe had spoken to them. It was so in the North and South, ing camps of the West. But when the votes were counted they were nearly all for Grant. A few of them were for Greeley. For fourteen years after that George Francis Train refused to speak to a man or woman. Even his own family came under the proscription—save one danghter whom he especially loves. Ahl believe me, itis a great story and I alone in the world unaerstand it. Hesat down one day on & bench in Madison square, New York, and with a slight interruption, which I will tell you about, he has been sitting there ever since, weather Eermining. e is waiting for that crowd that he so much despises to come back and get down on irs knees and beg him to lead them out of their difficulty. He knows tneir difficuitv. He knows the way out. He knows that nobody else does know. And so he sits1n confidence wait- ing, perfectly happy, playing with the Some day it will come to them with the swiftness of inspiration, and he will be made dictator. He is absolutely certain of it. The presidency he would not haye. The president is a servant of the people. Train would serve but,illy. The defiant same reason, and he usually holds an um- brella in reserve to lift and intervene. He intends to live 200 years, and to that end must save his force. He has plenty of time, therefore, and he is waiting toward a great end. 4 8 Is this insanity? Train has been saying this a great many years, and just now we hear the first low ‘wash of the scientific wave repeating the same thing—that by living thus and so eating and refusing to eat such and such, life may be extended indefinitelv. While proclaiming his in- tention—or rather not proclaiming 1t, but simply answering the question when put to him—Train has also been living the life that the scientists have discovered to be necessary to this end. He eats fruits and nuts, very little of vegetabie, no ** dead animals.”” And is not handshaking, kiss- ing and the like also tabooed by tne scientists? 1If ali this ke true then Train is eccentric because all the rest of us are wrong. Then again he wears a white suit of real life. up that only knew Geor; through their fireside tales. refused to believe for a long time. But no cold potatoes were offered him. He had not been asleep. He came back the same dominating personality that had passed out. The Chicago anarchists had sent him a round robin just prior to the date of their hanging, begging him to come to their as- sistance. He answered them that he would upon one condition: that if he should fail they must go upon the scaffold as brave men, singing the ‘‘Marseillaise.” They promised. It was a dramatic con- cepiion, the climax of which must be the dictatorship. He would go to Chicago and defy the authorities, overawe, if possi- ble, and himseli get into jail, possibly. The condemned jmen would go to their death singing revolution in the ‘‘Marseil- laise. Perhaps—perhaps there would be enough who would respond, and the dream of these years would be realized. A new generation had grown Francis Train The old men philosophers agree that that is the first step toward dictating to nations, its eccentric, you know. -1 remember bis telling . abouit’ it at a banguet he gave at 2 A /4 “ONLY THE CHILDREN UNDERSTAND i g AN el i [ ME-—1I AM MYSELF A CHILD.” “{ went through Ireland during the period of the Fenian agitation, and the people crowded about me and offered to make me their king,” he said to me once. “But I would not have it. Itold them that a No. 6 crown could not be made to fit a No. 9 head. No, it is the dictatorship or nothing. T will have notning of king- ships or presidencies. And the applause of the crowd; oh, I am sick of it."” Thuswthe very gentlest of men. Con- stantly surrounded by children who claim him as their friend and companion, divid- | ing among them his everlasting package of peanuts or bunch of bananas, teaching | them his own consideration for the birds | that perch upon his shoulder—those who view him in this, his customary attitude, and go away with the notion that he is a senile old man, a mere eccentric, make the common mistake. He is virility itself. He likes the word *‘vril.” This long holi- day, this wide blue sky that gives no sign of an active volcano—it is only because a long training has taught the monster to rumble softly and amuse the children. Some day he will lift the lid from the crater and say, “Now vomit; I must be busy.” This laughing, gentle old man with the big bonbonniere, swinging a jumping-rope for a 6-y ear-old, 18 he letting the world slide? "He has a string on it—he is watch- ing it very closely. If you can catch him some time when he is not too busy teach- | ing a little girl to ride a bicycle or win- ning points at mumbl_e-pefi from her | brother, just say to him ‘‘the tariff,” or | “silver,” or *'this new policy in Borneo,"” or “the Transvaal,” or *‘the expected baby in the reigning family,” or any other question that the world, near or remote, may be thinking of and then tell me if the indications are not all there yet of the brains of twenty men, let them be pulling as they may. Ah, there is so much em- barrassing method in bis madness. It keeps the groundlings guessing and that amuses him. These eccentricities they talk about: I have said they are born of his contempt for the Fmple' “I am a chief!” he says. “l was born on the mountain. Is it my fault that I alone see the valleys on the other side? See, here is the multi- tude—the bankers, the common men of Wall street, for instance. There was one | man climbed so that he died somewhat | up the heights overlooking them, say ng’om half way. Here, on the summit, I was born. Soit is not strange they do not understand me. Only I and a few others understand Emerson.” So if be capers like an ape it is with the tholl‘lght,l,hlt “they will understand this, perhaps. He will not shake hands with any adult, nor allow any adult to touch him. He has not done so for more than twenty years. It isbecause he wishes to hold fast his vitality. He 1s a reservoir of electricity, and contact with negative bodies taps him. He will not allow any but children clothes in summer and a large boutonniere summer and winter and writes with a red and blue pencil, and at times vigorously denounces people and doctrines that he don’t like. These things also go for eccentricity. On the other hand, he is one of the most genial, fascinating and altogether mag- netic of men. His wit flasies like the sun on a lake, bright and kindly and con- stant. He enj of other people as well. A laugh gurgles in his throat over the telling of a good story, if it be for the hundredth time. He is a philosopher. The fire within him does not consume. The dictatorship is sp certain that he need only wait—not worry. “Everything is worth having. Nothing is worth worrying about. Relinquishment is possession.” That is his philosophy. And in the meantime. as a mere private citizen, his big personality maintains him ir the ublic eye. So it cannot be said truth- ully, as it is nevertheless so often said, that he is “‘growing more and more eccen- tric.” Forit is not many years since he satin the park, persistently sheltered by his umbrella and refusing to speak to any man. Now he talks incessantly, and no man can now understand by what power be maintained that tremendous silence. Ah, it is a great story! In the very prime of life, at the moment of his highést fame, he stepped out of it, closed his lips and sat in a quiet nook of a big city and watched the hurly burly go by. Atthat time and for years before he was one of the central figures of his time. ;{15 opinion of values was quoted on .’Change. His mere presence in Wall street gave brokersa palpitation of the heart. Why, a short time ago I walked with him into the balcony of the Stock Exchange and was myself a witness thatit stopped that headlong rush of business at its merid- ian for five minutes. Some broker looked up and said, “There is Traimn,” and the maniac yell of quotations died down as though Sunday had come. It was his first visit to the place for more than a quarter of acentury. He had been outof itall that timeand he isnot in it again, but those brokers have memories. They re- membered the time that he stood at the Pead as the organizer of the Credit Mobi- ier. But from that height—to him the heights are 1n the future—suadenly, and in the full gaze of the people he disap- Eenred. 80 to speak. For the bench that ecame to him what the tub was to Diog- enes, was in the very path of Broadway. No, his disappearance was not sudden, only his subsidence from activity. For he became a great card for newspapers for a time. But as yearsran on he even ceased to be interesting in this regard and then he faded out of view—the world forgot George Francis Train, Fourteen years he remained in this silence. watching the panorama of the world through the news- papers with undiminished but speechless interest. to even sit upon the same bench with him in the park, nor place a foot upon the rung of his chair. Even the steady gaze of the gaping idlers offends “him {6: this Then with the same suddenness with which he left it he stepped back into the world ;fgin. _Bo far as the world was con- cerned it was the Rip Van Winkle story in Joys his own jokes and those | had been in jails in every | was on the platiorm again. ixty-Day Tour of the World. It woulda not be a new experience. He part of the world for “speaking his mind,” as he put it. Once, during the Fenian uprisinz, he was lodged in jail in London and a communi- cation had reached him to the effect that, if he would-give the word of assent, the place would be stormed that night. He said, ‘‘No, but as an evidence of your dis- pleasure tear down Hyde Park fence.” That night it was torn down. But the world had grown older. He had been watchingthe linesdeepen in her face while he bimself stood by, smiling, and treasured up his youth. Within the week, now, he might givea nod that would shake the world. He did not say good-by. The children and the birds came tothe bench in the park in the morning and waited and | waited. Some of them fell asleep there. What had become of their playmate ? He had received the pledge of the an- archists in the morning’s mail and was al- | ready on the train going away to overturn the Government. He wore his white duck suit, and the famous boutonniere and the red fez of Murat. He was back in the worla again. He did not have to take new lessons of its ways., He was at once the tiger of old, the courtier of old, the prince of the present. There was the tall, erect figure, the broad shoulders, that carriage of the head, that quick, con- fident stride, that placing of the foot that was a sign of his born right to be dictator. He did come very near getting into jail in Chicago. He held public meetings and the police formed a large part of the audi- ence. After fourteen years of silence he Had he for- gotten the art of the orator? The police- men did not think so. He arraigned the courts for passing judgment of death upon | mon for exercising the right of free speech. He detied the policemen to arrest him and they were screly tempted. You have never heard Train? Then for me you are impossible. The Southern Pa- cific transcontinental rates are high, to ke sure, but go and hear him. He visited the Mayor and the Chief of Police and chalienged them to do to him what they had done to_the anarchists, for he, too, was expressing his mind. But they would not. The anarchists were hanged. They sang the “Marseillaise.” A few other anarchists gathered in the streets and muttered. Other men jostled each other in the street, sold wheat, ran for streetcars, forgot to order the coal, were late for dinner, played with their ba bies—very like any other Friday in Chi- cago. The sun went down. The great coup did not so much as deserve a line in the eager evening newspapers. For this the silence of fourteen years had been broken. Train, outof the dis- gust that he felt for it, went out of the country—went to Canada. He quickly tired of that, however, and returned to Boston. There he did succeed in getting into jail for something or other, and they had quite a time getting him out, for he was well pleased in _his grim-gay way and bought a suit of striped clothes to further signify what the groundlings may do un- wittingly to their chief. Butthey expelled him from jail on a habeas corpus or some- thing, and then he was at a loss again what to do. He had returned to the world; he did not think of going back to silence; the Government as yet seemed secure on its footing, and so, with his activities all aweake again, it became a question of how he could be kept busg enough to employ them. It was then he undertook to ac- complish a tour of the world in sixty days, and I was sent with him, representing a newspaper. Can you imagine a prettier bit of dra- matic action than that of a public man who has sat in silence for such a time that the world has forgotten him, rising up from his seat to make a tour of the world against time? Train had been over this track no less than three times before and in every port tound some old-time friends. He was in his element and en- joyed all that he saw with the pleasure of a child. The constant change and excite- ment fitted into his temper for the time. The only anxiety he ever expressed to me was, “What shall I do when the journey is over? It is necessary to me that T shall be kept verly busy now; otherwise I must return to silence and my children in Madison Square.” < I answered, *“Why not keey moving; keep traveling round the world? You have been playing the hermit in New York. Go to the ot{mr extreme; become the wander- ing American. It would be a great play.” ““You have answered my question,” he said. ¢ He has made one tour of the world since then. He has traveled over a great part of the United States. He was the dis- tinguished guest of the World's Fair at Chicago, nng many who were there during the lonesome months of the opening and who saw the rapid increase of attendance after his arrival and the exercise oihl_zia tremendous adyertising powers gave him credit for h:vln§ practically ‘‘saved the fair.” He is in New Yorknfi:i.n with the children in the park, but ping busy with his red and blue pencil while waiting 10 be discovered for what he is. Such is Train of to-day. He livesin a little garret room in the Continental Ho- tel at Broadway and Twentieth street. | The room is piled up with books and | papers, most of which are valued because they have reference to him. He has a small income and lives within it. He has | a wonderful system of economy. He has all the newspapers sent to him every morning and rushes through them, ab- | sorbing the news of the whole world in | rapid fashion. He breakfasts on a cup of | coffee, a few crackers and fruit, and | straichtway goes to his bench in the park | and remains until the evening papers are | out. Heis in frequent demand at certan functions, for he 1s even a more entertain- | ing after-dinner talker than Chauncey De- pew himself and his genial personality makes him everywhere sought after. George Francis Train was born near Bos- ton about 65 years ago. As a baby his | parents took him to New Orleans. There | they died of yellow fever during a visita- | tion of that plague that nearly depopu- lated the place. He remembers how the carts drove through the deserted streets at night, ihe drivers crying, ‘‘Bring out your. dead!” A Mississippi steamer was to come up the river and some one put a tag | upon him by which the child was passed along to Boston. He went to Harvard only as agrocer’s boy, having business with the kitchen. The head of the firm of Enoch Train & Co. was his uncle. They were merchants owning a line of sailing vessels and doing business with the whole earth. As a young man George Francis Train was sent to take charge of the firm’s ‘interests | in Liverpool. He developed rapidly. Before nis majority his salary was equal | to that of the President of the United States at that time. In London he became afad. When membersof Congress -went i | | | there they sought Train if they wanted an introduction to some member of Parlia- ment. He was on easy footing with tha government. He had a reServed seat on the floor of Parliament. Against ‘the bit ter opposition of the cabmen—one of the greatest of London monopolies—he secured a franchise for laying a street railway in London, the first street railway. -The track was Jaid and operated, but was after- ward torn up in a riot precipitated by the cabmen. From Liverpool Train was sent by his company to Australia, where he immediately became the same potent fac- tor in affairs. He established stage lines which for’the first time regularly con- nected the widely separated settlements. At the breaking out of the war in this country Train was sent {0 England, where his speeches did much to check the stam- pvede of Rnblic sympathy in favor of the South and kept kim in constant hot water with the British authorities. His speeches were reprinted in this country by the Gov- ernment and scattered throughout the army as an ‘agent to quicken patriotism. He organized the Credit Mobilier, made the speech at Omaha at the turning of ground for the first Pacific railroad, and was charged with insanity in the Chinese Mail of Hongkong, because, in that speech 35 years ago, he predicted a -time when Paris to Peking would mean fifteen days. In a tour of the world a few years after he heard, while at Singapore, of the fall of Napoleon, and went steamer haste to Paris, made a speech in French in the Paris Opera-house, at the end of which he was picked up and carried through the streets by the excited people. Gambetta had him kidnaped and carried by special steamer across the Atlantic. Then 'he ran for President. Tne rest has been told. He is wailing for the pricking of the conscience of the crowd that iurned from him. 8. W, Warr. FAMOUS NATIVES OF THE- COLORADO VALL! INDIAN ~ RUNNERS. EY WHO MAKE FORTY MILES IN Two HOURS. Dr. Marc Levingston of this City has had | some curious experiences on the Western border. This isnot generally known, for | the doctor during the last few years has been so prominently before the people, first as Coroner and afterward in politics, | and again in connection with one of the | famous Fair wills, that it has not been known that he ever Lad anything to do | with the frontier. | However, he has been interested in min- ing both in the northern and southern | portions of the State. He owns the old | Campbell mine, now better known as the \ San Felipe mine, up the Colorado River | some distance from Yuma. He has been interested in the mine six or seven years, | and at different periods has spent two or three months there, | ©I think the most remarkable thing in | my experience down there,”’ said the do tor yesterday, “‘was the extraordinary e durance which I witnessed of those In- dians along the river. I refer to the Yu- | mas. We used to employ them in the mine. “Why, Ihave seen those great, strap- ping barbarians take their shovels and press them down into the rock with just their hands—never using their feet at all— and they would keep it up, go right along that way. The strangest thing about it | was the rock was so bard, too. They | might have done it in sand easy enough. | Anybody could do that very readily, but | to work that way right in the hard rock was something to me entirely novel and in the nature of a revelation. “There is another thing that those In- dians used to do that 1 never saw equaled, or heard of its being equaled. They used to, when we wanted to send any of them | down the river for the mail to Yuma, go right oui to the river and jump in; some- times there would be twenty or thirty of tbem, and they just jumped in and floated | down. Didn’t seem to bother them at all. | They didn’t swim—seemed to stay right | in the current and foat, while it bobbed | them along. “They made the whole trip down, a dis- tance of tweuty miles, in about three-| quarters of an hour. Then they’d start with the lefters and come back up and | make the round trip inside of two hours, | the whole forty miles. { “The Colorado River at the San Felipe | mine is about as wide as the Sacramento is at ramento. It is a big sweeping | stream with a swift rushing current. How | the Indians kept t! msei;ves up I don’t| know, but they did it. That is their way | of going down to Yuma. Of a- Saturday | when they would quit work every Indian | we had would jump in the river and float | to Yuma. *The trip back is no easy trip, either. A | good deal of it is up very rugged heights. | They are not so high, though, as they are | difficult of access. The Indians are ex- tremely useful in carrying ore. They thought nothing of putting up on their | shoufilers. without any help, a 200-pound | sack of ore. They did the work of horses | and mules and could pack like mules. | “But those Cocopah Indians, down on | | shape, | evening, expecting to be there five or the south near the gulf, so far as speed is concerned, don’t take a second plgce with iing there is on the Upper Colorado. 94 Senator Fair was down there. He was interested in a lot of land—about 1,000,- 000 acres, and he went down to ses it and get braced up, his healtinot being good. That is a very hot, dry climate, which makes 1t one of the best places for the cure of consumption that I know_ of. Well, he used to utilize the Indians to bring up our 'mail from Yuma and such other things as he stood in need of from time to time. The Cocopuhs are all giants. There are none of them that are not six feet high, and there are lots of them that are more than that—great big fellows. The first time Senator I'air saw these Indians rumming he was struck with surfivri:c. ‘Why, look at them,” he said. ‘Did you ever see any- thing like them They went with a swinging run and kept it up all day in the terribly dry heat. “The distance down to Yuma from our place was called a hundred miles in round figures, but it was about ninety-five. The Indians would go down one day and come back the next, and come back in zood too, and running right along. Didn’t seem a bit tired. Why, you talk ot men of the Stygian Alps and the runners in other parts of the world. I never saw mountaineers or plainsmen that could be- gin to approach these people. “The Government sends these Indians long distances over the desert with the mails. Wien running, the Indians are entirely naked, with the exception of a breech-cloth. They carry only a canteen of water and a bit of food. One of the ‘fjumuus runners of the desert is Indian im."” General Guilliamo Andrade, now a resi- dent of this City, who owns the large area of land near the Gulf of the Colorzdo-in Lower California, said of. the Cocopah runners’ and the tribes to which they belong: “These Indians are of two kinds, the valley Indians and the mountain Indians: The valley Indians are very tame, kina and gentle, while the mountain Cocopahs are comparatively wild. These two. kinds of Indians hate each other. They are well formed, big and strong, “After Thomas Blythe died, Philip A. Roach, his administrator, Mr. Warner and I and one or two others went.down to look over his great estate lying on the Colorado. We were at the Colorado col- ony, sixty-five miles from Yuma, and o days yet, we concluded to send an Indisn up to Yuma for our mail. The indian was called up and he started out at sunset. “‘Aiter he had gone we concluded, after all, we wouldn’t stay, and that we would pack up and gb ourselves to Yuma. It took us a little while to do this, but we nally got off. :We expected to meet the Indians away up near Yuma somewhere, | but we had barely got started when the Indian arrived with the answer. ‘‘He had traveled 130 miies in thirty-five hours, not counting the time he had to sleep or get anything to eat. “Their runners beat all the runners of the earth of which I have ever heard. Their muscles seem to be of steel, and their lungs are so good that they are sus- tained in_their remarkable tripsin a way that lays it over all the horses we have.”” ON A LONG JOURNEY,