Among the many young men I have met one way or another, and a very nice young fellow he is, is a man by the name of Pratt, who is livin’ in New York now and makin’ money. He is a relative of the great Zadoc Pratt, the tanner, who used to employ Jay Gould years and years ago. And by the by, they tell a story about Gould and Zadoc Pratt which is characteristic of Gould anyway, and shows that thirty years ago he was about the same smart, quick, unscrupulous Jay as he is to-day.
This Zadoc Pratt took Jay Gould as one of his clerks, and as he was buildin’ and plannin’ buildin’s all the time, and as Jay Gould was a pretty good hand at drawin’ plans on paper (as well as dealin’ with “paper,” as he showed afterward), why Pratt got to think a good deal of Gould, and got to dependin’ a good deal upon his “plans.” Well, after a while Pratt and Gould quarreled. You see, they were both too smart, and two too smart men can’t get along well together; so they agreed to separate–at least Gould did the separatin’ and Pratt had to submit.
Pratt could have stood just then the losing’Jay Gould–he could have eaten three square meals a day if he had never seen Jay Gould again–but then he wanted, or thought he wanted, a lot of plans and specifications which Gould had drawn out. These plans and specifications, Pratt said, of right belonged to him, as they had been done in his time by his clerk. But Jay Gould claimed that as he did ‘em he owned ‘em; at any rate, he took ‘em. Pratt demanded ‘em back; Gould refused to give ‘em up. Pratt swore he’d have ‘em by force if he couldn’t get ‘em by any other way. Gould didn’t swear; he was too pious (!), besides swearin’ was a waste of words; but he hired six or seven roughs, at a dollar a day and their whiskey, to defend him and his papers. And he held the fort. The six or seven roughs won the day for him then, just as Fisk and Gould used to win, years afterwards, with their “Erie Strikers.” Pratt had to give in. Gould not only took, but kept, and has gone on takin’ and keepin’ ever since.
Before he went to Pratt’s, Jay Gould had been tryin’ his hand at cattle dealin’, and it is recorded of him that the only bein’ on the face of the earth that really got ahead of Jay Gould was a cow. It seems that he was a buyin’ some cows one day of an old farmer, and while the sale was goin’ on, he heard the farmer’s wife go up to him and beg him not to sell one of the cows, as she wanted above all things to keep that one particular cow for herself. She had got attached to it, for some woman’s reason or other. For this very reason, of course, Jay Gould was all the more determined to have that cow, and insisted on the farmer bringin’ her out for him to look at. The farmer kind of sided with his wife, but Gould persisted, the farmer gave in and the cow came out. She was real handsome cow to look at, and had a very good name for a cow, of “Old Pailful.” So Gould bought her and drove her home.
After supper the man for whom Gould was then workin’ told him that he had better go to the barn and see what kind of milker that Old Pailful really was. So Gould took his milkin’ pail and stool, and goin’ to the barn sat down alongside of Old Pailful and began to milk her as hard as he afterward milked Erie. But Old Pailful didn’t stand it as well as Erie did. All of a sudden she up with her heels, like a mule, and kicked over Gould and his pail and his stool, the stool hittin’ him on the head, and the milk spillin’ over his clothes. Then she kind of tried to gore Gould with her horns, Gould meanwhile rollin’ off to a corner to get out of the way of the beast. And then Old Pailful leaped over the fence and went back to “home, sweet home.” From that day on Gould took a cast-iron oath never to take what a woman wanted to keep.
Russell Sage used to be a somewhat eccentric character, and his rooms on William street were as plainly furnished as a hermit’s cave, the furniture consisting of “a spittoon, an oil cloth and an iron railin’.”
The brokers used to have a way of “layin’ for” Sage as he went in or out of his office, tryin’ to get points of him, and one day, it is said, Sage came near gettin’ arrested by a new policeman on the beat. The guardian of the peace saw a tall, slim chap with dark hair, movin’ uneasily along William street, as if he expected every minute somebody to pounce on him, as he did, for he was tryin’ to dodge anybody who wanted to pump him. So the policeman made up his mind he was a suspicious character, and bein’ a new hand and dyin’ for a chance to distinguish himself, he was just goin’ to collar Sage, when somebody else, some distinguished speculator or other, collared him instead, and called him by his name.
One of the smartest human beings that ever lived in New York was more than man–two letters more. She was a wo-man. I mean Miss Susan A. King. This lady was pointed out to me on the street one day, and I felt like takin’ my hat off to her, just out of respect, for I do respect a smart, plucky woman, and this Miss King was both. She was a Yankee, of course–all the “cute” people are Yankees, though they are smart enough to leave Yankee land as soon as possible. This King woman was the daughter of a shiftless sort of a man, who used to go peddlin’ round, and his daughter used to tramp round with him, and proved herself the best peddler of the two. She was great on swappin’ and tradin’, and always got the best of every trade. That was what she traded for.
At about eighteen years of age she reached New York with seventeen shillin’s in her pocket, and an old guitar she had learned to play on in her hand. On this capital, and on pluck and industry, she managed to live and save money, and put her money out in sendin’ out peddlers through the Southern States with Yankee notions–bein’ the first woman that ever went into this kind of business.
She prospered, and, when the rebellion broke out, calculated she was worth, all told, about ten thousand dollars. But as soon as the war began she saw there was trouble ahead. So she sold everythin’ she had in the world for just what she could get, cash, and put the cash, about two thousand dollars, in her pocket. With this money she tried to come up North, from Mississippi somewhere, but she had the deuce to pay before she could strike New York. She went through all sorts of adventures, but she was equal to ‘em all, and reached New York at last, with her money safe.
After the war she started the Woman’s Tea Company, and got the tea herself. She went all the way to China after it, and not only went to China, but went through it, bein’ the only American woman that ever did it. The American consul said he couldn’t do anythin’ for her in the way of protection, so she said she would protect herself. A woman’s wit was as good as the star-spangled banner, and in this case it was better. She dressed herself up Chinese fashion, got some coolies for attendants and started for the great unknown; she penetrated into the very heart of China; chow-chowed with the natives and ate rats and puppies with ‘em. That was the hardest part of all. Then she pretended to practice the Chinese religion; she couldn’t have lived a day if she hadn’t; she burned sticks in the joss-houses, offered up fire-crackers in honor of the Chinese gods, and wound up by climbin’ the eight-story sacred pagoda–all to get tea at the lowest prices.
When she got back to New York she made money, as she deserved to, and did a lot of good with her money, too–started the Midnight Mission and a home for old women, and helped in other good works. She was the strongest kind of a strong-minded woman, and it if half the females were like her it would be the men that would be “the weaker sex.”
She invested in real estate, and sold the ground where the Union Theological Seminary stands for about three times what anybody else could have got for it.
She wasn’t a bit handsome, just as ugly as Burdett-Coutts or Sarah Bernhardt, and it was her ugliness that helped her along. The men didn’t bother her, and she wasn’t all the time paintin’ her face and paddin’ her dresses. She carried her beauty inside of her head, not on top of it.
She was careless in her dress, havin’ more important things to think about. As for her hair, she wore it in a heap or twist at the back of her head. But in one point she was a regular woman all over, and that was her tongue. She could talk the pennies out of a miser’s pocket, and everybody she ever talked at surrendered at discretion. It was discretion to do so.
Altogether, New York is never likely to see a smarter woman in her line than was Susan A. King.
Among the smart hotel men who have figured in New York durin’ the last thirty years is Hollis L. Powers. They tell a story about the way he got ahead of Earle, the old hotel man, which would do credit to Jay Gould. Earle used to keep a small hotel near the Astor House, which did, in a quiet way, a very good trade. Earle engaged Powers as clerk to this house, and Powers, knowin’ how to do two important things–smile and hold his tongue–got along very well with everybody, and watchin’ things, got a chance to make a little outside money now and then.
The time came around for Earle to renew his lease of the hotel, and of course he intended to renew it; but of course he didn’t want to seem too anxious about it; so when the owner asked him about renewin’ his lease, he hemmed and hawed, and said he would see about it, and all that.
This was on a Tuesday, but Earle made up his mind that before Saturday he would close with the landlord all right. But bright and early on Wednesday mornin’ Powers called on the owner and had a long talk with him, and went away with a paper in his pocket.
All Wednesday and Thursday Powers was at his desk as clerk–as well dressed, as polite, as quiet as ever. But on Thursday mornin’, when the owner dropped in at the hotel, and Earle began to find that, after all, he was willing to renew his lease, the owner of the buildin’ pointed to the quiet, dapper-lookin’ clerk at the desk and said: “It is too late now. That young man there has leased the establishment for the next three years.” And so Earle found himself ousted out of his own hotel by his own clerk.
Almost all of the successful hotel men of New York are the outgrowth of poor but smart boys. There’s Darling, for example. He began life at an old tavern as hall boy, at ten dollars a month. Crockett was running the tavern then, and he took a fancy to the hall boy. One day he said to Darling” “Youngster, get up early to-morrow mornin’, and I will take you with me and teach you how to market.” At four o’clock the next mornin’, one hour before Crockett showed up, Darling was up and dressed, and went with Crockett on his rounds two or three different times. Then Crockett, bein’ unwell one mornin’, asked Darling to take his place, and next day, after resumin’ his rounds, Crockett was told by one of the largest dealers in the market: “If you’re smart, Crockett, you’ll stay at home after this, and let that boy (Darling) do your buyin’. He can beat you buyin’ any day–for money.”
About five years or so after I came to New York, everybody believed the Fifth Avenue Hotel was just too far up-town, and it was called “Eno’s Folly.” Just then Paran Stevens took a lease of it, and guaranteed to open it as a hotel within a certain time. Everybody said “Silly Stevens,” and one man in a ‘bus said aloud one mornin’ to a friend alongside of him, “I’d like to bet a hundred dollars to ten that Stevens will bankrupt himself in less than one year.” “I’ll take that bet,” said a third party in the ‘bus. “Who are you, sir?” asked the fellow who wanted to bet so bad. “My name is Paran Stevens,” was the reply.
Well, the man couldn’t well back out after his brag, so the bet was taken, and one year afterwards the man who bet the hundred dollars stepped up to the cashier’s desk of the Fifth Avenue Hotel and paid his hundred dollars.
Hotel men have pretty level heads, and they generally keep what money they once get. In this respect they differ from some other once celebrated men around New York. There was “Dr.” Townsend, for instance–”Sarsaparilla Townsend” as they once used to call him. He could make money, but he couldn’t keep it.
He made his money, too, by a mere accident. He was poor, and his old mother had nothin’ to give him but an old recipe she picked up somewheres. One day he took it into his head, in his little room on the top of a tenement house, to see whether this recipe of the old woman’s was worth anythin’. He set to work, invested about one dollar in materials, and made some sarsaparilla. He drank some himself, and liked it. Then he gave some to an Irish family in the next room, and they liked it. In fact, the whole tenement house liked it. So Townsend pawned all he had to pawn, raised about five dollars, and took to peddlin’ sarsaparilla. It took, and he stopped peddlin’ pretty soon and took to manufacturin’ and supplying other people. In a few years he was rich, off an old woman’s recipe. He built a magnificent brownstone front house on Fifth avenue, and furnished it splendidly. Then his troubles began. He made the mistake of thinkin’, because he was lucky, that he was smart and couldn’t make mistakes, and so he made mistakes all the time. He had an idea that he knew everythin’ about real estate, whereas he didn’t know anythin’, and as there is nobody so pig-headed as a fool, nobody could advise him except those who advised him wrong. So in a few years he wasn’t worth a dollar, hadn’t any sarsaparilla or energy to fall back on, and went to the dogs, and A. T. Stewart bought his “palace” for a song.
Then there was Horace H. Day. He once made a big stir in New York, and passed through two stages in his career–a hero and a jackass.
Goodyear sold him a license to make India rubber goods, gave him a part of his patent and he got rich by it. Then people all over the country interfered with his rights, and he went to law about ‘em. Things seemed very dark ahead of him for a while, and law was mighty expensive, but Day believed in Davy Crockett’s maxim: “Be sure you’re right, then go ahead,” and he went ahead, and came out ahead at last. He risked pretty near all he was worth in his legal fights, but he won all his cases, and was at one time worth nearly two millions of dollars. That was his reward for bein’, after his own fashion, and in his own line of business, a hero.
Then he got bitten with the “investment” mania, which is worse than the hydrophobia, for the man who is bitten by a mad dog is afraid of water, but the man bitten with the investment mania isn’t afraid of anythin’. You couldn’t stop Day from investin’. He invested in everythin’, and the more you argued against an investment the more money he would put into it. Then not finding as many livin’ people to agree with his ideas as he expected, he began to believe in spiritualism, and he consulted the dead. After Harry Clay died he consulted his spirit about West Side property. He took Harry’s advice, too, and lost every dollar he invested. Then he summoned the spirit of Ben Franklin, and was equally unfortunate. Well, to cut it short, Horace H. Day wound up in a Tenth avenue tenement house, and his story shows how a first-class hero can get to be a first-class jackass.
And, in windin’ up this chapter about smart people, let me say that although, of course, in my line of biz I don’t meet clergyman very often, yet I have noticed that most ministers of any account are very much like other men, and keep their weather eye open for No. 1. Rev. Dr. Tyng makes a good thing out of life insurance; Re. Dr. Deems made a good thing out of old Commodore Vanderbilt, and I have heard a good story of the way Rev. Dr. Morgan Dix got to be rector of Trinity Church, which would do credit for “smartness” to Roscoe Conklin, or Garfield, or any other politician.
Old Dr. Berrian used to be rector of Trinity Church, and although a very good man, he was a rather lazy one, and didn’t like work for its own sake a bit. Well, through the influence of his father, ex-Governor Dix, young Morgan Dix was appointed one of the assistant ministers of Old Trinity. Now, there are lots of assistant ministers, and of course they all want to be rectors some day. So naturally they all watched each other pretty closely, just like rival professors, or politicians, or belles, or cardinals.
Young Dix didn’t care about the other assistants watchin’ him; he didn’t expect anythin’ from ‘em. He knew where the butter on his bread was to come from. So he kept his eyes fixed on Dr. Berrian, and he kept his tongue goin’ to old Dr. Berrian, and he made himself useful day and night to old Dr. Berrian, and he coddled old Dr. Berrian till old Dr. Berrian felt he couldn’t do without him.
So one day the old doctor and the young assistant minister got hold of the laws and regulations and charter of Trinity Church, and looked all over it carefully. The old rector wanted to see if there wasn’t some extra favor he could do for the young assistant minister, so as to show his good feelin’ toward him, and so as to fix it that the young assistant minister could after this do all the work, leavin’ only the old rector the drawin’ of his salary, an idea which suited the young assistant minister exactly, as he was one of those men who only need a chance to get their foot in a place to follow it with the rest of their body.
The old rector found that there was one place vacant that he had a right to fill. For twenty-five years there hadn’t been any assistant rector of Trinity Parish, but still there was such a place provided for, and a salary was provided for it, and it seemed to be especially provided for young Dix, who would thus, as assistant rector, have the right to do all the rector’s work.
So all of a sudden old Dr. Berrian appointed young Morgan Dix assistant rector of Trinity. How astonished the other poor assistant ministers all were, and then how mad. They knew what was comin’, and saw that young Dix had euchred the whole caboodle of ‘em. But it couldn’t be helped.
So young Dix was made assistant rector, and then he became actin’ rector, and at last he became rector altogether. The vestry one day handed him the keys of the church on the northern porch. He took ‘em, turned on his heel, and walked away the real head of the richest church corporation in America.
Now that would have been smart in Jay Gould or W. H. Vanderbilt, and I don’t see why it wasn’t just as smart in the Reverend Morgan Dix.
