Fifty years in Wall Street
relief, or a large portion of it.
“Corneel” had great tact in utilizing his various advantages for
borrowing, and was imbued with a thorough devotion to his object, worthy
of a better cause. The day following his first visit to my office, he
called again and told me that his friend Colfax had left by the early
train for Washington and had urged him to go along, but as he had some
matters to attend to he had postponed his departure until the night
train.
He said to me, “By-the-bye, you know Jay Cooke very well.”
I said, “Yes.”
Then he replied, “I have some matters to look after in connection with
the Treasury Department, and I think he could be of some service to me.
Will you be good enough to oblige me with a letter of introduction to
him? I may not need it,” he added with a business air of _sang froid_,
“but I should like to have it in case of need.”
I wrote him a brief and non-committal introduction, somewhat as follows:
“This will introduce to you Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jr., son
of the Commodore. I take the liberty of making you acquainted
with him through this medium, at his own request.
“Truly yours, HENRY CLEWS.”
There was certainly nothing on the face of this document, except the
Commodore’s name, to justify any person in utilizing it as a bill of
credit.
Yet the financial genius of “Young Corneel” was equal to the task of an
indirect negotiation of this character, and after the lapse of a few
days his drafts from Jay Cooke began to pour into my office like April
showers. None of them was very large, but when put together they
aggregated a pretty fair amount, and were so cumulative in their
character that, had I not wired Mr. Cooke to stop the supplies, it is
difficult to say what figure the sum total would have reached.
The last time I saw “Young Corneel” was at Long Branch, where he took a
drive with me one fine warm afternoon. He spoke feelingly about his
wasted life, and concerning the many good friends who had come so often
to his rescue, and had got him out of his numerous holes, into which,
through misfortune, he had been thrown. He said all there was of life
for him was to live long enough to pay up old scores. He had fully
determined to do this, and then, he thought, a prolongation of existence
would have no further charms for him. It must be said to his credit that
he accomplished this work, and then laying himself sadly down, died by
his own hand.
Let us, therefore, throw the mantle of charity over that tragic scene in
the Glenham Hotel, and hope that his soul may elsewhere have found the
rest which in its poor, afflicted body it vainly sought for here.
That portion of the Commodore’s will in which he makes provision for
Cornelius J. is thoroughly characteristic of the old man, in its
iron-clad provisions. It says: “I direct that $200,000 be set apart, the
interest thereof to be applied to the maintenance and support of my son,
Cornelius J. Vanderbilt, during his natural life. And I authorize said
trustees, in their discretion, instead of themselves making the
application of said interest money to his support, to pay over from time
to time, to my said son, for his support, such portions as they may deem
advisable, or the whole of the interest of said bonds. But no part of
the interest is to be paid to any assignee of my said son, or to any
creditor who may seek by legal proceedings to obtain the same; and in
case my said son should make any transfer or assignment of is beneficial
interest in said bonds or the interest thereof, or encumber the same, or
attempt so to do, the said interest of said bonds shall thereupon cease
to be applicable to his use, and shall thenceforth, during the residue
of his natural life, belong to my residuary legatee. Upon the decease of
my said son, Cornelius J., I give and bequeath the last mentioned
$200,000 of bonds to my residuary legatee.”
Though a portion of this provision is rather whimsical, yet it was ably
designed to force “Corneel” to desist from his besetting sin, the gaming
table.
If the trustees were permitted to pay him the whole of the interest at
whatever period they should choose, it seems harsh that the beneficiary
should forfeit it entirely, if he should seek to relieve present and
pressing necessities, by borrowing on his future income. It showed that
the Commodore, even at the hour of his death, thought that “Corneel” was
not fit to be treated otherwise than as a child, and that it was
necessary he should be kept under the guardianship of his brother.
This circumstance hurt “Corneel’s” feelings greatly, as he imagined
himself a bigger man, mentally, than Wm. H. This opinion, however, no
other man could conscientiously endorse, except it might have been
Greeley or Colfax.
“Corneel,” though always exclaiming against the old man’s
hard-heartedness, had an intense admiration for his father’s abilities,
and he was as sensitive as a sunflower when any other person would say a
word to disparage the Commodore. While railing constantly at the
parsimony of his father, he was as devoted a hero-worshipper of the
Commodore as Thomas Carlyle ever was of the greatest of his heroes, and
he never grew tired talking of his achievements, with the history of
which he was thoroughly familiar. He had even a more intense hatred
against Gould than his father had, and solemnly believed that Gould and
Fisk had, during the manipulation of the Erie “corner,” conspired to
assassinate the Commodore.
Of course this was one of his many hallucinations, and there was not the
least ground for it, but he had got it indelibly on the brain, and he
would not tolerate contradiction in that notion any more than in any
other opinion which he had got fixed in his morbid mind. He once went
into an epileptic fit in the presence of a friend of mine who attempted
to reason with him on the improbability of such a man as Gould
contemplating murder.
He never forgave his father for having him arrested and incarcerated in
Bloomingdale Lunatic Asylum. He had run off to California the time of
the gold fever, and shipped as a sailor. He was then in his eighteenth
year. When he returned, which was pretty soon, as he had no ability to
enter into the terrible mental and physical struggle for wealth on the
gold coast, his father had him arrested. It was soon discovered that he
was no lunatic, however eccentric he might be, and he was released, but
he took the matter dreadfully to heart, and it had a melancholy and
demoralizing effect upon all his future life. He was petulant, and still
complaining, and often acted like a crazy man in that the more any of
his intimate friends tried to please him he seemed the more
dissatisfied; yet it was impossible to get along with him without
humoring him, and it was almost next to impossible to humor him. In this
way he could work on the minds of the strongest of his friends, so as
almost to put them into a fit as bad as one of his own.
Dr. Swazy’s patience was often put to a very severe test in his attempt
to please this eccentric invalid.
“Corneel” was a miser everywhere except at the gaming table, and would
cling to a cent with greater tenacity than ordinary people display in
holding on to a ten-dollar bill. But among the gamblers either a
ten-dollar bill or a hundred-dollar bill was less valuable in his eyes
than a cent in the common transactions of every day life. “Faro” and
“keno” had terrific power over him. He has often been known to have had
an epileptic fit at the gaming-table, get a doze afterwards which seemed
like the sleep of death, so cadaverous did he look on those occasions,
and then awake up and go on with the play, whose fascination he appeared
utterly powerless to resist.
When it came to the ears of the Commodore that Greeley was lending his
son hundreds and sometimes thousands of dollars at a time, he visited
the office of the _Tribune_. He rushed without ceremony into the
sanctum, where Greeley was busy at his high desk, grinding out a tirade
against some political or social abuse, and thus addressed the Sage of
Chappaqua: “Greeley, I hear yer lendin’ ‘Corneel’ money.” “Yes,” said
Greeley, eyeing the monarch of steamboat men through his glasses, with
an air of philosophic contempt mixed with commiseration; “I have let him
have some.” “I give you fair warning,” replied the Commodore, “that you
need not look to me; I won’t pay you.” “Who the devil asked you?”
retorted Greeley. “Have I?”
This closed the interview. The Commodore retraced his steps down the
rickety stairs into Spruce street, and Greeley continued to grind out
his illegible chirography for the profane printers. There is no record,
I believe, that the subject was ever reverted to between them. Soon
after the death of Greeley the Commodore sent a check for $10,000 each
to his two daughters.
The Commodore was well satisfied with the marriage of young “Corneel” to
Miss Williams, of Hartford, Connecticut, and he had hoped that his son
would begin then to lead a new life, but he was doomed to
disappointment.
There is a good story told about an interview between the Commodore and
Mr. Williams prior to the marriage.
Mr. Williams called upon the Commodore at his office in Fourth street,
near Broadway, and informed him that his son, Cornelius Jeremiah, had
asked his daughter in marriage, and she was willing if the Commodore had
no objection to the union.
“Has your daughter plenty of silk dresses?” asked the Commodore,
sententiously.
“Well,” replied Mr. Williams, showing some sensitiveness at what he at
first considered assumption of superiority and purse-pride on the part
of the Commodore, “my daughter, as I told you, is not wealthy. She has a
few dresses like other young ladies in her station, but her wardrobe is
not very extensive nor costly.”
“Has your daughter plenty of jewelry?” continued the Commodore, without
appearing to take much notice of Mr. Williams’ explanation.
“No, sir,” replied Mr. Williams, becoming slightly nettled, and showing
a laudable pride in opposition to what he considered a slur on account
of his moderate means, “I have attempted to explain to you that I am in
comparatively humble circumstances, and my daughter cannot afford
jewelry.”
“The reason I ask you,” pursued the Commodore, “is, that if she did
possess these articles of value, my son would take them and either pawn
or sell them, and throw away the proceeds at the gaming table. So I
forewarn you and your daughter that I can’t take any responsibility in
this matter.”
The nuptials were duly consummated, however, in spite of the Commodore’s
constructive remonstrance.
After the marriage “Corneel” asked his father for some money to build a
house. “No, Corneel,” he said emphatically, “you have got to show that
you can be trusted before I trust you.”
His wife made application to her father-in-law with better success,
however. He gave her a check for $10,000. In a few months afterward she
paid another visit to the Commodore, who received her cordially, but
expected she had come for another loan, and he was attempting to work up
his courage to the point of refusal; for, strong and almost invincibly
obdurate as he was in the general affairs of life, in the presence of
the fair sex, like Samson when he got his hair cut, he was weak and like
another man.
“Well,” said the Commodore, addressing his daughter-in-law with a kindly
smile, “what can I do for you now?”
“Well, papa,” she replied in her exceedingly candid and agreeable
manner, “we did not need all the money, so I brought you back $1,500.”
The Commodore could hardly believe his ears and eyes, and thought for a
moment that he must be under some mysterious delusion, superinduced by