My life in the old shipping house of Train & Co., in Boston, lasted some four years. The first vessel that came in, after I began working with the company, was the Joshua Bates, named after the American partner of the famous house of the Barings. It was of 400 tons, quite a big ship for the time. The next was the Washington Irving, 500 tons; and the third was the Anglo-Saxon, the bills of which, on a previous voyage, I had made out in my trial under Mr. Nazro. The Anglo-Saxon was lost the following year--this was in '46--off Cape Sable, with several passengers, the captain and crew escaping. After this the Anglo-American came in, then the Parliament, the Ocean Monarch, and the Staffordshire. All of these were famous ships in their day. In '48, I was at the pier one day on the lookout for the Ocean Monarch. Although the telegraph had been established in '44, it had not been brought from Nova Scotia to Boston, and we had only the semaphore to use for signaling. When a ship entered the harbor, the captain would take a speaking-trumpet and, standing on the bridge, shout out the most interesting or important tidings so that the news would get into the city before the ship was docked. The Persia was also due, with Captain Judkins, and it came in ahead of the Ocean Monarch. Some three or four thousand persons were on the pier waiting eagerly for the captain's news. I was at the end of the pier, and saw Captain Judkins place the trumpet to his lips, and heard him shout the tidings. And this is what I heard: "The Ocean Monarch was burned off Orm's Head. Four hundred passengers burned or drowned. Captain Murdoch taken off of a spar by Tom Littledale's yacht. A steamer going to Ireland passed by, and refused to offer assistance. Complete wreck, and complete loss." The captain shouted hoarsely, like a sentence of doom from the "last trump." Every one was stunned. The scene was indescribable, both the dead silence with which the dreadful tidings were received, and the wild excitement that soon burst forth. I took advantage of the awed hush of the people, and rushed toward the street end of the pier. There I leaped on my horse that was waiting for me, and galloped off. Crossing the ferry, I went madly through Commercial Street, up State Street, and to the Merchants' Exchange. There I mounted a chair, and amid a great hush, shouted out the tidings, word for word, and in almost the exact intonation the captain had used. One day a gentleman, looking like a farmer, came into the office and asked to see Mr. Train. I remember that it was the 5th of October, '47. I replied to his question that my name was Train. "I mean the old gentleman," he said.