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There is no man connected with the CPR who has had more experiences to the square inch than Jim French, the "cullud gemman" who does the honors so gracefully in President Van Horne's private car, and there is none who can relate his experiences more quaintly or more forcibly, or who can interlard them with more swear-words, than the aforesaid James. In fact, from the rugged cliffs of Cape Breton to the ocean-laved shores of British Columbia James French stands out alone and unique, the ne plus ultra, as it were, of all that is scientific and quaint in latter day profanity. Yet Jim is not bad, or vicious. On the contrary, he is as meek as a mouse, as generous as a lord, as sharp as a steel trap, and his heart is as big as the car in which he drives. Surrounded by wealth and luxury, Jim has had his dreams of greatness, but alas, many of them have not panned out as he had anticipated.

One of these, he related to the Beacon, while the President's car was waiting on the track at the Bar Road, the other day. It was while he was in Victoria, B. C., some years ago, that Jim experienced one of these ecstatic dreams. Somebody had whispered in his ear that if he invested his spare cash—he had about $225 in his inside pocket just then—in opium that he could treble his money back east. The vision of the wealth that was to roll in upon him as a result of this speculation nearly turned his head, and after a feverish night he pocketed his wealth next day and invested the whole of it in opium at $7.50 a point. He got back to Montreal with his investment, and lost no time in seeking out the leading druggist. "I told him that I had about $300 worth of the stuff, and asked him what he would give me for it. He looked at a little book, and then told me that it was worth $4.50 a pound. "Gee Whillakers! How my heart beat! only $4.50 a pound and I had paid $7.50 for it! I thought he was mistaken, but he showed me it in black and white. You see, the market for opium's something like wheat—it—it—what in — — — — do you call it—oh, yes—it fluctuates. One day it's up and the next day it's down. I struck it on the down grade. And how my heart beat!" "I tried every dealer in Montreal, but not one of them would give me a cent more than $4.50.

Then I took it home and stowed it under the bed, and told the old woman not to let any of the children tech it. She wanted to know what it was. 'Dynamite! Dynamite!' says I. 'Don't you let them children tech it!' Then she screamed, and told me to take it out, or we'd all be blowed up. At last, I told her all about it. She looked daggers at me, but none of them children teched it." "Some time after this I was in Chicago. I took the stuff with me. Only $5 a pound there! How my heart beat! I tried in other Yankee towns, but it was no go. And all this time I might have been getting 4 percent for my money if it hadn't been for that — — — — villain in Victoria! A shame, wan't it?"

"Next year, I was going to British Columbia, and I took it along with me. Tried to sell it to all the Chinese camps we passed, but couldn't do it. None of them would give me what I had paid for it. At that time, the track stopped at Port Moody. Of course, you know where Port Moody is. Well, there was a big Chinaman there and I hooked onto him." "'How muchee givee me?' I asked." "'Givee you seven dollee hop!' said John." "Seven dollars and a half! Gee Whillakers, how my heart beat! Just to think I was going to get my money back! Then I thought I'd strike for more, just for interest, you know!" "'Worth more than that,' said I." "'Seven dollee hop, all I givee. Gettee it in Victoria for seven dollee hop.'" "'But I have nearly three hundred dollars worth.'" "'Allee sammee thousand dollee; me take it seven dollee hop.'" "And you ought to have seen me 'hop' for that car. Gee Whillakers! How my heart beat! I took every blessed ounce of it and sold it to John. And it'll be a cold day again before you see me buying opium."

"Got salted on hats, too! yes, I did. You know those straw hats, those cheap hats, those ornery hats, those — — — — things that farmers wear in the fields! Of course, you do. Well, a friend told me in British Columbia that there was a bonanza for me in it, if I took a lot of them out. I could get fifty cents apiece for them. Went to a Montreal dealer, and asked him the price of them wholesale. 'Four cents,' said he. 'I'll take all you have,' said I. His eyes got big as saucers, and I guess he thought I was crazy. He sold me about three hundred of the — — — —things on a string. They filled my room near about. When I got to Donald the man that was to give me fifty cents for them had busted up, skipped out, vamoosed. And there I was with a half a car load of the — — — — things to sell, and only an hour or two or sell them in! How my heart beat! I hustled around, and at last found a chap that offered to take them off my hands for five cents apiece! A cent profit after lugging them for nearly three thousand miles! Whew! I've had quite enough of opium and hats. No more of them for me, please. But here's the old man." And Jim scurried off to the kitchen to arrange a tempting repast for the President.—St. Andrews Beacon, April 13, 1893.

Beacon
July 20/1893

A newspaper correspondent, hearing that Mr. Van Horne, had brought his "advisor" with him to St. Andrews, last week, asked Jim French, the colored porter, who Mr. Van Horne's adviser was. "I'm his adviser," replied the redoubtable Jim, without so much as a smile.

Beacon         
Aug 24/1893

Jim French, Mr. Van Horne's travelling companion, has a bathing suit that would make the gods weep—with laughter. It is cut décolleté around the neck, and the same way around the knees, and when Jim gets it on there is nothing around St. Andrews beaches that can hold a candle to him.

Beacon
Oct 12/1893

It's all right. "Jim" French says there need be more "kicking" about the rail way service. He'll see that Mr. Van Horne "fixes it up" when he comes back from England. thanks, Jim.

Beacon
July 7, 1898
Miss Van Horne and Mr. Ban. Van Horne came to St. Andrews on Saturday, in Sir William's private car, Major French commanding. [Jim French] Sir William arrived in his private car on Wednesday, and is now at Covenhoven, Minister's Island.

From Walter Vaughan, The Life and Work of Sir William Van Horne. New York: The Century Company, 1920:

He had an apt confederate in Jimmy French, his porter. A quick-witted and unprepossessing negro, Jimmy was an excellent
cook and devoted to his master's comfort. He was given, and exercised to the full, a liberty of speech which no one else would have dared, and which frequently led strangers to suppose that he must have saved Van Home's life or rendered him some other unforgettable service. But there was a perfect understanding between the two. After an outbreak of picturesque vituperation from his master for some failure of service, Jimmy would seat himself a few minutes later on the arm of Van Home's chair and punctuate the game of poker with droll remarks."Well, Jim," said Van Home on one occasion, "it looks as if there was not much for the car in this game.""I see dat, sah. Dat 's always the way. You get dose genmuns in an* teach dem a new game, and dey takes from you all de money in yo' jeans.' Jimmy identified himself with the Canadian Pacific and its president. Returning from the inspection of a rock-cutting, Van Home found him sitting gloomily on the steps of the car."Jim, what's the matter?" he asked. "Are you thinking of committing suicide?""Wa'l, Mistah Van Home," replied Jimmy mournfully, "I've been a-lookin' on at all dat work, a-tearin' down and a-pilin' up of so much rock, and I 've just been thinkin'-dat's what takes the gilt-edge off our dividends." A mock argument with Jimmy, which provoked a stream of quick-witted and often droll replies, was a frequent means of diversion for Van Horne and his guests. On one occasion when he was being bantered by Sir John Macdonald and Sir George Stephen, as well as by his master, he resorted to a lie, which Sir George promptly challenged. Jimmy was up a ladder, winding a clock. "Wa'al, you know, Mistah Van Horne," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the group below,"we railwaymen have to do a little of dat in our business." The "Saskatchewan" was frequently put at the service of distinguished travelers, with Jimmy in charge of the party. When the Marquis of Lome and Princess Louise were leaving Canada at the close of their vice-
regal term, they traveled to Quebec in his care and were amused by Jimmy's "Missa Louise" and "Your Succulency." They told Jimmy to call at their hotel and see them before leaving. Jimmy arrayed himself in his best, made his call, and was refused admittance to Their Excellencies by their attendants. Lord Lome, on hearing of this, drove immediately down to the 'Saskatchewan" to say good-by to Jimmy."And what did you do when the Marquis came?" asked Van Horne, to whom Jimmy was relating his experiences."I done ma very best, sah, to make him feel at home. I brought out de whiskey and soda, sah." When friends of Sir George Stephen or Sir Donald Smith traveled through Canada on the "Saskatchewan Jimmy would write to the former in London and give
his version of the travelers impressions of the road, to which he sometimes added comments of his own on their personal characteristics. Apropos of the wife of a Governor-General of Australia, he wrote:"She was the hollerest lady I ever met. Fust thingin the morning, it was tea; then a little breakfast, then lunch, then tea, then dinner-and a bite of supper before she went to bed Jimmy always had an eye to the main chance, and from his wages and the handsome tips he received amassed a considerable sum which he invested in house property in Chicago, his old home. One day, in the nineties, he announced that he was going to leave the Canadian Pacific and return to Chicago."How will the Boss get along without you?" he was asked."Dat 's what I doan' know, sah," said Jimmy, in some distress. "Dat 's what's troublin' me most." Jimmy went to Chicago, but soon found that he could not live without his "Boss" and the Saskatchewan There was no Van Horne in Chicago of whom he could speak as "we." He missed the delight of telling every one who would listen "how we built the C. P. R." He returned to Montreal, to find that the president was not going to hold out his arms to the prodigal. Van Horne wanted Jimmy back, and knew that Jimmy wanted to return to the car, but he was not going to ask him. Jimmy hung disconsolately about the company's headquarters. Finally a day came when the "Saskatchewan" was going out, and by some chance, in which a prominent official of the company was the deus ex machina, there was no porter available. Jimmy was hunted out of his nearby cache and stolidly took his place. The first hours of the trip were abnormally silent, and then, without any reference to what had happened, the old relations between master and man were resumed, to be broken only by death. One extremely hot summer day in 1901, when he was getting the car ready for a journey to Boston, Jimmy was stricken with heat-apoplexy and was found dead where he fell, on his master's bed. No railway porter ever had a more imposing funeral, and Van Home, who was deeply affected by the loss of his devoted servant walked at the head of the procession as chief mourner.