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From Boniface to Bank Burglar; Or, The Price of Persecution How a Successful Business Man, Through the Miscarriage of Justice, Became a Notorious Bank Looter — A Reader’s Guide

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In Category - Diaries Journals

Authors: White, George M. (George Miles) Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2018 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Criminals -- Biography; White, George M. (George Miles); Bank robberies -- United States Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 126,106

Reading time 549 min

Text sections 36

Before opening From Boniface to Bank Burglar; Or, The Price of Persecution How a Successful Business Man, Through the Miscarriage of Justice, Became a Notorious Bank Looter — A Reader’s Guide, the edition data offers a quick orientation: 126,106 words, 9 hr 9 min estimated reading time, and 36 detected text sections.

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Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Criminals -- Biography,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #57760

George M. White's 1905 memoir recounts his transformation from a successful hotelier to a bank burglar, driven by a miscarriage of justice. Written from a prison cell, the narrative blends precise criminal logistics with personal reflection, offering a firsthand account of late-19th-century bank robberies and the author's evolving moral justifications.

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Title & short description10 pts
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File: pg57760

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elieve that the war between the North and South over the negro was drawing to a close. I was a resident of Stoneham, Massachusetts, and, after a fashion, felt pretty well satisfied with myself and surroundings. I was the owner of a hotel, a large livery with a fine stock of horses and vehicles, besides a grocery business in which I employed several clerks, and a goodly interest in Towle & Seavy’s wine house at 21 Congress Street, Boston. Also, I had a few parcels of real estate in Stoneham, which were increasing in value. In these days of colossal fortunes, the total of my worldly possessions then would be of no account; but I, the holder of thirty thousand dollars and a happy home, surrounded by a happier family, my father and mother still living, and I barely thirty, with the spirits of youth, felt, as I have just said, pretty well satisfied with my life and the world generally.

I had just returned from a delightful visit to my paternal home in Vermont, to find this United States deputy marshal and his friend, James Cummings, guests at my hotel. I must confess to having a feeling of curiosity as to what they looked like, which may have been a trifle effeminate in me; so I was not sorry when, the next day, this Mr. Wyckoff, unaccompanied by his friend, drove up to the hotel. Aside from curiosity, I had the excusable characteristic, usually found in public-house proprietors, of wanting to cater to patrons with full purses and a disposition to spend money freely. Naturally, I greeted Wyckoff effusively and made him a welcome guest. He seemed to be of a good sort; a bright, stirring young fellow, with a pleasing address and a ready flow of language. I was very much interested in his conversation on war topics, his knowledge, it seemed to me, being based on a wide experience. He appeared to be well versed in the financial opportunities of the war, particularly as to army contracts,--how they were obtained and the large amount of money that was being made out of them.

Wyckoff was not the first marshal to stop at my hotel, for in those tumultuous times they popped up frequently in search of deserters from the army. I confess to taking a great liking to him, and when in a few hours he left the hotel, saying he must go on farther, I felt genuine regret, in which there was not mingled an avaricious thought.

“I hope you’ll stop here whenever you come down this way,” I said to him at parting.

“I certainly shall,” was his reply; “and I’m quite likely to be along soon, too. I liked the team I had, and all of your hotel accommodations. If I do come, I shall need another team no doubt, and I hope you’ll let me have your best.”

“That you shall, Mr. Wyckoff. The best service of my house and stable shall be yours.”

The next I saw of him was in September, when he put up with me again. He engaged one of my best spans and was away three days. Later in the same month he was my guest, and, hiring another outfit, was gone three or four days. In October I saw him, but in a most unexpected manner, as shall be related in due time.

Affairs prospered with me in the usual happy channel, and day by day saw me adding a few dollars to my little fortune. I saw no speck, portentous of trouble, on life’s horizon, nor did I discover anything that foretold disaster. My business was firmly established and my credit was of the highest order. For my honesty I was respected, and as for wisdom, I was supposed to possess as much, if not more, than the average resident of my town. On an occasion I had been a postmaster, with all the honor that office of the United States government confers upon one living outside of the great cities. As I have said, life was flowing like a placid river, when, one day, James Cummings, the companion of Marshal Wyckoff, registered at the Central House. Now I did not like this man from the first, though he seemed a good enough fellow and talked freely of his affairs and his home in Rochester, New York, where there was a big fruit-tree nursery, of which he said he was an agent. I had not met him on his first visit, and it was not until I had seen the register and asked who the stranger in the bar-room was, that I knew Marshal Wyckoff’s friend.

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White opens his 1905 memoir with a preface written from a prison cell, framing the book as both a warning and a practical guide for those handling large sums of money. He claims to have compiled his life story from memory alone, without written records, and acknowledges that errors may creep in. This origin—composed during solitary hours while others slept—shapes the entire work: the narrative is retrospective, self-justifying, and unapologetically detailed about criminal methods.

The table of contents reveals a two-part structure, moving from hotel days and a first burglary to later exploits like the Cadiz bank loot and a scheme against the Brevoort Stables. White’s voice is direct and businesslike, even when describing perilous escapes, as when he rigs a cable of clothes-lines and horse reins to cross a skeleton bridge during a storm.

A Prison-Born Project

The preface establishes White’s dual purpose: to help financiers guard against crime and to warn those tempted by wrongdoing. He writes that he “resolved that no more of life’s precious years should be spent in sowing to the wind,” yet the book’s title and content celebrate his notoriety as a bank looter. This tension between reform and pride runs throughout. White admits he kept no records because “in leading the life of a transgressor it is not conducive to safety,” so he relied on memory—a claim that invites skepticism but also gives the narrative a confessional, episodic quality. The preface’s closing note, that “facts crowded upon me until I have been enabled to issue a volume of no mean proportions,” suggests White saw his story as both cautionary and commercially appealing.

The Bridge Crossing: A Set Piece of Nerve

One excerpt describes a nighttime escape across an unfinished bridge during a storm. White and his accomplice Mark use two clothes-lines and three pairs of horse reins to create a cable. White ties it around his body and crawls on planks above a roaring river, with the wind making “wild, weird music” through the wires. He arranges a signal system—three pulls on the cable to indicate safe crossing—and tells Mark to cut the rope if he falls, preferring death to dangling and freezing. The scene is vivid and technical, showing White’s ability to improvise under pressure. It also reveals his theatrical side: he calls back a goodbye before starting, and later laughs at Mark’s profanity. This blend of danger and dark humor recurs in the excerpts.

Memory as the Only Record

White repeatedly emphasizes that he wrote from memory, without diaries or notes. In the preface he says, “I kept no record of events, for in leading the life of a transgressor it is not conducive to safety; so I have been forced to depend solely upon my memory.” This disclaimer serves several functions: it excuses possible inaccuracies, it heightens the drama of recollection, and it positions White as a man who lived so dangerously that he could not afford paper trails. The result is a narrative that feels immediate but also unreliable. Readers must weigh White’s self-serving claims against the detailed logistics he provides—details that suggest either a remarkable memory or a degree of fabrication.

The Businessman’s Voice

Despite his criminal career, White writes in the tone of a businessman addressing other businessmen. The subtitle promises the story of “a successful business man” turned bank looter, and the preface targets “the financial world and general public.” His descriptions of burglaries often read like commercial transactions: he calculates risks, manages accomplices, and assesses loot. In the bridge episode, he refers to a “treasure satchel” and plans the cable’s length with practical precision. This professional veneer makes the memoir unusual among criminal autobiographies. White does not glamorize violence or portray himself as an outlaw hero; instead, he presents crime as a risky enterprise that failed, and his book as a post-mortem analysis for those who might learn from his mistakes.

White’s memoir rewards readers who attend to its practical details and its narrator’s shifting self-presentation. The bridge crossing, the preface’s prison origin, and the businesslike tone all point to a man who saw himself as both a cautionary example and a skilled operator. Because the excerpts cover only portions of the book, the full arc of White’s moral reasoning—from persecution to bank looting—remains to be explored. First-time readers should watch for how White justifies each crime and where his claims of reform ring hollow or sincere.

That rainy afternoon, White’s careful notes on dynamite and ledgers felt less like crime and more like accounting—a man itemizing his own ruins. Near the end, his quiet longing for solitude reminded me of something calmer, so I reached for Henry D. Thoreau — Reading Notes, and the rain seemed to slow, matching his pace.