CHAPTER I.
IN THE BEGINNING.
Family and Birth--School Life--His First Visit to New York City--
A Landed Proprietor--The Ethics of Trade--Farm Work and Keeping
Store--Meeting-house and Sunday-school--``The One Thing
Needful.''. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
CHAPTER II.
EARLY YEARS AT BETHEL.
Death of his Grandmother and Father--Left Penniless and
Bare-footed--Work in a Store--His First Love--Trying to buy Russia--Uncle
Bibbin's Duel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34
CHAPTER III.
BUSINESS LIFE
Removal to Brooklyn--Smallpox--Goes Home to Recover His Health--
Renewed Acquaintance with the Pretty Tailoress--First Independent
Business Venture--Residence in New York--Return to Bethel--
Anecdotes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .45
CHAPTER IV.
TRYING MANY VENTURES.
Visit to Pittsburg--Successful Lottery Business--Marriage--First Editorial
Venture--Libel Suit--Imprisonment and Liberation--Removal to New
York--Hard Times--Keeping a Boarding House . . . . . . . . . . . . . .58
CHAPTER V.
BEGINNING AS A SHOWMAN.
Finding His True Vocation--The Purchase of Joice Heth--Evidence as
to Her Age--Her Death--Signor Vivalla--Visit to Washington--Joining
a Travelling Circus--Controversies with Ministers--The Victim
of a Practical Joke. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
CHAPTER VI.
INCIDENTS OF A CIRCUS TOUR.
Beating a Landlord--A Joke on Turner--Barnum as a Preacher and as a
Negro Minstrel--A Bad Man with a Gun--Dealing with a Sheriff--
``Lady Hayes''--An Embarrassed Juggler--Barnum as a Matrimonial
Agent. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .83
CHAPTER VII.
HARD TIMES.
Advertising for a Partner--``Quaker Oats''--Diamond the Dancer--A
Dishonest Manager--Return to New York--From Hand to Mouth--
The American Museum. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .102
CHAPTER VIII.
THE AMERICAN MUSEUM.
Advertising Extraordinary--A Quick-witted Performer--Niagara Falls
with Real Water--Other Attractions--Drummond Light . . . . . . .115
CHAPTER IX.
INCREASED POPULARITY OF THE MUSEUM.
The American Flag and St. Paul's--St. Patrick's Day--The Baby Show--
Grand Buffalo Hunt--N. P. Willis--The First Wild West Show . . .126
CHAPTER X.
GIANTS AND DWARFS.
Science for the Public--Mesmerism Extraordinary--Killing off a Rival--
The Two Giants--Discovery of ``Tom Thumb''--Seeking Other
Worlds to Conquer--First Visit to England. . . . . . . . . . . . .138
CHAPTER XI.
TOM THUMB IN LONDON.
An Aristocratic Visitor--Calling at Buckingham Palace and Hobnobbing
with Royalty--Getting a Puff in the ``Court Circular''--The Iron
Duke--A Great Social and Financial Success . . . . . . . . . . . .148
CHAPTER XII.
IN FRANCE.
Arrival in Paris--Visit to the Tuilleries--Longchamps--``Tom Ponce''
all the Rage--Bonaparte and Louis Phillipi--Tour through France--
Barnum's Purchase. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .161
CHAPTER XIII.
IN BELGIUM.
Presented to King Leopold and the Queen--The General's Jewels stolen--
The Field of Waterloo--An Accident--An Expensive Equipage--The
Custom of the Country. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .168
CHAPTER XIV.
IN ENGLAND AGAIN.
Egyptian Hall and the Zoölogical Garden--The Special Relics--Purchase
of the Happy Family--Return to America . . . . . . . . . . . . .175
CHAPTER XV.
AT HOME.
Partnership with Tom Thumb--Visit to Cuba--Iranistan, his Famous
Palace at Bridgeport--Barnum's Game-Keeper and the Great Game
Dinner--Frank Leslie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .188
CHAPTER XVI.
JENNY LIND.
A Daring Venture--Barnum's Ambassador--Unprecedented Terms
offered--Text of the Contract--Hard Work to Raise the Guarantee
Fund--Educating the American Mind to receive the Famous Singer . .198
CHAPTER XVII.
ARRIVAL OF JENNY LIND.
First Meeting with Barnum--Reception in New York--Poems in Her
Honor--A Furore of Public Interest--Sale of Tickets for the First
Concert--Barnum's Change in Terms--Ten Thousand Dollars for
Charity--Enormous Success of the First Concert. . . . . . . . . .213
CHAPTER XVIII.
CONTINUED TRIUMPH.
Successful Advertising--The Responsibilities of Riches--Visit to
Iranistan--Ovations at Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore and
Washington--Visit to Mt. Vernon--Charleston--Havana--Fredericka
Brerner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249
CHAPTER XIX.
HAVANA.
Conquest of the Habaneros--The Italian and his Dog--Mad Bennett--
A Successful Ruse--Return to New Orleans--Ludicrous Incident--
Up the Mississippi--Legerdemain. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .262
CHAPTER XX.
THE TRIALS OF AN IMPRESSARIO.
St Louis--The Secretary's Little Game--Legal Advice--Smooth Waters
Again--Barnum's Efforts Appreciated--An Extravagant Encomium . . . 278
CHAPTER XXI:
CLOSING THE GRAND TOUR.
April Fool Jokes at Nashville--A Trick at Cincinnati--Return to New
York--Jenny Lind Persuaded to Leave Barnum--Financial Results of
the Enterprise . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285
CHAPTER XXII.
A FEW SIDE ISSUES.
The Expedition to Ceylon--Harnessing an Elephant to a Plow--Barnum
and Vanderbilt--The Talking Machine--A Fire at Iranistan--Mountain
Grove Cemetery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297
CHAPTER XXIII.
SOME DOMESTIC ENTERPRISES.
Putting a Pickpocket on Exhibition--Traveling Incognito--The
Pequonnock Bank--The New York Crystal Palace--A Poem on an
Incident at Iranistan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .311
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE JEROME CLOCK COMPANY.
Founding East Bridgeport--Growth of the City--The Jerome Clock
Bubble--A Ruined Man--Paying Honest Debts--Down in the Depths. .322
CHAPTER XXV.
THE WHEAT AND THE CHAFF.
False and True Friends--Meeting of Bridgeport Citizens--Barnum's
Letter--Tom Thumb's Offer--Shillaber's Poem--Barnum's Message to
the Creditors of the Jerome Clock Company--Removal to New York--
Beginning Life Anew at Forty-six . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .330
CHAPTER XXVI.
IDLENESS WITHOUT REST.
Annoying Persecutions of Creditors--Summer on Long Island--The
Black Whale Pays the Board Bill--The Wheeler & Wilson Company Remove
to East Bridgeport--Setting Sail for England . . . . . . . . . . .349
CHAPTER XXVII.
A PROSPEROUS EXILE.
His Successful Pupil--Making Many Friends in London--Acquaintance
with Thackeray--A Comedy of Errors in a German Custom House--
Aristocratic Patronage at Fashionable Resorts--Barnum's Impressions
of Holland and the Dutch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355
CHAPTER XXVIII.
HOME AGAIN.
A Jolly Voyage--Mock Trial on Shipboard--Barnum on Trial for His
Life--Discomfited Witnesses and a Triumphant Prisoner--Fair
Weather Friends--The Burning of Iranistan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE ART OF MONEY GETTING.
The Lecture Field--Success--Cambridge--Oxford--An Unique
Entertainment--Barnum Equal to the Occasion--Invited to Stay a
Week . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 383
CHAPTER XXX.
AN ENTERPRISING ENGLISHMAN.
A New Friend--Dinner to Tom Thumb and Commodore Nutt--Measuring
the Giant--The Two Engines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 417
CHAPTER XXXI.
AT HOME AGAIN.
The Clock Debts Paid--The Museum once more under Barnum's
Management--Enthusiastic Reception--His Speech--Two Poems . . . .424
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE STORY OF ``GRIZZLY ADAMS.''
Barnum's Partnership with the Famous Bear Hunter--Fooling Him with
the ``Golden Pigeons''--Adams Earns $500 at Desperate Cost--Tricking
Barnum out of a Fine Hunting Suit--Prosperity of the Museum--
Visit of the Prince of Wales . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .437
CHAPTER XXXIII.
BUILDING A CITY.
At Home Once More--Growth of East Bridgeport--Barnum's Offer to
Men Wanting Homes of Their Own--Remarkable Progress of the
Place--How the Streets were Named. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .453
CHAPTER XXXIV
A GREAT YEAR AT THE MUSEUM.
Capturing and Exhibiting White Whales--Newspaper Comments--A
Touching Obituary--The Great Behemoth--A Long ``Last Week''--
Commodore Nutt--Real Live Indians on Exhibition. . . . . . . . . 459
CHAPTER XXXV.
GENERAL AND MRS. TOM THUMB.
Miss Lavinia Warren--The Rivals--Miss Warren's Engagement to Tom
Thumb--The Wedding--Grand Reception--Letter From a Would-be
Guest, and Dr Taylor's Reply . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .491
CHAPTER XXXVI.
POLITICAL NOTES.
Barnum Becomes a Republican--Illuminating the House of a Democrat--
The Peace Meeting--Elected to the Legislature--War on the
Railroads--Speech on the Amendment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 515
CHAPTER XXXVII.
BURNING OF THE AMERICAN MUSEUM.
How Barnum Received the Tidings--Humorous Description of the
Fire--A Public Calamity--Greeley's Advice--Intention to Re-establish
the Museum--Speech at Employees' Benefit . . . . . . . . . . . . .537
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
POLITICAL LIFE.
In the Connecticut Legislature--The Great Railroad Fight--Barnum's
Effective Stroke--Canvassing for a United States Senator--
Barnum's Congressional Campaign--A Challenge that was not
Accepted . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .557
CHAPTER XXXIX.
FIGHTING A NEWSPAPER.
Disposing of the Lease of the Museum Site--The Bargain with Mr.
Bennett--Barnum's Refusal to Back Out--A Long and Bitter War with
``The Herald''--Action of the Other Managers--The Return of
Peace. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .573
CHAPTER XL.
BRIDGEPORT.
The Fight for the Establishment of Seaside Park--Laying out City
Streets--Impatience with ``Old Fogies''--Building a Seaside Home--
Waldemere--A Home in New York City . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .583
CHAPTER XLI.
HONORS AND ADULATIONS.
Second Marriage--The King of Hawaii--Elected Mayor of Bridgeport--
Successful Tour of the Hippodrome--Barnum's Retirement from
Office . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .590
FAMILY AND
BIRTH--SCHOOL LIFE--HIS FIRST VISIT TO NEW YORK CITY --A LANDED PROPRIETOR--THE
ETHICS OF TRADE--FARM WORK AND KEEPING STORE--MEETING-HOUSE AND SUNDAY
SCHOOL--``THE ONE THING NEEDFUL.''
Among the names of
great Americans of the nineteenth century there is scarcely one more familiar
to the world than that of the subject of this biography. There are those that
stand for higher achievement in literature, science and art, in public life and
in the business world. There is none that stands for more notable success in
his chosen line, none that recalls more memories of wholesome entertainment,
none that is more invested with the fragrance of kindliness and true humanity.
His career was, in a large sense, typical of genuine Americanism, of its
enterprise and pluck, of its indomitable will and unfailing courage, of its
shrewdness, audacity and unerring instinct for success.
Like so many of his
famous compatriots, Phineas Taylor Barnum came of good old New England stock.
His ancestors were among the builders of the colonies of Massachusetts and
Connecticut. His father's father, Ephraim Barnum, was a captain in the War of
the Revolution, and was distinguished for his valor and for his fervent
patriotism. His mother's father, Phineas Taylor, was locally noted as a wag and
practical joker. His father, Philo Barnum, was in turn a tailor, a farmer, a
storekeeper, and a country tavernkeeper, and was not particularly prosperous in
any of these callings.
Philo Barnum and his
wife, Irena Taylor, lived at Bethel, Connecticut, and there, on July 5, 1810,
their first child was born. He was named Phineas Taylor Barnum, after his
maternal grandfather; and the latter, in return for the compliment, bestowed
upon his first grandchild at his christening the title-deeds of a ``landed
estate,'' five acres in extent, known as Ivy Island, and situated in that part
of, Bethel known as the ``Plum Trees.'' Of this, more anon.
In his early years the
boy led the life of the average New England farmer's son of that period. He
drove the cows to and from the pasture, shelled corn, weeded the garden, and
``did up chores.'' As he grew older he rode the horse in plowing corn, raked
hay, wielded the shovel and the hoe, and chopped wood. At six years old he
began to go to school--the typical district school. ``The first date,'' he once
said, ``I remember inscribing upon my writing-book was 1818.'' The ferule, or
the birch-rod, was in those days the assistant schoolmaster, and young Barnum
made its acquaintance. He was, however, an apt and ready scholar, particularly
excelling in mathematics. One night, when he was ten years old, he was called
out of bed by his teacher, who had made a wager with a neighbor that Barnum
could calculate the number of feet in a load of wood in five minutes. Barnum
did it in less than two minutes, to the delight of his teacher and the
astonishment of the neighbor.
At an early age he
manifested a strong development of the good old Yankee organ of
acquisitiveness. Before he was five years old he had begun to hoard pennies and
``fourpences,'' and at six years old he was able to exchange his copper bits
for a whole silver dollar, the possession of which made him feel richer than he
ever felt afterward in all his life. Nor did he lay the dollar away in a
napkin, but used it in business to gain more. He would get ten cents a day for
riding a horse before the plow, and he would add it to his capital. On holidays
other boys spent all their savings, but not so he. Such days were to him
opportunities for gain, not for squandering. At the fair or training of troops,
or other festivity, he would peddle candy and cakes, home-made, or sometimes
cherry rum, and by the end of the day would be a dollar or two richer than at
its beginning. ``By the time I was twelve years old,'' he tells us, ``I was the
owner of a sheep and a calf, and should soon, no doubt, have become a small Crœsus
had not my father kindly permitted me to purchase my own clothing, which
somewhat reduced my little store.''
At ten years of age,
realizing himself to be a ``landed proprietor'' through the christening gift of
his waggish grandsire, young Barnum set out to survey his estate, which he had
not yet seen. He had heard much of ``Ivy Island.'' His grandfather had often,
in the presence of the neighbors, spoken of him as the richest child in the
town, since he owned the whole of Ivy Island, the richest farm in the State.
His parents hoped he would use his wealth wisely, and ``do something for the
family'' when he entered upon the possession of it; and the neighbors were
fearful lest he should grow too proud to associate with their children.
The boy took all this
in good faith, and his eager curiosity to behold his estate was greatly
increased, and he asked his father to let him go thither. ``At last,'' says
Barnum, ``he promised I should do so in a few days, as we should be getting
some hay near `Ivy Island.' The wished-for day arrived, and my father told me
that as we were to mow an adjoining meadow. I might visit my property in
company with the hired man during the `nooning.' My grandfather reminded me
that it was to his bounty I was indebted for this wealth, and that had not my
name been Phineas I might never have been proprietor of `Ivy Island.' To this
my mother added:
`` `Now, Taylor, don't
become so excited when you see your property as to let your joy make you sick,
for remember, rich as you are, that it will be eleven years before you can come
into possession of your fortune.'
``She added much more
good advice, to all of which I promised to be calm and reasonable, and not to
allow my pride to prevent me from speaking to my brothers and sisters when I returned
home.
``When we arrived at
the meadow, which was in that part of the `Plum Trees' known as `East Swamp,' I
asked my father where `Ivy Island' was.
`` `Yonder, at the
north end of this meadow, where you see those beautiful trees rising in the distance.'
``All the forenoon I
turned grass as fast as two men could cut it, and after a hasty repast at noon,
one of our hired men, a good-natured Irishman, named Edmund, took an axe on his
shoulder and announced that he was ready to accompany me to `Ivy Island.' We
started, and as we approached the north end of the meadow we found the ground
swampy and wet and were soon obliged to leap from bog to bog on our route. A
mis-step brought me up to my middle in water, and to add to the dilemma a swarm
of hornets attacked me. Attaining the altitude of another bog I was cheered by
the assurance that there was only a quarter of a mile of this kind of travel to
the edge of my property. I waded on. In about fifteen minutes more, after
floundering through the morass, I found myself half-drowned, hornet-stung, mud
covered, and out of breath, on comparatively dry land.
`` `Never mind, my
boy,' said Edmund, `we have only to cross this little creek, and ye'll be upon
your own valuable property.'
``We were on the margin
of a stream, the banks of which were thickly covered with alders. I now
discovered the use of Edmund's axe, for he felled a small oak to form a
temporary bridge to my `Island' property. Crossing over, I proceeded to the
centre of my domain. I saw nothing but a few stunted ivies and straggling
trees. The truth flashed upon me. I had been the laughing-stock of the family
and neighborhood for years. My valuable `Ivy Island' was an almost
inaccessible, worthless bit of barren land, and while I stood deploring my
sudden downfall, a huge black snake (one of my tenants) approached me with
upraised head. I gave one shriek and rushed for the bridge.
``This was my first and
last visit to `Ivy Island.' My father asked me `how I liked my property?' and I
responded that I would sell it pretty cheap.''
The year 1822 was a
memorable one in his childhood's history. He was then about twelve years old.
One evening, late in January, Daniel Brown, a cattle-drover, of Southbury,
Connecticut, arrived at Bethel and stopped for the night at Philo Barnum's
tavern. He had with him some fat cattle, which he was driving to the New York
markets; and he wanted both to add to his drove of cattle and to get a boy to
help him drive them. Our juvenile hero heard him say this, and forthwith made
application for the job. His father and mother gave their consent, and a
bargain was quickly closed with the drover.
``At daylight next
morning,'' Barnum himself has related, ``I started on foot in the midst of a
heavy snow-storm to help drive the cattle. Before reaching Ridgefield I was
sent on horseback after a stray ox, and, in galloping, the horse fell and my
ankle was sprained. I suffered severely, but did not complain lest my employer
should send me back. We arrived at New York in three or four days, and put up
at the Bull's Head Tavern, where we were to stay a week while the drover
disposed of his cattle. It was an eventful week for me. Before I left home my
mother had given me a dollar, which I supposed would supply every want that
heart could wish.''
His first outlay was
for oranges. ``I was told,'' he says, ``that they were four pence apiece, and
as four pence in Connecticut was six cents, I offered ten cents for two
oranges, which was of course readily taken; and thus, instead of saving two
cents, as I thought, I actually paid two cents more than the price demanded. I
then bought two more oranges, reducing my capital to eighty cents. Thirty-one
cents was the charge for a small gun which would `go off' and send a stick some
little distance, and this gun I bought. Amusing myself with this toy in the
bar-room of the Bull's Head, the arrow happened to hit the bar-keeper, who
forthwith came from behind the counter and shook me, and soundly boxed my ears,
telling me to put that gun out of the way or he would put it into the fire. I
sneaked to my room, put my treasure under the pillow, and went out for another
visit to the toy shop.
``There I invested six
cents in `torpedoes,' with which I intended to astonish my schoolmates in
Bethel. I could not refrain, however, from experimenting upon the guests of the
hotel, which I did when they were going in to dinner. I threw two of the
torpedoes against the wall of the hall through which the guests were passing,
and the immediate results were as follows: two loud reports--astonished guests--irate
landlord--discovery of the culprit, and summary punishment--for the landlord
immediately floored me with a single blow with his open hand, and said:
`` `There, you little
greenhorn, see if that will teach you better than to explode your infernal fire-crackers
in my house again.'
``The lesson was
sufficient if not entirely satisfactory. I deposited the balance of the
torpedoes with my gun, and as a solace for my wounded feelings I again visited
the toy shop, where I bought a watch, breastpin and top, leaving but eleven
cents of my original dollar.
``The following morning
found me again at the fascinating toy shop, where I saw a beautiful knife with
two blades, a gimlet, and a corkscrew--a whole carpenter shop in miniature, and
all for thirty-one cents. But, alas! I had only eleven cents. Have that knife I
must, however, and so I proposed to the shop-woman to take back the top and
breastpin at a slight deduction, and with my eleven cents to let me have the
knife. The kind creature consented, and this makes memorable my first `swap.'
Some fine and nearly white molasses candy then caught my eye, and I proposed to
trade the watch for its equivalent in candy. The transaction was made, and the
candy was so delicious that before night my gun was absorbed in the same way.
The next morning the torpedoes `went off' in the same direction, and before
night even my beloved knife was similarly exchanged. My money and my goods all
gone, I traded two pocket-handkerchiefs and an extra pair of stockings I was
sure I should not want for nine more rolls of molasses candy, and then wandered
about the city disconsolate, sighing because there was no more molasses candy
to conquer.''
During that first visit
to the metropolis the boy doubtless many times passed the corner of Ann street
and Broadway, where, in after years, his famous museum stood. After a week in
town he returned to Bethel, riding with Brown in his sleigh, and found himself
a social lion among his young friends. He was plied with a thousand questions
about the great city which he had visited, and no doubt told many wondrous
tales. But at home his reception was not altogether glorious. His brothers and
sisters were disappointed because he brought them nothing, and his mother,
discovering that during his journey he had lost two handkerchiefs and a pair of
stockings, gave him a spanking and put him to bed.
A settled aversion to
manual labor was strongly developed in the boy as he grew older, which his
father considered simple laziness. Instead of trying to cure him of his
laziness, however, the father decided to give up the farm, and open a store,
hoping that the boy would take more kindly to mercantile duties. So he put up a
building in Bethel, and in partnership with one Hiram Weed opened a ``general
store,'' of dry goods, hardware, groceries, etc., and installed young Phineas
as clerk. They did a ``cash, credit and barter'' business, and the boy soon
learned to drive sharp bargains with women who brought butter, eggs, beeswax
and feathers to exchange for dry goods, and with men who wanted to trade oats,
corn, buckwheat, axehelves, hats and other commodities for ten-penny nails,
molasses or New England rum. It was a drawback upon his dignity that he was
obliged to take down the shutters, sweep the store and make the fire. He
received a small salary for his services and the perquisites of what profit he
could derive from purchasing candies on his own account to sell to their
younger customers, and, as usual, his father insisted that he should clothe
himself.
There was much to be
learned in a country store, and principally, as he found, this: that sharp
tricks, deception and dishonesty are by no means confined to the city. More
than once, in cutting open bundles of rags, brought to be exchanged for goods,
he found stones, gravel or other rubbish wrapped up in them, although they were
represented to be ``all pure linen or cotton.'' Often, too, loads of grain were
brought in, warranted to contain so many bushels, but on measuring them they
were found five or six bushels short.
In the evenings and on
stormy days the store was a general meeting place for the idlers of the
village, and young Barnum derived much amusement from the story-telling and
joke-playing that went on among them. After the store was closed at night he
would generally go with some of the village boys to their homes for an hour or
two of sport, and then, as late, perhaps, as eleven o'clock, would creep slyly
home and make his way upstairs barefooted, so as not to wake the rest of the
family end be detected in his late hours. He slept with his brother, who was
sure to report him if he woke him up on coming in, and who laid many traps to
catch Phineas on his return from the evening's merry-making. But he generally
fell fast asleep and our hero was able to gain his bed in safety.
Like almost every one
in Connecticut at that time he was brought up to go regularly to church on
Sunday, and before he could read he was a prominent member of the
Sunday-school. His pious mother taught him lessons in the New Testament and
Catechism, and spared no efforts to have him win one of those ``Rewards of
Merit'' which promised ``to pay to the bearer One Mill.'' Ten of them could be
exchanged for one cent, and by securing one hundred of them, which might be
done by faithful attendance and attention every Sunday for two years, the happy
scholar could secure a book worth ten cents!
There was only one
church or ``meeting-house'' in Bethel, and it was of the Presbyterian faith;
but every one in town attended it, whatever their creed. It was a severely
plain edifice, with no spire and no bell. In summer it was comfortable enough,
but in winter it was awful! There was no arrangement for heating it, and the
congregation had to sit in the cold, shivering, teeth chattering, noses blue. A
stove would have been looked upon as a sacrilegious innovation. The sermons
were often two hours long, and by the time they were ended the faithful
listeners well deserved the nickname of ``blue-skins'' which the scoffers gave
to them. A few of the wealthier women carried ``foot-stoves'' from their homes
to their pews. A ``foot-stove'' was simply a square tin box in a wooden frame,
with perforations in the sides. In it was a small square iron dish, which
contained a few live coals covered with ashes. These stoves were usually
replenished just before meeting time at some neighbor's near the meeting-house.
After many years of
shivering and suffering, one of the brethren had the temerity to propose that
the church should be warmed with a stove. His impious proposition was voted
down by an overwhelming majority. Another year came around, and in November the
stove question was again brought up. The excitement was immense. The subject
was discussed in the village stores and in the juvenile debating club; it was
prayed over in conference; and finally in general ``society's meeting,'' in
December, the stove was carried by a majority of one and was introduced into
the meeting-house. On the first Sunday thereafter two ancient maiden ladies
were so oppressed by the dry and heated atmosphere occasioned by the wicked
innovation that they fainted away and were carried out into the cool air, where
they speedily returned to consciousness, especially when they were informed
that owing to the lack of two lengths of pipe no fire had yet been made in the
stove. The next Sunday was a bitter cold day, and the stove, filled with
well-seasoned hickory, was a great gratification to the many, and displeased
only a few.
During the Rev. Mr.
Lowe's ministrations at Bethel he formed a Bible class, of which young Barnum
was a member. They used to draw promiscuously from a hat a text of Scripture
and write a composition on the text, which compositions were read after service
in the afternoon to such of the congregation as remained to hear the exercises
of the class. Once Barnum drew the text, Luke x. 42: ``But one thing is
needful; and Mary hath chosen that good part which shall not be taken away from
her.'' Question, ``What is the one thing needful?'' His answer was nearly as
follows:
``This question, `What
is the one thing needful?' is capable of receiving various answers, depending
much upon the persons to whom it is addressed. The merchant might answer that
`the one thing needful' is plenty of customers, who buy liberally, without
beating down, and pay cash for all their purchases.' The farmer might reply
that `the one thing needful is large harvests and high prices.' The physician
might answer that `it is plenty of patients.' The lawyer might be of opinion
that `it is an unruly community, always engaging in bickerings and
litigations.' The clergyman might reply, `It is a fat salary, with multitudes
of sinners seeking salvation and paying large pew rents.' The bachelor might
exclaim, `It is a pretty wife who loves her husband, and who knows how to sew
on buttons.' The maiden might answer, `It is a good husband, who will love,
cherish and protect me while life shall last.' But the most proper answer, and
doubtless that which applied to the case of Mary, would be, `The one thing needful
is to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, follow in his footsteps, love God and
obey His commandments, love our fellowman, and embrace every opportunity of
administering to his necessities.' In short, `the one thing needful' is to live
a life that we can always look back upon with satisfaction, and be enabled ever
to contemplate its termination with trust in Him who has so kindly vouchsafed
it to us, surrounding us with innumerable blessings, if we have but the heart
and wisdom to receive them in a proper manner.''
The reading of a
portion of this answer occasioned some amusement in the congregation, in which
the clergyman himself joined, and the name of ``Taylor Barnum'' was whispered
in connection with the composition; but at the close of the reading Barnum had
the satisfaction of hearing Mr. Lowe say that it was a well-written answer to
the question, ``What is the one thing needful?''
DEATH OF HIS
GRANDMOTHER AND FATHER--LEFT PENNILESS AND BAREFOOTED-- WORK IN A STORE--HIS
FIRST LOVE--TRYING TO BUY RUSSIA--UNCLE BIBBIN'S DUEL.
In August, 1825, the
aged grandmother met with an accident in stepping on the point of a rusty nail,
which shortly afterwards resulted in her death. She was a woman of great piety,
and before she died sent for each of her grandchildren--to whom she was
devoted--and besought them to lead a Christian life. Barnum was so deeply
impressed by that death-bed scene that through his whole life neither the
recollection of it, nor of the dying woman's words, ever left him.
The elder Barnum was a
man of many enterprises and few successes. Besides being the proprietor of a
hotel he owned a livery-stable, ran a sort of an express, and kept a country
store. Phineas was his confidential clerk, and, if he did not reap much
financial benefit from his position, he at least obtained a good business
education.
On the 7th of
September, 1825, the father, after a six months' illness, died at the age of
forty-eight, leaving a wife and five children and an insolvent estate. There
was literally nothing left for the family; the creditors seized everything;
even the small sum which Phineas had loaned his father was held to be the
property of a minor, and therefore belonging to the estate. The boy was obliged
to borrow money to buy the shoes he wore to the funeral. At fifteen he began
the world not only penniless but barefooted.
He went at once to
Grassy Plain, a few miles northwest of Bethel, where he managed to obtain a
clerkship in the store of James S. Keeler and Lewis Whitlock, at the
magnificent salary of six dollars a month and his board. He had chosen his
uncle, Alanson Taylor, as his guardian, but made his home with Mrs. Jerusha
Wheeler and her two daughters; Mary and Jerusha. He worked hard and faithfully,
and so gained the esteem of his employers that they afforded him many
opportunities for making money on his own account. His small speculations
proved so successful that before long he found himself in possession of quite a
little sum.
``I made,'' says Barnum,
``a very remarkable trade at one time for my employers by purchasing, in their
absence, a whole wagon-load of green glass bottles of various sizes, for which
I paid in unsalable goods at very profitable prices. How to dispose of the
bottles was then the problem, and as it was also desirable to get rid of a
large quantity of tin-ware which had been in the shop for years and was
considerably `shop worn,' I conceived the idea of a lottery, in which the
highest prize should be twenty-five dollars, payable in any goods the winner
desired, while there were to be fifty prizes of five dollars each, payable in
goods, to be designated in the scheme. Then there were one hundred prizes of
one dollar each, one hundred prizes of fifty cents each, and three hundred prizes
of twenty-five cents each. It is unnecessary to state that the minor prizes
consisted mainly of glass and tin-ware; the tickets sold like wildfire, and the
worn tin and glass bottles were speedily turned into cash.''
Mrs Barnum still
continued to keep the village hotel at Bethel, and Phineas went home every
Saturday night, going to church with his mother on Sunday, and returning to his
work Monday morning. One Saturday evening Miss Mary Wheeler, at whose house the
young man boarded, sent him word that she had a young lady from Bethel whom she
desired him to escort home, as it was raining violently, and the maiden was
afraid to go alone. He assented readily enough, and went over to ``Aunt
Rushia's,'' where he was introduced to Miss Charity (``Chairy,'' for short)
Hallett. She was a very pretty girl and a bright talker, and the way home
seemed only too short to her escort. She was a tailoress in the village, and
went to church regularly, but, although Phineas saw her every Sunday for many
weeks, he had no opportunity of the acquaintance that season.
Mrs. Jerusha Wheeler
and her daughter Jerusha were familiarly known, the one as ``Aunt Rushia,'' and
the other as ``Rushia.'' Many of the store customers were hatters, and among
the many kinds of furs sold for the nap of hats was one known to the trade as
``Russia.'' One day a hatter, Walter Dibble, called to buy some furs. Barnum
sold him several kinds, including ``beaver'' and ``cony,'' and he then asked
for some ``Russia.'' They had none, and as Barnum wanted to play a joke upon
him, he told him that Mrs. Wheeler had several hundred pounds of ``Rushia.''
``What on earth is a
woman doing with `Russia?' '' said he.
Barnum could not
answer, but assured him that there were one hundred and thirty pounds of old
Rushia and one hundred and fifty pounds of young Rushia in Mrs. Wheeler's
house, and under her charge, but whether or not it was for sale he could not
say. Off he started to make the purchase and knocked at the door. Mrs. Wheeler,
the elder, made her appearance.
``I want to get your
Russia,'' said the hatter.
Mrs. Wheeler asked him
to walk in and be seated. She, of course, supposed that he had come for her
daughter ``Rushia.''
``What do you want of
Rushia?'' asked the old lady.
``To make hats,'' was
the reply.
``To trim hats, I
suppose you mean?'' responded Mrs. Wheeler.
``No, for the outside
of hats,'' replied the hatter.
``Well, I don't know
much about hats,'' said the old lady, ``but I will call my daughter.''
Passing into another
room where ``Rushia'' the younger was at work, she informed her that a man
wanted her to make hats.
``Oh, he means sister
Mary, probably. I suppose he wants some ladies' hats,'' replied Rushia, as she
went into the parlor.
``This is my
daughter,'' said the old lady.
``I want to get your
Russia,'' said he, addressing the young lady.
``I suppose you wish to
see my sister Mary; she is our milliner,'' said young Rushia.
``I wish to see whoever
owns the property,'' said the hatter.
Sister Mary was sent
for, and, as she was introduced, the hatter informed her that he wished to buy
her ``Russia.''
``Buy Rushia!''
exclaimed Mary, in surprise; I don't understand you.''
``Your name is Miss
Wheeler, I believe,'' said the hatter, who was annoyed by the difficulty he met
with in being understood.
``It is, sir.''
``Ah! very well. Is
there old and young Russia in the house?''
``I believe there is,''
said Mary, surprised at the familiar manner in which he spoke of her mother and
sister, who were present.
``What is the price of
old Russia per pound?'' asked the hatter.
``I believe, sir, that
old Rushia is not for sale,'' replied Mary, indignantly.
``Well, what do you ask
for young Russia?'' pursued the hatter.
``Sir,'' said Miss
Rushia the younger, springing to her feet, ``do you come here to insult
defenceless females? If you do, sir, our brother, who is in the garden, will
punish you as you deserve.''
``Ladies!'' exclaimed
the hatter, in astonishment, ``what on earth have I done to offend you? I came
here on a business matter. I want to buy some Russia. I was told you had old
and young Russia in the house. Indeed, this young lady just stated such to be
the fact, but she says the old Russia is not for sale. Now, if I can buy the
young Russia I want to do so--but if that can't be done, please to say so, and
I will trouble you no further.''
``Mother, open the door
and let this man go out; he is undoubtedly crazy,'' said Miss Mary.
``By thunder! I believe
I shall be if I remain here long,'' exclaimed the hatter, considerably excited.
``I wonder if folks never do business in these parts, that you think a man is
crazy if he attempts such a thing?''
``Business! poor man!''
said Mary soothingly, approaching the door.
``I am not a poor man,
madam,'' replied the hatter. ``My name is Walter Dibble; I carry on hatting
extensively in Danbury; I came to Grassy Plain to buy fur, and have purchased
some `beaver' and `cony,' and now it seems I am to be called `crazy' and a `poor
man,' because I want to buy a little `Russia' to make up my assortment.''
The ladies began to
open their eyes; they saw that Mr. Dibble was quite in earnest, and his
explanation threw considerable light upon the subject.
``Who sent you here?''
asked sister Mary.
``The clerk at the
opposite store,'' was the reply.
``He is a wicked young
fellow for making all this trouble,'' said the old lady; ``he has been doing
this for a joke.''
``A joke!'' exclaimed
Dibble, in surprise, ``have you no Russia, then?''
``My name is Jerusha,
and so is my daughter's,'' said Mrs. Wheeler, ``and that, I suppose, is what he
meant by telling you of old and young Rushia.''
Mr. Dibble, without
more words, left the house and made for the store. ``You young villain!'' he
cried, as he entered, ``what did you mean by sending me over there to buy
Russia?''
``I didn't,'' answered
the young villain, with a perfectly solemn face, ``I thought you were a widower
or a bachelor who wanted to marry Rushia.''
``You lie,'' said the
discomfited Dibble, laughing in spite of himself; ``but never mind, I'll pay
you off some day.'' And gathering up his furs he departed.
On another occasion
this sense of humor and love of joking was turned to very practical account.
Among the customers at the store were a half a dozen old Revolutionary
pensioners, who were permitted to buy on credit, leaving their pension papers
as security. One of these pensioners was a romancing old fellow named
Bevans--more commonly known as ``Uncle Bibbins.'' He was very fond of his
glass, and fonder still of relating anecdotes of the Revolution, in which his
own prowess and daring were always the conspicuous features. His pension papers
were in the possession of Keeler & Whitlock, but it was three months before
the money was due, and they grew very weary of having him for a customer. They
tried delicately suggesting a visit to his relatives in Guilford, but Uncle
Bibbins steadily refused to take the hint. Finally young Barnum enlisted the
services of a journeyman hatter named Benton, and together they hit on a plan.
The hatter was inspired to call Uncle Bibbins a coward, and to declare his
belief that if the old gentleman was wounded anywhere it must have been in the
back. Barnum pretended to sympathize with the veteran's just indignation, and
finally fired him up to the pitch of challenging the hatter to mortal combat.
The challenge was promptly accepted, and the weapons chosen were muskets and
ball, at a distance of twenty feet. Uncle Bibbins took his second (Barnum, of
course) aside, and begged him to see that the guns were loaded only with blank
cartridges. He was assured that it would be so, and that no one would be
injured in the encounter.
The ground was measured
back of the store, the principals and seconds took their places, and the word
of command was given. They fired, Uncle Bibbins, of course, being unhurt, but
the hatter, with a fearful yell, fell to the ground as if dead. Barnum rushed
up to the frightened Bevans and begged him to fly, promising to let him know
when it was safe for him to return. The old fellow started out of town on a
run, and for the next three months remained very quietly at Guilford. At the
end of that time his faithful second sent for him, with the assurance that his
late adversary had not only recovered from his wound but had freely forgiven
all. Uncle Bibbins then returned and paid up his debts. Meeting Benton on the
street some days later, the two foes shook hands, Benton apologizing for his
insult. Uncle Bibbins accepted the apology, ``but,'' he added, ``you must be
careful after this how you insult a dead-shot.''
REMOVAL TO
BROOKLYN--SMALLPOX--GOES HOME TO RECOVER HIS HEALTH--RENEWED ACQUAINTANCE WITH
THE PRETTY TAILORESS, FIRST INDEPENDENT BUSINESS VENTURE--RESIDENCE IN NEW YORK
--RETURN TO BETHEL--ANECDOTES.
In the fall of 1826,
Oliver Taylor, who had removed from Danbury to Brooklyn, induced Barnum to
leave Grassy Plain, offering him a clerkship in his grocery store, which offer
was accepted, and before long the young man was intrusted with the purchasing
of all goods for the store. He bought for cash, going into lower New York in
search of the cheapest market, frequenting auction sales of merchandise, and
often entering into combines with other grocers to bid off large lots, which
were afterward divided between them. Thus they were enabled to buy at a much
lower rate than if the goods had passed through the hands of wholesale dealers,
and Barnum's reputation for business tact and shrewdness increased.
The following summer he
was taken ill with smallpox, and during his long confinement to the house his
stock of ready money became sadly diminished. As soon as he was able to travel
he went home to recover his strength, and while there had the happiness of
renewing the acquaintance, so pleasantly begun, with the pretty tailoress,
Charity Hallett.
His health fully
restored he returned to Brooklyn, but not to his old position. Pleasant as that
had been, it no longer contented the restless, ambitious Barnum. He opened a
``porter-home,'' but sold out a few months later, at a good profit, and took
another clerkship, this time at 29 Peck Slip, New York, in the store of a
certain David Thorp. He lived in his employer's family, with which he was a
great favorite, and where he had frequent opportunities of meeting old friends,
for Mr. Thorp's place was a great resort for Bethel and Danbury hatters and
combmakers.
At this time Barnum
formed his first taste for the theatre. He went to the play regularly and soon
set up for a critic. It was his one dissipation, however. A more moral young
fellow never existed; he read his Bible and went to church as regularly as
ever, and to the day of his death was wont to declare that he owed all that was
good in his character to his early observance of Sunday.
In the winter of 1898
his grandfather offered to him, rent free, his carriage-house, which was
situated on the main street, if he would come back to Bethel. The young man's
capital was one hundred and twenty dollars; fifty of this was spent in fixing
up his store, and the remainder he invested in a stock of fruit and
confectionery. Having arranged with fruit dealers of his acquaintance in New
York to receive his orders, he opened his store on the first of May--in those
times known as ``training day.'' The first day was so successful that long
before noon the proprietor was obliged to call in one of his old schoolmates to
assist in waiting on customers. The total receipts were sixty-three dollars,
which sum was promptly invested in a stock of fancy goods --pocket-books,
combs, knives, rings, beads, etc. Business was good all summer, and in the fall
oysters were added to the list of attractions. The old grandfather was
delighted at the success of the scheme, and after a while induced Barnum to
take an agency for lottery tickets on a commission of ten per cent. Lotteries
in those days were looked upon as thoroughly respectable, and the profit gained
from the sale of the tickets was regarded as perfectly legitimate by the agent;
his views on the subject changed very materially later on.
The store soon became
the great village resort, the centre of all discussions and the scene of many
practical jokes.
The following scene,
related by Barnum himself, makes a chapter in the history of Connecticut, as
the State was when ``blue laws'' were something more than a dead letter:
``To swear in those
days was according to custom, but contrary to law. A person from New York
State, whom I will call Crofut, who was a frequent visitor at my store, was
equally noted for his self-will and his really terrible profanity. One day he
was in my little establishment engaged in conversation when Nathan Seelye,
Esq., one of our village justices of the peace, and a man of strict religious
principles, came in, and hearing Crofut's profane language he told him he
considered it his duty to fine him one dollar for swearing.
``Crofut responded
immediately with an oath, that he did not care a d----n for the Connecticut
blue laws.
`` `That will make two
dollars,' said Mr. Seelye.
``This brought forth
another oath.
`` `Three dollars,'
said the sturdy justice.
``Nothing but oaths
were given in reply, until Esquire Seelye declared the damage to the
Connecticut laws to amount to fifteen dollars.
``Crofut took out a
twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the justice of the peace, with an oath.
`` `Sixteen dollars,'
said Mr. Seelye, counting out four dollars to hand to Mr. Crofut as his change.
`` `Oh, keep it, keep
it,' said Crofut, `I don't want any change; I'll d----n soon swear out the
balance.' He did so, after which he was more circumspect in his conversation,
remarking that twenty dollars a day for swearing was about as much as he could
stand.''
About this time Barnum
appeared, on at least one occasion, in the role of lawyer. A man charged with
assault and battery was brought before the justice of the peace, Barnum's
grandfather, for trial. A medical student, Newton by name, had volunteered to
defend the prisoner, and Mr. Couch, the grand juryman, in irony, offered
Phineas a dollar to represent the State. The court was crowded. The guilt of
the prisoner was established beyond a doubt, but Newton, undaunted, rose to
make his speech. It consisted of a flood of invective against the grand juryman,
Couch; the court listened for five minutes, and then interrupted a magnificent
burst of eloquence by informing the speaker that Mr. Couch was not the
plaintiff in the case at all.
``Not the plaintiff!''
stammered Newton; ``well, then, your honor, who is?''
``The State of
Connecticut,'' was the answer.
The young man dropped
into his seat, speechless, and the prosecuting attorney arose and in an
elaborate speech declared the guilt of the prisoner shown beyond question,
adding that he was astonished that both the prisoner and his counsel had not
pleaded guilty at once. In the midst of his soarings the grandfather
interrupted with--
``Young man, will you
have the kindness to inform the court which side you represent--the plaintiff
or the defendant?''
The orator stared
helplessly at the justice for a moment, and then sat down. Amid peals of
laughter from the spectators the prisoner was bound over to the county court
for trial.
But Phineas did not
often come out so ingloriously in encounters with his grandfather. The old
gentleman was always ready to lend his grandson any of his turnouts except one,
and this one Phineas especially desired one day for a sleighing party, in which
he was to escort the fair Charity Hallett. So he boldly went to the grandfather
and asked if he might take Arabian and the new sleigh.
``Oh, yes,'' said the
old man, jokingly, ``if you have twenty dollars in your pocket.''
``Really?''
``Yes, really.''
Whereupon Phineas
showed the money, and putting it back in his pocket, remarked, ``You see; I am
much obliged for the sleigh.''
Of course, the
grandfather had meant to ask an impossible price for the horse and sleigh; but
being caught up so suddenly, there was nothing to do but to consent, and
Phineas and ``Chairy'' had the finest turnout of the party.
There was a young
fellow in the town, Jack Mallett, whose education was rather deficient, and who
had been somewhat unsuccessfully paying his addresses to a fair but
hard-hearted maiden, named Lucretia. One Sunday evening she cruelly refused to
accept his escort after church, and added insult to injury by walking off
before his very eyes with another man. Accordingly, he determined to write her
a letter of remonstrance, and enlisted the aid of Phineas and another young blade
known as ``Bill'' Shepherd. The joint effort of the three resulted in the
following:
``BETHEL,----, 18--.
``MISS LUCRETIA: I
write this to ask an explanation of your conduct in giving me the mitten on
Sunday night last. If you think, madam, that you can trifle with my affections,
and turn me off for every little whipper-snapper that you can pick up, you will
find yourself considerably mistaken. [We read thus far to Mallett, and it met
his approval. He said he liked the idea of calling her ``madam,'' for he
thought it sounded so ``distant,'' it would hurt her feelings very much. The
term ``little whipper-snapper'' also delighted him. He said he guessed that
would make her feel cheap. Shepherd and myself were not quite so sure of its
aptitude, since the chap who succeeded in capturing Lucretia, on the occasion
alluded to, was a head and shoulders taller than Mallett. However, we did not
intimate our thoughts to Mallett, and he desired us to ``go ahead and give her
another dose.''] You don't know me, madam, if you think you can snap me up in
this way. I wish you to understand that I can have the company of girls as much
above you as the sun is above the earth, and I won't stand any of your impudent
nonsense no how. [This was duly read and approved. ``Now,'' said Mallett, ``try
to touch her feelings. Remind her of the pleasant hours we have spent
together;'' and we continued as follows:] My dear Lucretia, when I think of the
many pleasant hours we have spent together--of the delightful walks which we
have had on moonlight evenings to Fenner's Rocks, Chestnut Ridge, Grassy Plain,
Wild Cat and Puppy Town--of the strolls which we have taken upon Shelter Rocks,
Cedar Hill--the visits we have made to Old Lane, Wolfpits, Toad Hole and Plum
Trees[1]--when all these things come rushing on my mind, and when; my dear
girl, I remember how often you have told me that you loved me better than
anybody else, and I assured you that my feelings were the same as yours, it
almost breaks my heart to think of last Sunday night. [``Can't you stick in
some affecting poetry here?'' said Mallett. Shepherd could not recollect any to
the point, nor could I; but as the exigency of the case seemed to require it,
we concluded to manufacture a verse or two, which we did, as follows:]
Lucretia, dear, what have I done,
That you should use me thus and so,
To take the arm of Tom Beers' son,
And let your dearest true love go?
Miserable fate, to lose you now,
And tear this bleeding heart asunder!
Will you forget your tender vow?
I can't believe it--no, by thunder.
[Mallett did not like the word
``thunder,'' but being informed that no other word could be substituted without
destroying both rhyme and reason, he consented that it should remain, provided
we added two more stanzas of a softer nature; something, he said, that would
make the tears come, if possible, We then ground out the following:]
Lucretia, dear, do write to Jack,
And say with Beers you are not smitten;
And thus to me in love come back,
And give all other boys the mitten.
Do this, Lucretia, and till death
I'll love you to intense distraction;
I'll spend for you my every breath,
And we will live in satisfaction.
[``That will do very well,''
said Mallett. ``Now I guess you had better blow her up a little more.'' We
obeyed orders as follows:] It makes me mad to think what a fool I was to give
you that finger-ring and bosom-pin, and spend so much time in your company,
just to be flirted and bamboozled as I was on Sunday night last. If you
continue this course of conduct, we part forever, and I will thank you to send
back that jewelry. I would sooner see it crushed under my feet than worn by a
person who abused me as you have done. I shall despise you forever if you don't
change your conduct towards me, and send me a letter of apology on Monday next.
I shall not go to meeting to-morrow, for I would scorn to sit in the same
meeting-house with you until I have an explanation of your conduct. If you
allow any young man to go home with you to-morrow night, I shall know it, for
you will be watched, [``There,'' said Mallett, ``that is pretty strong. Now, I
guess, you had better touch her feelings once more, and wind up the letter.''
We proceeded as follows:] My sweet girl, if you only knew the sleepless nights
which I have spent during the present week, the torments and sufferings which I
endure on your account; if you could but realize that I regard the world as
less than nothing without you, I am certain you would pity me. A homely cot and
a crust of bread with my adorable Lucretia would be a paradise, where a palace
without you would be a hades. [``What in thunder is hades?'' inquired Jack. We
explained. He considered the figure rather bold, and requested us to close as
soon as possible.] Now, dearest, in bidding you adieu, I implore you to reflect
on our past enjoyments, look forward with pleasure to our future happy
meetings, and rely upon your affectionate Jack in storm or calm, in sickness,
distress or want, for all these will be powerless to change my love. I hope to
hear from you on Monday next, and, if favorable, I shall be happy to call on
you the same evening, when in ecstatic joy we will laugh at the past, hope for
the future, and draw consolation from the fact that ``the course of true love
never did run smooth.'' This from your disconsolate but still hoping lover and
admirer,
``JACK MALLETT.
``P. S.--On reflection
I have concluded to go to meeting to-morrow. If all is well, hold your
pocket-handkerchief in your left hand as you stand up to sing with the
choir--in which case I shall expect the pleasure of giving you my arm to-morrow
night.
``J. M.''
The effect of this
letter upon Lucretia was not as favorable as could have been desired. She
declined to remove her handkerchief from her right hand, and she returned the
``ring and bosom-pin'' to her disconsolate admirer, while, not many months
after, Mallett's rival led Lucretia to the altar. As for Mallett's agreement to
pay Shepherd and Barnum five pounds of carpet-rags and twelve yards of
broadcloth ``lists'' for their services, owing to his ill success, they
compromised for one-half the amount.
VISIT TO
PITTSBURG--SUCCESSFUL LOTTERY BUSINESS--MARRIAGE--FIRST EDITORIAL
VENTURE--LIBEL SUIT, IMPRISONMENT AND LIBERATION-- REMOVAL TO NEW YORK--HARD
TIMES--KEEPING A BOARDING-HOUSE.
About this time Barnum,
with a Mr. Samuel Sherwood, of Bridgeport, started for Pittsburg, where they
proposed to open a lottery office. On reaching New York, however, and talking
over the scheme with friends, the venture was abandoned and the two men took,
instead, a pleasure trip to Philadelphia. They stayed a week, at the end of
which time they returned to New York, with exactly twenty-seven cents between
them. Sherwood managed to borrow two dollars--enough to take him to Newark,
where he had a cousin, who obligingly loaned him fifty dollars. The two friends
remained in New York on the strength of their newly acquired wealth for several
days, and then went home considerably richer in experience at least.
Barnum now went into
the lottery business exclusively, taking his uncle, Alanson Taylor, into
partnership. They established a number of agencies throughout the country, and
made good profits from the sale of tickets. Several of the tickets sold by them
took prizes and their office came to be considered ``lucky.''
The young man was
prospering also in another direction. The fair tailoress smiled on him as
sweetly as ever, and in the summer of 1827 they became formally engaged. In the
fall Miss Hallett went ``on a visit'' to her uncle, Nathan Beers, in New York.
A month later her lover followed, ``to buy goods,'' and on the 8th of November,
1829, there was a wedding in the comfortable house at No. 3 Allen street.
Having married at the age of nineteen, Barnum always expressed his disapproval
of early marriages, although his own was a very happy one.
Returning to Bethel,
Mr. and Mrs. Barnum, after boarding for a few months, moved into their own
house, which was built on a three acre plat purchased from the grandfather.
The lottery business
still prospered, but it was mostly in the hands of agents, in Danbury, Norwalk,
Stamford and Middletown, and Barnum began to look around for some field for his
individual energies. He tried travelling as a book auctioneer, but found it
uncongenial and quit the business. In July, 1831, with his uncle Alanson
Taylor, he opened a grocery and general store, but the venture was not
particularly successful, and in the fall the partnership was dissolved, Barnum
buying his uncle's interest.
The next enterprise was
an important one, it being the real beginning of Phineas T. Barnum's public
career.
In a period of strong
political excitement, he wrote several communications for the Danbury weekly
paper, setting forth what he conceived to be the dangers of a sectarian
interference which was then apparent in political affairs. The publication of
these communications was refused, and he accordingly purchased a press and
types, and October 19, 1831, issued the first number of his own paper, The
Herald of Freedom.
``I entered upon the
editorship of this journal,'' says Mr. Barnum, ``with all the vigor and
vehemence of youth. The boldness with which the paper was conducted soon
excited widespread attention and commanded a circulation which extended beyond
the immediate locality into nearly every State in the Union. But lacking that
experience which induces caution, and without the dread of consequences, I
frequently laid myself open to the charge of libel, and three times in three
years I was prosecuted. A Danbury butcher, a zealous politician, brought a
civil suit against me for accusing him of being a spy in a Democratic caucus.
On the first trial the jury did not agree, but after a second trial I was fined
several hundred dollars. Another libel suit against me was withdrawn. The third
was sufficiently important to warrant the following detail:
``A criminal
prosecution was brought against me for stating in my paper that a man in
Bethel, prominent in church, had `been guilty of taking usury of an orphan
boy,' and for severely commenting on the fact in my editorial columns. When the
case came to trial the truth of my statement was substantially proved by
several witnesses and even by the prosecuting party. But `the greater the
truth, the greater the libel,' and then I had used the term `usury,' instead of
extortion, or note-shaving, or some other expression which might have softened
the verdict. The result was that I was sentenced to pay a fine of one hundred
dollars and to be imprisoned in the common jail for sixty days.
``The most comfortable
provision was made for me in Danbury jail. My room was papered and carpeted; I
lived well; I was overwhelmed with the constant visits of my friends; I edited
my paper as usual and received large accessions to my subscription list; and at
the end of my sixty days' term the event was celebrated by a large concourse of
people from the surrounding country. The court room in which I was convicted
was the scene of the celebration. An ode, written for the occasion, was sung;
an eloquent oration on the freedom of the press was delivered; and several
hundred gentlemen afterwards partook of a sumptuous dinner followed by
appropriate toasts and speeches. Then came the triumphant part of the
ceremonial, which was reported in my paper of December 12, 1832, as follows:
`` `P. T. Barnum and
the band of music took their seats in a coach drawn by six horses, which had
been prepared for the occasion. The coach was preceded by forty horsemen, and a
marshal, bearing the national standard. Immediately in the rear of the coach
was the carriage of the orator and the President of the day, followed by the
committee of arrangements and sixty carriages of citizens, which joined in
escorting the editor to his home in Bethel.
`` `When the procession
commenced its march amidst the roar of cannon, three cheers were given by
several hundred citizens who did not join in the procession. The band of music
continued to play a variety of national airs until their arrival in Bethel (a
distance of three miles), when they struck up the beautiful and appropriate
tune of ``Home, Sweet Home!'' After giving three hearty cheers, the procession
returned to Danbury. The utmost harmony and unanimity of feeling prevailed
throughout the day, and we are happy to add that no accident occured to mar the
festivities of the occasion.' ''
The editorial career
continued as it had begun. In 1830 The Herald of Freedom was sold to Mr. George
Taylor.
The mercantile business
was also sold to Horace Fairchild, who had been associated with it as partner
since 1831, and a Mr. Toucey, who formed a partnership under the name of
Fairchild & Co. Barnum had lost considerable money in this store; he was
too speculative for ordinary trade, too ready, also to give credit, and his
ledger was full of unpaid accounts when he finally gave up business.
In 1835 he removed his
family to New York, taking a house in Hudson street. For a time he tried to get
a position in a mercantile house, not on a fixed salary, but so as to derive a
commission on his sales, trusting to his ability to make more money in this way
than an ordinary clerk could be expected to receive. Failing in this he acted
as a ``drummer'' for several stores until spring, when he was fortunate enough
to receive several hundred dollars from his agent at Bethel. In May he opened a
private boarding-house at 52 Frankfort street, which was well patronized by his
Connecticut acquaintances as often as they visited the metropolis. This
business not occupying his entire time, he bought an interest in a grocery
store at 156 South street.
Although the years of
manhood brought cares, anxieties, and struggles for a livelihood, they did not
change Barnum's nature, and the jocose element was still an essential
ingredient of his being. He loved fun, practical fun, for itself and for the enjoyment
which it brought. During the year he occasionally visited Bridgeport, where he
almost always found at the hotel a noted joker, named Darrow, who spared
neither friend nor foe in his tricks. He was the life of the bar-room, and
would always try to entrap some stranger in a bet and so win a treat for the
company. He made several ineffectual attempts upon Barnum, and at last, one
evening, Darrow, who stuttered, made a final trial, as follows:
``Come, Barnum, I'll
make you another proposition; I'll bet you hadn't got a whole shirt on your
back.'' The catch consists in the fact that generally only one-half of that
convenient garment is on the back; but Barnum had anticipated the proposition
--in fact he had induced a friend, Mr. Hough, to put Darrow up to the
trick--and had folded a shirt nicely upon his back, securing it there with his
suspenders. The bar-room was crowded with customers who thought that if Barnum
made the bet he would be nicely caught, and he made presence of playing off and
at the same time stimulated Darrow to press the bet by saying:
``That is a foolish bet
to make; I am sure my shirt is whole because it is nearly new; but I don't like
to bet on such a subject.''
``A good reason why,''
said Darrow, in great glee; ``it's ragged. Come, I'll bet you a treat for the
whole company you hadn't got a whole shirt on your b-b-b-back!''
``I'll bet my shirt is
cleaner than yours,'' Barnum replied.
``That's nothing to do
w-w-with the case; it's ragged, and y-y-you know it.''
``I know it is not,''
Barnum replied, with pretended anger, which caused the crowd to laugh heartily.
``You poor ragged
f-f-fellow, come down here from D-D-Danbury, I'm sorry for you,'' said Darrow
tantalizingly.
``You would not pay if
you lost,'' Barnum remarked.
``Here's f-f-five
dollars I'll put in Captain Hinman's (the landlord's) hands. Now b-b-bet if you
dare, you ragged c-c-creature, you.''
Barnum put five dollars
in Captain Hinman's hands, and told him to treat the company from it if he lost
the bet.
``Remember,'' said
Darrow, ``I b-b-bet you hadn't got a whole shirt on your bob-back!''
``All right,'' said
Barnum, taking off his coat and commencing to unbutton his vest. The whole
company, feeling sure that he was caught, began to laugh heartily. Old Darrow
fairly danced with delight, and as Barnum laid his coat on a chair he came
running up in front of him, and slapping his hands together, exclaimed:
``You needn't t-t-take
off any more c-c-clothes, for if it ain't all on your b-b-back, you've lost it.''
``If it is, I suppose
you have!'' Barnum replied, pulling the whole shirt from off his back!
Such a shriek of
laughter as burst forth from the crowd was scarcely ever heard, and certainly
such a blank countenance as old Darrow exhibited it would be hard to conceive.
Seeing that he was most incontinently ``done for,'' and perceiving that his
neighbor Hough had helped to do it, he ran up to him in great anger, and
shaking his fist in his face, exclaimed:
``H-H-Hough, you
infernal r-r-rascal, to go against your own neighbor in favor of a D-D-Danbury
man. I'll pay you for that some time, you see if I d-d-don't.''
All hands went up to
the bar and drank with a hearty good will, for it was seldom that Darrow got
taken in, and he was such an inveterate joker they liked to see him paid in his
own coin. Never till the day of his death did he hear the last of the ``whole
shirt.''
FINDING HIS TRUE
VOCATION--THE PURCHASE OF JOICE HETH--EVIDENCE AS TO HER AGE--HER DEATH--SIGNOR
VIVALLA--A VISIT TO WASHINGTON-- JOINING A TRAVELLING CIRCUS--CONTROVERSIES
WITH MINISTERS-- THE VICTIM OF A PRACTICAL JOKE.
Barnum was now
satisfied that he had not yet found his proper level. He had not yet entered
the business for which nature had designed him. There was only a prospect of
his going on from this to that, as his father had done before him, trying many
callings but succeeding in none. He had not yet discovered that love of
amusement is one of the strongest passions of the human heart. This, however,
was a lesson that he was soon to learn; and he was to achieve both fame and
fortune as a caterer to the public desire for entertainment.
Philosophizing on this
theme in later years, Mr. Barnum once said: ``The show business has all phases
and grades of dignity, from the exhibition of a monkey to the exposition of
that highest art in music or the drama which entrances empires and secures for
the gifted artist a worldwide fame which princes well might envy. Men, women
and children, who cannot live on gravity alone, need something to satisfy their
gayer, lighter moods and hours, and he who ministers to this want is in a
business established by the Author of our nature. If he worthily fulfils his
mission, and amuses without corrupting, he need never feel that he has lived in
vain.''
In the summer of 1835,
Mr. Barnum was visited by Mr. Coley Bartram, of Reading, Connecticut, who told
him that he had owned an interest in a remarkable negro woman, who was
confidently believed to be one hundred and sixty-one years old and to have been
the nurse of Washington. Mr. Bartram showed him a copy of an advertisement in
The Pennsylvania Inquirer for July 15, 1835, as follows:
``CURIOSITY.--The
citizens of Philadelphia and its vicinity have an opportunity of witnessing at
the Masonic Hall one of the greatest natural curiosities ever witnessed, viz.:
JOICE HETH, a negress, aged 161 years, who formerly belonged to the father of
General Washington. She has been a member of the Baptist Church one hundred and
sixteen years, and can rehearse many hymns, and sing them according to former
custom. She was born near the old Potomac River in Virginia, and has for ninety
or one hundred years lived in Paris, Kentucky, with the Bowling family.
``All who have seen
this extraordinary woman are satisfied of the truth of the account of her age.
The evidence of the Bowling family, which is respectable, is strong, but the
original bill of sale of Augustine Washington, in his own handwriting, and
other evidences which the proprietor has in his possession, will satisfy even
the most incredulous.
``A lady will attend at
the hall during the afternoon and evening for the accommodation of those ladies
who may call.''
Mr. Bartram told him,
moreover, that he had sold out his interest in the woman to R. W. Lindsay, of
Jefferson county, Kentucky, who was then exhibiting her as a curiosity, but was
anxious to sell her. Mr. Barnum had seen in some of the New York papers an
account of Joice Heth, and was so much interested in her that he at once
proceeded to Philadelphia to see her and Mr. Lindsay. How he was impressed by
her he has himself told. ``Joice Heth,'' he says, ``was certainly a remarkable
curiosity, and she looked as if she might have been far older than her age as
advertised. She was apparently in good health and spirits, but from age or
disease, or both, was unable to change her position; she could move one arm at
will, but her lower limbs could not be straightened; her left arm lay across
her breast and she could not remove it; the fingers of her left hand were drawn
down so as nearly to close it, and were fixed; the nails on that hand were
almost four inches long and extended above her wrist; the nails on her large
toes had grown to the thickness of a quarter of an inch; her head was covered
with a thick bush of grey hair; but she was toothless and totally blind, and
her eyes had sunk so deeply in the sockets as to have disappeared altogether.
``Nevertheless she was
pert and sociable, and would talk as long as people would converse with her.
She was quite garrulous about her protege, `dear little George,' at whose birth
she declared she was present, having been at the time a slave of Elizabeth
Atwood, a half-sister of Augustine Washington, the father of George Washington.
As nurse she put the first clothes on the infant, and she claimed to have
`raised him.' She professed to be a member of the Baptist Church, talking much
in her way on religious subjects, and she sang a variety of ancient hymns.
``In proof of her
extraordinary age and pretensions, Mr. Lindsay exhibited a bill of sale, dated
February 5, 1727, from Augustine Washington, county of Westmoreland, Virginia,
to Elizabeth Atwood, a half-sister and neighbor of Mr. Washington, conveying
`one negro women named Joice Heth, aged fifty-four years, for and in
consideration of the sum of thirty-three pounds lawful money of Virginia.' It
was further claimed that she had long been a nurse in the Washington family;
she was called in at the birth of George and clothed the newborn infant. The
evidence seemed authentic, and in answer to the inquiry why so remarkable a
discovery had not been made before, a satisfactory explanation was given in the
statement that she had been carried from Virginia to Kentucky, had been on the
plantation of John S. Bowling so long that no one knew or cared how old she
was, and only recently the accidental discovery by Mr. Bowling's son of the old
bill of sale in the Record Office in Virginia had led to the identification of
this negro woman as `the nurse of Washington.' ''
Everything seemed to
Barnum to be entirely straightforward, and he decided, if possible, to purchase
the woman. She was offered to him at $1,000, although Lindsay at first wanted
$3,000. Barnum had $500 in cash, and was able to borrow $500 more. Thus he
secured Joice Heth, sold out his interest in the grocery business to his
partner, and entered upon his career as a showman. He afterward declared that
the least deserving of all his efforts in the show line was this one which
introduced him to the business; it was a scheme in no sense of his own
devising; but it was one which had been for some time before the public, and
which he honestly and with good reason believed to be genuine. He entered upon
his new work with characteristic enterprise, resorting to posters,
transparencies, advertisements, newspaper paragraphs, and everything else
calculated to attract the attention of the public, regardless of expense. He
exhibited in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Albany, and many other places,
where his rooms were thronged and much money made. But in the following
February Joice Heth died of old age, and was buried at Bethel. A postmortem
examination was made by a surgeon and some medical students, who were inclined
to doubt if she really was as old as Lindsay had said.
Thus ended Barnum's
first enterprise as a showman. It had been profitable to him, and had pointed
out to him the path of success. His next venture was entirely genuine and
straightforward. He engaged an Italian, who called himself Signor Antonio, and
who was a skilful performer on stilts, on the tight rope and at juggling.
Barnum engaged him for a year at $12 a week and his expenses, and got him to
change his stage name to Signor Vivalla. He then resorted to his former means
of advertising, and started on his tour. For Vivalla's first week of
performances Barnum received $50, and for the second week three times as much.
At the close of the first performance, in response to loud applause, Barnum
appeared upon the stage and made a speech to the audience, a performance which
he repeated thousands of times in after years. This engagement was at the
Franklin Theatre in New York.
The show next appeared
in Boston, with great success. Next it went to Washington and had a most
disastrous week, for every night was stormy. Indeed Barnum found himself
literally stranded there, with not enough money to get away. He was driven to
pawn his watch and chain for $35, and then met a friend who helped him out of
his dilemma.
``As this was my first
visit to Washington, I was much interested,'' says Barnum, ``in visiting the
capitol and other public buildings. I also satisfied my curiosity in seeing
Clay, Calhoun, Benton, John Quincy Adams, Richard M. Johnson, Polk, and other
leading statesmen of the time. I was also greatly gratified in calling upon
Anne Royall, author of the Black Book, publisher of a little paper called `Paul
Pry,' and quite a celebrated personage in her day. I had exchanged The Herald
of Freedom with her journal, and she strongly sympathized with me in my
persecutions. She was delighted to see me, and although she was the most
garrulous old woman I ever saw, I passed a very amusing and pleasant time with
her. Before leaving her I manifested my showman propensity by trying to hire
her to give a dozen or more lectures on `Government' in the Atlantic cities,
but I could not engage her at any price, although I am sure the speculation
would have been a very profitable one. I never saw this eccentric woman again;
she died at a very advanced age, October 1, 1854, at her residence in
Washington.''
From Washington the
show went to Philadelphia and appeared at the Walnut Street Theatre. The
audiences were small and it was evident that something must be done to arouse
public interest. ``And now,'' says Barnum, ``that instinct which can arouse a
community and make it patronize one, provided the article offered is worthy of
patronage, an instinct which served me greatly in later years, astonishing the
public and surprising me, came to my relief, and the help, curiously enough,
appeared in the shape of an emphatic hiss from the pit!
``This hiss, I
discovered, came from one Roberts, a circus performer, and I had an interview
with him. He was a professional balancer and juggler, who boasted that he could
do all Vivalla had done and something more. I at once published a card in
Vivalla's name, offering $1,000 to any one who would publicly perform Vivalla's
feats at such place as should be designated, and Roberts issued a counter card
accepting the offer. I then contracted with Mr. Warren, treasurer of the Walnut
Street Theatre, for one-third of the proceeds, if I should bring the receipts
up to $400 a night--an agreement he could well afford to make as his receipts
the night before had been but seventy-five dollars. From him I went to Roberts,
who seemed disposed to `back down,' but I told him that I should not insist
upon the terms of his published card, and ask him if he was under any
engagement? Learning that he was not I offered him thirty dollars to perform
under my direction one night at the Walnut, and he accepted. A great trial of
skill between Roberts and Vivalla was duly announced by posters and through the
press. Meanwhile, they rehearsed privately to see what tricks each could
perform, and the `business' was completely arranged.
``Public excitement was
at fever heat, and on the night of the trial the pit and upper boxes were
crowded to the full. The `contest' between the performers was eager, and each
had his party in the house. So far as I could learn, no one complained that he
did not get all he paid for on that occasion. I engaged Roberts for a month,
and his subsequent `contests' with Vivalla amused the public and put money in
my purse.''
In the spring of 1836
Barnum joined his show with Aaron Turner's travelling circus, himself acting as
ticket seller, secretary and treasurer, at thirty dollars a month and one-fifth
of the total profits, while Vivalla was to get fifty dollars a month. Barnum
was himself paying Vivalla eighty dollars a month, so that he really had left
for himself only his one-fifth share of the profits. The combined show set out
from Danbury, Connecticut, for West Springfield, Massachusetts, on April 26. On
the first day, Barnum relates, instead of stopping for dinner, Turner simply
distributed to the company three loaves of rye bread and a pound of butter,
which he bought at a farmhouse for fifty cents. On April 28 they began their
performances at West Springfield, and as their band of music had not arrived
from Providence, as expected, Barnum made a speech to the audience in place of
it, which seemed to please everybody. The engagement was successful, and the
tour was continued during the summer through numerous towns and cities in New
England, the Middle States, Maryland, Virginia and North Carolina.
Many incidents,
humorous and otherwise, marked their progress. At Cabotville, Massachusetts, on
going to bed one night one of the company threw a lighted cigar stump into a
box of sawdust, and the result was that, an hour or two later, they all
narrowly escaped suffocation from the smoke. At Lenox, Massachusetts, they
spent Sunday and Barnum went to church as usual. The sermon was directed
against the circus, denouncing it in very abusive terms as an immoral and
degrading institution. ``Thereupon,'' says Barnum, ``when the minister had read
the closing hymn, I walked up the pulpit stairs and handed him a written
request, signed `P. T. Barnum, connected with the circus, June 5, 1836,' to be
permitted to reply to him. He declined to notice it, and after the benediction
I lectured him for not giving me an opportunity to vindicate myself and those
with whom I was connected. The affair created considerable excitement, and some
of the members of the church apologized to me for their clergyman's ill
behavior. A similar affair happened afterward at Port Deposit, on the lower
Susquehanna, and in this instance I addressed the audience for half an hour,
defending the circus company against the attacks of the clergyman, and the
people listened, though their pastor repeatedly implored them to go home. Often
have I collected our company on Sunday and read to them the Bible or a printed
sermon, and one or more of the men frequently accompanied me to church. We made
no pretense of religion, but we were not the worst people in the world, and we
thought ourselves entitled to at least decent treatment when we went to hear
the preaching of the Gospel.''
Turner, the proprietor
of the circus, was a self-made man. He had made himself rich through industry,
as he believed any other man with common sense could do, and he was very proud
of the fact. He was also an inveterate practical joker, and once, at Annapolis,
Maryland, he played upon Barnum a trick which came very near having a serious
result. They got there on Saturday night, and the next morning Barnum went out
for a walk, wearing a fine new suit of black clothes. As he passed through the
bar-room and out of the hotel Turner said to some bystanders, who did not know
Barnum:
``I think it very
singular that you permit that rascal to march your streets in open day. It
wouldn't be allowed in Rhode Island, and I suppose that is the reason the
scoundrel has come down this way.''
``Why, who is he?''
they demanded.
``Don't you know? Why,
that is the Rev. E. K. Avery, the murderer of Miss Cornell.''
Instantly there was a
rush of the whole crowd to the door, eager to get another look at Barnum, and
uttering threats of vengeance. This man Avery had only lately been tried in
Rhode Island for the murder of Miss Cornell, whose dead body was discovered in
a stack-yard, and though he was acquitted by the court everybody believed him
guilty. Accordingly, Barnum soon found himself overtaken and surrounded by a
mob of one hundred or more and his ears saluted with such remarks as ``the
lecherous old hypocrite,'' ``the sanctified murderer,'' ``the black-coated
villain,'' ``lynch him,'' ``tar and feather him,'' and others still more harsh
and threatening. Then one man seized him by the collar, while others brought a
fence rail and some rope.
``Come,'' said the man
who collared him, ``old chap, you can't walk any further; we know you, and as
we always make gentlemen ride in these parts, you may just prepare to straddle
that rail!''
His surprise may be
imagined. ``Good heavens!'' he exclaimed, as they all pressed around,
``gentlemen, what have I done?''
``Oh, we know you,''
exclaimed half a dozen voices; ``you needn't roll your sanctimonious eyes; that
game don't take in this country. Come, straddle the rail, and remember the
stack-yard!''
He grew more and more
bewildered; he could not imagine what possible offence he was to suffer for,
and he continued to exclaim, ``Gentlemen, what have I done? Don't kill me,
gentlemen, but tell me what I have done.''
``Come, make him
straddle the rail; we'll show him how to hang poor factory girls,'' shouted a
man in the crowd.
The man who had him by
the collar then remarked ``Come, Mr. Avery, it's no use; you see, we know you,
and we'll give you a touch of lynch law, and start you for home again.''
``My name is not Avery,
gentlemen; you are mistaken in your man,'' he exclaimed.
``Come, come, none of
your gammon; straddle the rail, Ephraim.''
The rail was brought
and Barnum was about to be placed on it, when the truth flashed upon him.
``Gentlemen,'' he
exclaimed, ``I am not Avery; I despise that villain as much as you can; my name
is Barnum; I belong to the circus which arrived here last night, and I am sure
Old Turner, my partner, has hoaxed you with this ridiculous story.''
``If he has we'll lynch
him,'' said one of the mob.
``Well, he has, I'll
assure you, and if you will walk to the hotel with me, I'll convince you of the
fact.''
This they reluctantly
assented to, keeping, however, a close hand upon him. As they walked up the
main street, the mob received a re-enforcement of some fifty or sixty, and
Barnum was marched like a malefactor up to the hotel. Old Turner stood on the
piazza ready to explode with laughter. Barnum appealed to him for heaven's sake
to explain this matter, that he might be liberated. He continued to laugh, but
finally told them ``he believed there was some mistake about it. The fact is,''
said he, ``my friend Barnum has a new suit of black clothes on and he looks so
much like a priest that I thought he must be Avery.''
The crowd saw the joke
and seemed satisfied. Barnum's new coat had been half-torn from his back, and
he had been very roughly handled. But some of the crowd apologized for the
outrage, declaring that Turner ought to be served in the same way, while others
advised Barnum to ``get even with him.'' Barnum was very much offended, and
when the mob-dispersed he asked Turner what could have induced him to play such
a trick.
``My dear Mr. Barnum,''
he replied, ``it was all for our good. Remember, all we need to insure success
is notoriety. You will see that this will be noised all about town as a trick
played by one of the circus managers upon the other, and our pavilion will be
crammed to-morrow night.''
It was even so; the
trick was told all over town, and every one came to see the circus managers who
were in a habit of playing practical jokes upon each other. They had fine
audiences while they remained at Annapolis, but it was a long time before Barnum
forgave Turner for his rascally ``joke.''
BEATING A LANDLORD--A
JOKE ON TURNER--BARNUM AS A PREACHER AND AS A NEGRO MINSTREL--A BAD MAN WITH A
GUN--DEALING WITH A SHERIFF--``LADY HAYES''--AN EMBARASSED JUGGLER--BARNUM AS A
MATRIMONIAL AGENT.
At almost every place
visited by the travelling company, some notable incident occurred. At Hanover
Court House, Virginia, for example, it was raining so heavily that they could
not give a performance, and Turner therefore decided to start for Richmond
immediately after dinner. Their landlord, however, said that as their agent had
engaged three meals and lodgings for the whole troupe, the whole bill must be
paid whether they went then or stayed until next morning. No compromise could
be made with the stubborn fellow, and Turner was equally stubborn in his
determination both to go at once and also to have the worth of his money. The
following programme was accordingly carried out, Turner insisting upon every
detail:
Dinner was ordered at
twelve o'clock and was duly prepared and eaten. As soon as the table was
cleared, supper was ordered, at half past twelve. After eating as much of this
as their dinner had left room for, the whole company went to bed at one o'clock
in the afternoon. Each man insisted upon taking a lighted candle to his room,
and the whole thirty-six of them undressed and went to bed as though they
proposed to stay all night. Half an hour later they arose and dressed again and
went down to breakfast, which Turner had ordered served at two o'clock sharp.
They could eat but little of this meal, of course, but they did the best they
could, and at half past two in the afternoon were on their way to Richmond.
Throughout the whole absurd proceedings the landlord was furiously angry.
Turner was as solemn as a corpse, and the rest of the company were convulsed
with laughter.
After the performance
one evening at Richmond, Barnum tried to pay Turner for that practical joke
about the Rev. Mr. Avery. A score of the company were telling stories and
singing songs in the sitting room of the hotel. Presently somebody began
propounding some amusing arithmetical problems. Then Turner proposed one, which
was readily solved. Barnum's turn came next, and he offered the following, for
Turner's especial benefit:
``Suppose a man is
thirty years of age, and he has a child one year of age; he is thirty times
older than his child. When the child is thirty years old, the father, being
sixty, is only twice as old as his child. When the child is sixty the father is
ninety, and therefore only one-third older than the child. When the child is
ninety the father is one hundred and twenty, and therefore only one-fourth
older than the child. Thus you see, the child is gradually but surely gaining
on the parent, and as he certainly continues to come nearer and nearer, in time
he must overtake him. The question therefore is, suppose it was possible for
them to live long enough, how old would the father be when the child overtook
him and became of the same age?''
The company generally
saw the catch; but Turner was very much interested in the problem, and although
he admitted he knew nothing about arithmetic, he was convinced that as the son
was gradually gaining on the father he must reach him if there was time
enough--say, a thousand years, or so--for the race. But an old gentleman
gravely remarked that the idea of a son becoming as old as his father while
both were living, was simply nonsense, and he offered to bet a dozen of
champagne that the thing was impossible, even ``in figures.'' Turner, who was a
betting man, and who thought the problem might be proved, accepted the wager;
but he was soon convinced that however much the boy might relatively gain upon
his father, there would always be thirty years difference in their ages. The
champagne cost him $25, and he failed to see the fun of Barnum's arithmetic,
though at last he acknowledged that it was a fair offset to the Avery trick.
From Richmond they went
to Petersburg, and thence to Warrenton, North Carolina, and there, on October
30, Barnum and Turner separated, Barnum's engagement having expired with a
clear profit to himself of about $1,200. Barnum took Vivalla, a negro singer
and dancer named James Sandford, several musicians, horses and wagons, and a
small canvas tent. With these he proposed to carry on a travelling show of his
own. His first stop was on Saturday, November 12, 1836, at Rocky Mount Falls,
North Carolina. The next day, being Sunday, Barnum set out for church. ``I
noticed,'' he says, ``a stand and benches in a grove near by, and determined to
speak to the people if I was permitted. The landlord who was with me said that
the congregation, coming from a distance to attend a single service, would be
very glad to hear a stranger, and I accordingly asked the venerable clergyman
to announce that after service I would speak for half an hour in the grove.
Learning that I was not a clergyman, he declined to give the notice, but said
that he had no objection to my making the announcement, which I did, and the
congregation, numbering about three hundred, promptly came to hear me.
``I told them I was not
a preacher, and had very little experience in public speaking, but I felt a
deep interest in matters of morality and religion, and would attempt in a plain
way, to set before them the duties and privileges of man. I appealed to every
man's experience, observation and reason, to confirm the Bible doctrine of
wretchedness in vice and happiness in virtue. We cannot violate the laws of God
with impunity, and He will not keep back the wages of well-doing. The outside
show of things is of very small account. We must look to realities and not to
appearances. `Diamonds may glitter on a vicious breast,' but `the soul's calm
sunshine and the heart-felt joy is virtue's prize.' The rogue, the passionate
man, the drunkard, are not to be envied even at the best, and a conscience
hardened by sin is the most sorrowful possession we can think of.''
Barnum proceeded in
this strain with various scriptural quotations and familiar illustrations, for
three-quarters of an hour. At the end of his address several persons came up to
shake hands with him, saying that they had been greatly pleased and edified by
his remarks and asking to know his name. He went away feeling that possibly he
had done some good by means of his impromptu preaching.
The negro singer and
dancer, Sandford, abruptly deserted the show at Camden, South Carolina, and
left Barnum in a bad plight. An entertainment of negro songs had been advertised,
and no one was able to fill Sandford's place. Barnum was determined, however,
that his audience should not be disappointed, and so he blackened his own face
and went on the stage himself, singing a number of plantation melodies. His
efforts were received with great applause, and he was recalled several times.
This performance was repeated for several evenings.
One night after thus
personating a negro, Barnum heard a disturbance outside the tent. Hastening to
the spot he found a man quarreling with one of his company. He interfered,
whereupon the man drew a pistol and pointing it at Barnum's head, exclaimed, ``you
black scoundrel! How dare you use such language to a white man?'' He evidently
took Barnum for a real negro, and in another moment would have blown his brains
out. But quick as a flash the showman exclaim, ``I am as white as you!'' and at
the same moment rolled up his sleeves showing the white skin of his arm. The
other man dropped his pistol in consternation and humbly begged Barnum's
pardon.
``On four different
occasions in my life," said Mr. Barnum not long before his death, ``I have
had a loaded pistol pointed at my head and each time I have escaped death by
what seemed a miracle. I have also often been in deadly peril by accidents, and
when I think of these things I realize my indebtedness to an all-protecting
Providence. Reviewing my career, too, and considering the kind of company I
kept for years and the associations with which I was surrounded and connected,
I am surprised as well as grateful that I was not ruined. I honestly believe
that I owe my preservation from the degradation of living and dying a loafer
and a vagabond, to the single fact that I was never addicted to strong drink.
To be sure, I have in times past drank liquor, but I have generally wholly
abstained from intoxicating beverages, and for many years, I am glad to say, I
have been a strict `teetotaller.' ''
At Camden, Barnum also
lost one of his musicians, a Scotchman named Cochran. This man was arrested
and, in spite of Barnum's efforts to save him, imprisoned for many months for
advising a negro barber who was shaving him to run away to the Free States or
to Canada. To fill up his ranks Barnum now hired Bob White, a negro singer, and
Joe Pentland, a clown, ventriloquist, comic singer, juggler, and
sleight-of-hand performer, and also bought four horses and two wagons. He
called this enlarged show ``Barnum's Grand Scientific and Musical Theatre.''
At Raleigh, North
Carolina, Barnum had sold a half interest in his show to a man called
Henry,--not his real name. The latter now acted as treasurer and ticket taker.
When they reached Augusta, Georgia, the Sheriff served a writ upon Henry for a
debt of $500. As Henry had $600 of the Company's money in his pockets, Barnum
at once secured a bill of sale of all his property in the exhibition. Armed
with this he met Henry's creditor and his lawyer, who demanded the key of the
stable, so that they might levy on the horses and wagons. Barnum asked them to
wait a little while until he could see Henry, to which they agreed. Henry was
anxious to cheat his creditor, and accordingly was glad to sign the bill of
sale. Then Barnum returned and told the creditor and his lawyer that Henry
would neither pay nor compromise the claim. The Sheriff thereupon demanded the
stable key, so that he might attach Henry's share of the property. ``Not yet,''
said Barnum, pulling out the bill of sale, ``I am in possession as entire owner
of this property. I have already purchased it, and you have not yet levied on
it. You will touch my property at your peril.''
The creditor and the
sheriff were thus baffled, but they immediately arrested Henry and took him to
prison. The next day Barnum learned that Henry really owed $1,300, and that he
had promised his creditor that he would pay him $500 of the company's money and
a bill of sale of his interest in the show at the end of the Saturday night
performance, in consideration of which the creditor was to allow him to take
one of the horses and run away, leaving Barnum in the lurch. Learning this,
Barnum was not disposed to help Henry any further. Finding that Henry had intrusted
the $500 to Vivalla, to keep it from the sheriff, Barnum secured it from
Vivalla on Henry's order, under pretense of securing bail for the prisoner.
Then he paid the creditor the full amount obtained from Henry as the price of
his half-interest and received in return an assignment of $500 of the
creditor's claim and a guarantee that he should not be troubled by Henry for
it. Thus his own promptness rescued Barnum from one of the most unpleasant
situations in which he was ever placed.
After this they got
into one of the most desolate parts of Georgia. One night their advance agent,
finding it impossible to reach the next town, arranged for the whole show to
spend the night at a miserable and solitary hovel owned by an old woman named
Hayes. The horses were to be picketed in a field, and the company were to sleep
in the tent and the out houses. Posters were scattered over the country,
announcing that a performance would be given there the next day, the agent
thinking that, as a show was a rarity in that region, a considerable number of
small farmers would be glad to attend.
``Meanwhile,'' says
Barnum, ``our advertiser, who was quite a wag, wrote back informing us of the
difficulty of reaching a town on that part of our route, and stating that he
had made arrangements for us to stay over night on the plantation of `Lady
Hayes,' and that although the country was sparsely settled, we could doubtless
give a profitable performance to a fair audience.
``Anticipating a fine
time on this noble `plantation,' we started at four o'clock in the morning so
as to arrive at one o'clock, thus avoiding the heat of the afternoon. Towards
noon we came to a small river where some men, whom we afterwards discovered to
be down-east Yankees, from Maine, were repairing a bridge. Every flooring plank
had been taken up, and it was impossible for our teams to cross. `Could the
bridge be fixed so that we could go over?' I inquired. `No; it would take half
a day, and meantime, if we must cross, there was a place about sixteen miles down
the river where we could get over. `But we can't go so far as that; we are
under engagement to perform on Lady Hayes's place to-night, and we must cross
here. Fix the bridge and we will pay you handsomely.'
``They wanted no money,
but if we would give them some tickets to our show they thought they might do
something for us. I gladly consented, and in fifteen minutes we crossed that
bridge. The cunning rascals had seen our posters and knew we were coming; so
they had taken up the planks of the bridge and had hidden them till they had
levied upon us for tickets, when the floor was re-laid in a quarter of an hour.
``Towards dinner-time
we began to look out for the grand mansion of `Lady Hayes,' and seeing nothing
but little huts we quietly pursued our journey. At one o'clock--the time when
we should have arrived at our destination--I became impatient, and riding up to
a poverty-stricken hovel and seeing a ragged, bare-footed old woman, with her
sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, who was washing clothes in front of the
door, I inquired--
`` `Hello! can you tell
me where Lady Hayes lives?'
``The old woman raised
her head, which was covered with tangled locks and matted hair, and exclaimed--
`` `Hey?'
`` `No, Hayes, Lady
Hayes; where is her plantation?'
`` `This is the place,'
she answered; `I'm Widder Hayes, and you are all to stay here to-night.'
``We could not believe
our ears or eyes; but after putting the dirty old woman through a severe
cross-examination she finally produced a contract, signed by our advertiser,
agreeing for board and lodging for the company, and we found ourselves booked
for the night. It appeared that our advertiser could find no better quarters in
that forlorn section, and he had indulged in a joke at our expense by exciting
our appetites and imaginations in anticipation of the luxuries we should find
in the magnificent mansion of `Lady Hayes.'
``Joe Pentland
grumbled, Bob White indulged in some very strong language, and Signor Vivalla
laughed. He had travelled with his monkey and organ in Italy and could put up
with any fare that offered. I took the disappointment philosophically, simply
remarking that we must make the best of it and compensate ourselves when we
reached a town next day.
``The next forenoon we
arrived at Macon, and congratulated ourselves that we had reached the regions
of civilization.
``In going from
Columbus, Ga., to Montgomery, Ala., we were obliged to cross a thinly-settled,
desolate tract, known as the `Indian Nation,' and as several persons had been
murdered by hostile Indians in that region, it was deemed dangerous to travel
the road without an escort. Only the day before we started, the mail stage had
been stopped and the passengers murdered, the driver alone escaping. We were
well armed, however, and trusted that our numbers would present too formidable
a force to be attacked, though we dreaded to incur the risk. Vivalla alone was
fearless and was ready to encounter fifty Indians and drive them into the
swamp.
``Accordingly, when we
had safely passed over the entire route to within fourteen miles of Montgomery,
and were beyond the reach of danger, Joe Pentland determined to test Vivalla's
bravery. He had secretly purchased at Mt. Megs, on the way, an old Indian dress
with a fringed hunting shirt and moccasins and these he put on, after coloring
his face with Spanish brown. Then shouldering his musket he followed Vivalla
and the party, and, approaching stealthily leaped into their midst with a
tremendous whoop.
``Vivalla's companions
were in the secret, and they instantly fled in all directions. Vivalla himself
ran like a deer and Pentland after him, gun in hand and yelling horribly. After
running a full mile the poor little Italian, out of breath and frightened
nearly to death, dropped on his knees and begged for his life. The `Indian'
leveled his gun at his victim, but soon seemed to relent, and signified that
Vivalla should turn his pockets inside out--which he did, producing and handing
over a purse containing eleven dollars. The savage then marched Vivalla to an
oak, and with a handkerchief tied him in the most approved Indian manner to the
tree, leaving him half dead with fright.
``Pentland then joined
us, and washing his face and changing his dress, we all went to the relief of
Vivalla. He was overjoyed to see us, and when he was released his courage
returned; he swore that after his companions left him, the Indian had been
re-inforced by six more, to whom, in default of a gun or other means to defend
himself, Vivalla had been compelled to surrender. We pretended to believe his
story for a week, and then told him the joke, which he refused to credit, and
also declined to take the money which Pentland offered to return, as it could
not possibly be his since seven Indians had taken his money. We had a great
deal of fun over Vivalla's courage, but the matter made him so cross and surly
that we were finally obliged to drop it altogether. From that time forward,
however, Vivalla never boasted of his prowess.''
At the end of February,
1837, they reached Montgomery, and there Barnum sold a half interest in his
show to Henry Hawley, a sleight-of-hand performer. He was a very clever fellow
and was never known to be non-plussed or embarrassed in his tricks, except upon
one occasion. This was when he was performing the well-known egg and bag trick,
which he did with great success, taking egg after egg from the bag and finally
breaking one to show that they were genuine. ``Now,'' said he ``I will show you
the old hen that laid them.'' But it happened that the negro boy to whom had
been intrusted the duty of supplying ``properties,'' had made a slight mistake.
The result was that Hawley triumphantly produced not ``the old hen that laid
the eggs,'' but a most palpable and evident rooster. The audience roared with
laughter, and Hawley, completely taken aback, fled in confusion to his dressing
room, uttering furious maledictions upon the boy who was the author of his woe.
The show visited
various places in Alabama, Tennessee and Kentucky, and finally disbanded at
Nashville in May, 1837. Vivalla went to New York and gave some performances on
his own account before sailing for Cuba. Hawley remained in Tennessee, and
Barnum went home to his family. Early in July, however, he formed a new company
and went back to rejoin Hawley. But they were not successful, and in August
they parted again, Barnum forming a new partnership with one Z. Graves. He then
went to Tiffin, Ohio, where he re-engaged Joe Pentland and got together the
nucleus of a new company.
During his short stay
at Tiffin, Barnum got into a discussion with various gentlemen on religious
subjects, and in response to their invitation lectured, or preached, in the
school-house on Sunday afternoon and evening. He also went to the neighboring
town of Republic and delivered two lectures.
On his way back to
Kentucky, just before he reached Cincinnati, he met a drove of hogs. One of the
drivers made an insolent remark because the circus wagons interfered with the
driving of the hogs, and Barnum responded angrily. Thereupon the fellow jumped
from his horse, pointed a pistol at Barnum's breast and swore he would shoot
him if he did not apologize. Barnum asked permission to speak first to a friend
in the next wagon, after which, he said, he would give the man full
satisfaction. The ``friend'' proved to be a loaded double barrelled gun, which
Barnum leveled at the hog-driver's head, saying:
``Now, sir, you must
apologize, or have your brains blown out. You drew a weapon upon me for a
careless remark. You seem to hold human life at a cheap price. Now you have the
choice between a load of shot and an apology.''
The man apologized
promptly, a pleasant conversation ensued, and they parted excellent friends.
On this tour they
exhibited at Nashville, where Barnum visited General Jackson at the Hermitage;
at Huntsville, Tuscaloosa, Vicksburg and various other places, generally doing
well. At Vicksburg they bought a steamboat and went down the river, stopping at
every important landing to exhibit. At Natchez their cook deserted them, and
Barnum set out to find another. He found a white woman who was willing to go,
only she expected to marry a painter in that town, and did not want to leave
him. Barnum went to see the painter and found that he had not fully made up his
mind whether to marry the woman or not. Thereupon the enterprising showman told
the painter that if he would marry the woman the next morning he would hire him
for $25 a month as painter, and his bride at the same wages as cook, give them
both their board and add a cash bonus of $50. There was a wedding on the boat
the next day, and they had a good cook and a good dinner.
During one evening
performance at Francisville, Louisiana, a man tried to pass Barnum at the door
of the tent, claiming that he had paid for admittance. Barnum refused him
entrance; and as he was slightly intoxicated, he struck Barnum with a slung
shot, mashing his hat and grazing what phrenologists call ``the organ of
caution.'' He went away and soon returned with a gang of armed and half-drunken
companions, who ordered the showmen to pack up their ``traps and plunder'' and
to get on board their steamboat within an hour. The big tent speedily came
down. No one was permitted to help, but the company worked with a will, and
within five minutes of the expiration of the hour they were on board and ready
to leave. The scamps who had caused their departure escorted them and their
last load, waving pine torches, and saluted them with a hurrah as they swung
into the stream.
The New Orleans papers
of March 19th, 1838, announced the arrival of the ``Steamer Ceres, Captain
Barnum, with a theatrical company.'' After a week's performance, they started
for the Attakapas country. At Opelousas they exchanged the steamer for sugar
and molasses; the company was disbanded, and Barnum started for home, arriving
in New York. June 4th, 1838.
ADVERTISING FOR A
PARTNER--``QUAKER OATS''--DIAMOND THE DANCER--A DISHONEST MANAGER--RETURN TO
NEW YORK--FROM HAND TO MOUTH--THE AMERICAN MUSEUM.
Looking around now for
some permanent business, Barnum at last resorted to the expedient of
advertising for a partner, stating that he had $2,500 to invest, and was
willing to add his entire personal attention to the business. He was
immediately overwhelmed with answers, the most of them coming from sharpers.
One was a counterfeiter who wanted $2,500 to invest in paper, ink, and dies.
One applicant was a
sedate individual dressed in sober drab; he proposed to buy a horse and wagon
and sell oats in bags, trusting that no one would be particular in measuring
after a Quaker.
``Do you mean to cheat
in measuring your oats?'' asked Barnum.
``Well,'' said the
Quaker, with a significant leer, ``I shall probably make them hold out.''
Finally Barnum decided
to go into business with a good-looking, plausible German, named Proler, who
was a manufacturer of paste-blacking, cologne, and bear's grease. They opened a
store at No. 101 1/2 Bowery, where Proler manufactured the goods, and
Barnum kept accounts and attended to sales in the store. The business
prospered, or appeared to, until the capital was exhausted, and early in 1840
Barnum sold out his interest to Proler, taking the German's note for $2,600,
which was all he ever got, Proler shortly afterward running away to Rotterdam.
Barnum had formed the
acquaintance of a very clever young dancer named John Diamond, and soon after
leaving the paste-blacking enterprise, he gathered together a company of
singers, etc., which, with the dancer, Diamond, he placed in the hands of an
agent, not caring to have his name appear in the transaction. He hired the
Vauxhall Garden Saloon in New York and gave a variety of performances. This,
however, proved unprofitable, and was abandoned after a few months.
Much as Barnum dreaded
resuming the life of an itinerant showman, there seemed nothing else to be
done, so January 2d, 1841, found him in New Orleans, with a company consisting
of C. D. Jenkins, an excellent Yankee character artist; Diamond, the dancer; a
violinist, and one or two others. His brother-in-law, John Hallett, acted as
advance agent. The venture was fairly successful, though after the first two
weeks in New Orleans, the manager and proprietor of the show was obliged to
pledge his watch as security for the board-bill. A dancing match between
Diamond and a negro from Kentucky put nearly $500 into Barnum's pocket, and
they continued to prosper until Diamond, after extorting as much money as
possible from his manager, finally ran away. The other members of the troop
caused considerable trouble later. Jenkins, the Yankee character man, went to
St. Louis, and having enticed Francis Lynch, an orphan protégé of Barnum's into
the scheme, proceeded to the Museum, where he exhibited Lynch as the celebrated
dancer, John Diamond. Barnum poured out his wrath at this swindler in a letter,
for which Jenkins threatened suit, and actually did instigate R. W. Lindsay to
bring an action against Barnum for a pipe of brandy, alleged to have been
included in his contract. Being among strangers, Barnum had some difficulty in
procuring the $500 bond required, and was committed to jail until late in the
afternoon. As soon as he was released, he had Jenkins arrested for fraud, and then
went on his way rejoicing.
After an absence of
eight months Barnum found himself back in New York, resolved never again to be
a traveling showman. Contracting with the publisher, Robert Sears, for five
hundred copies of ``Sear's Pictorial Illustrations of the Bible,'' and
accepting the United States agency for the book, he opened an office at the
corner of Beekman and Nassau Streets. He advertised widely, had numerous
agents, and sold thousands of books, but for all that, lost money.
While engaged in this
business the Vauxhall Saloon was re-opened, under the management of John
Hallett, Mrs. Barnum's brother. At the end of the season they had cleared about
$200. This sum was soon exhausted, and for the rest of the winter Barnum
managed to eke out a living by writing for the Sunday papers, and getting up
unique advertisements for the Bowery Amphitheatre.
His ambition received a
stimulus at last from a friend in Danbury, who held a mortgage on a piece of
property owned by Mr. Barnum. Mr. Whittlesey wrote that as he was convinced of
Mr. Barnum's inability to lay up money, he thought he might as well demand the
five hundred dollars then as at any time. Barnum's flagging energies were
aroused, and he began in earnest to look for some permanent investment.
In connection with the
Bowery Amphitheatre, the information came to him that the collection of
curiosities comprising Scudder's American Museum, at the corner of Broadway and
Ann Streets, was for sale. The original proprietor had spent $50,000 on it, and
at his death had left a large fortune as the result of the speculation. It was
now losing money and the heirs offered it for sale, at the low price of
$15,000. Realizing that with tact, energy, and liberality, the business might
be made as profitable as ever, Barnum resolved to buy it.
``You buy the American
Museum!'' exclaimed a friend to whom he confided the scheme. ``What will you
buy it with?''
``With brass,''
answered Barnum, ``for silver and gold have I none.''
And buy it with brass
he did, as the story of the transaction testifies.
The Museum building
belonged to Mr. Francis W. Olmsted, a retired merchant, to whom he wrote,
stating his desire to buy the collection, and that although he had no means, if
it could be purchased upon reasonable credit, he was confident that his tact
and experience, added to a determined devotion to business, would enable him to
make the payments when due. Barnum therefore asked him to purchase the
collection in his own name; to give a writing securing it to Barnum, provided
he made the payments punctually, including the rent of his building; to allow
Barnum twelve dollars and a half a week on which to support his family; and if
at any time he failed to meet the installment due, he would vacate the
premises, and forfeit all that might have been paid to that date. ``In fact,
Mr. Olmsted.'' Barnum continued, earnestly, ``you may bind me in any way, and
as tightly as you please--only give me a chance to dig out, or scratch out, and
I will do so or forfeit all the labor and trouble I may have incurred.''
In reply to this
letter, which Barnum took to his house himself, Mr. Olmsted named an hour when
he could call on him. Barnum was there at the exact moment, and Olmstead was
pleased with his punctuality. He inquired closely as to Barnum's habits and
antecedents, and the latter frankly narrated his experiences as a caterer for
the public, mentioning his amusement ventures in Vauxhall Garden, the circus,
and in the exhibitions he had managed at the South and West.
``Who are your
references?'' Olmsted inquired.
``Any man in my line,''
Barnum replied, ``from Edmund Simpson, manager of the Park Theatre, or William
Niblo, to Messrs. Welch, June, Titus, Turner, Angevine, or other circus or
menagerie proprietors; also Moses Y. Beach, of the New York Sun.''
``Can you get any of
them to call on me?''
Barnum told him that he
could, and the next day Mr. Niblo rode down and had an interview with Mr.
Olmsted, while Mr. Beach and several other gentlemen also called. The following
morning Barnum waited upon him for his decision.
``I don't like your
references, Mr. Barnum,'' said Mr. Olmsted, abruptly, as soon as he entered the
room.
Barnum was confused,
and said, ``he regretted to hear it.''
``They all speak too
well of you,'' Olmsted added, laughing; ``in fact, they all talk as if they
were partners of yours, and intended to share the profits.''
``Nothing could have
pleased me better,'' says Barnum. ``He then asked me what security I could offer
in case he concluded to make the purchase for me, and it was finally agreed
that, if he should do so, he should retain the property till it was entirely
paid for, and should also appoint a ticket-taker and accountant (at my
expense), who should render him a weekly statement. I was further to take an
apartment hitherto used as a billiard-room in his adjoining building, allowing
therefor $500 a year, making a total rental of $3,000 per annum, on a lease of
ten years. He then told me to see the administrator and heirs of the estate, to
get their best terms, and to meet him on his return to town a week from that
time.
``I at once saw Mr.
John Heath, the administrator, and his price was $15,000. I offered $10,000,
payable in seven annual installments, with good security. After several
interviews, it was finally agreed that I should have it for $12,000, payable as
above --possession to be given on the 15th of November. Mr. Olmsted assented to
this, and a morning was appointed to draw and sign the writings. Mr. Heath
appeared, but said he must decline proceeding any further in my case, as he had
sold the collection to the directors of Peale's Museum (an incorporated
institution) for $15,000, and had received $1,000 in advance.
``I was shocked, and
appealed to Mr. Heath's honor. He said that he had signed no writing with me;
was in no way legally bound, and that it was his duty to do the best he could
for the heirs. Mr. Olmsted was sorry but could not help me; the new tenants
would not require him to incur any risk, and my matter was at an end.
``Of course I
immediately informed myself as to the character of Peale's Museum Company. It
proved to be a band of speculators who had bought Peale's collection for a few
thousand dollars, expecting to unite the American Museum with it, issue and
sell stock to the amount of $50,000, pocket $30,000 profits, and permit the
stockholders to look out for themselves.
``I went immediately to
several of the editors, including Major M. M. Noah, M. Y. Beach, my good
friends West, Herrick, and Ropes, of the Atlas, and others, and stated my
grievances. `Now,' said I, `if you will grant me the use of your columns, I'll
blow that speculation sky-high.' They all consented, and I wrote a large number
of squibs, cautioning the public against buying the Museum stock, ridiculing
the idea of a board of broken-down bank directors engaging in the exhibition of
stuffed monkeys and gander-skins; appealing to the case of the Zoological
Institute, which had failed by adopting such a plan as the one now proposed;
and finally, I told the public that such a speculation would be infinitely more
ridiculous than Dickens's `Grand United Metropolitan Hot Muffin and
Crumpit-baking and Punctual Delivery Company.'
``The stock was `as
dead as a herring!' I then went to Mr. Heath and asked him when the directors
were to pay the other $14,000.' On the 26th day of December, or forfeit the
$1,000 already paid,' was the reply. I assured him that they would never pay
it, that they could not raise it, and that he would ultimately find himself
with the Museum collection on his hands, and if once I started off with an
exhibition for the South, I could not touch the Museum at any price. `Now,'
said I, `if you will agree with me confidentially, that in case these gentlemen
do not pay you on the 26th of December I may have it on the 27th for $12,000, I
will run the risk, and wait in this city until that date.' He readily agreed to
the proposition, but said he was sure they would not forfeit their $1,000.
`` `Very well,' said I;
`all I ask of you is, that this arrangement shall not be mentioned.' He
assented. `On the 27th day of December, at ten o'clock A. M., I wish you to
meet me in Mr. Olmsted's apartments, prepared to sign the writings, provided
this incorporated company do not pay you $14,000 on the 26th. He agreed to
this, and by my request put it in writing.
``From that moment I
felt that the Museum was mine. I saw Mr. Olmsted, and told him so. He promised
secrecy, and agreed to sign the document if the other parties did not meet
their engagement. This was about November 15th, and I continued my shower of
newspaper squibs at the new company, which could not sell a dollar's worth of
its stock. Meanwhile, if any one spoke to me about the Museum, I simply replied
that I had lost it.''
This newspaper war
against the Peales was kept up unceasingly until one morning in December, ``I
received a letter from the secretary of that company (now calling itself the
`New York Museum Company'), requesting me to meet the directors at the Museum
on the following Monday morning. I went, and found the directors in session.
The venerable president of the board, who was also the ex-president of a broken
bank, blandly proposed to hire me to manage the united museums, and though I saw
that he merely meant to buy my silence, I professed to entertain the
proposition, and in reply to an inquiry as to what salary I should expect, I
specified the sum of $3,000 a year. This was at once acceded to, the salary to
begin January 1st, 1842, and after complimenting me on my ability, the
president remarked: `Of course, Mr. Barnum, we shall have no more of your
squibs through the newspapers.' To which I replied that I should `ever try to
serve the interests of my employers,' and I took my leave.
``It was as clear to me
as noonday that, after buying my silence so as to appreciate their stock, these
directors meant to sell out to whom they could, leaving me to look to future
stockholders for my salary. They thought, no doubt, that they had nicely entrapped
me, but I knew I had caught them.
``For, supposing me to
be out of the way, and having no other rival purchaser, these directors
postponed the advertisement of their stock to give people time to forget the
attacks I had made on it, and they also took their own time for paying the
money promised to Mr Heath, December 26th--indeed, they did not even call on
him at the appointed time. But on the following morning, as agreed, I was
promptly and hopefully at Mr. Olmsted's apartments with my legal adviser, at
half-past nine o'clock; Mr. Heath came with his lawyer at ten, and before two
o'clock that day I was in formal possession of the American Museum. My first
managerial act was to write and dispatch the following complimentary note:
`` `AMERICAN MUSEUM,
NEW YORK, Dec. 27th, 1841. `` `To the President and Directors of the New York
Museum:
`` `GENTLEMEN: It gives
me great pleasure to inform you that you are placed upon the Free List of this
establishment until furthur notice. `` `P. T. BARNUM, Proprietor.'
``It is unnecessary to
say that the `President of the New York Museum' was astounded, and when he
called upon Mr. Heath, and learned that I had bought and was really in
possession of the American Museum, he was indignant. He talked of prosecution,
and demanded the $1,000 paid on his agreement, but he did not prosecute, and he
justly forfeited his deposit money,''
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With great hopes for
the success of his project, Barnum entered upon the management of the Museum.
It was a new epoch in his career, he felt that the opportunity of his life had
presented itself --in the show business, to be sure, but in a permanent,
substantial phase of it.
He must pay for the
establishment within the stipulated time, or forfeit all he had paid on
account. A rigid plan of economy was determined upon, his wife agreeing to
support the family on $600 a year, or even on four hundred if necessary. Barnum
himself made every possible personal retrenchment. One day, some six months
after the purchase had been made, Mr. Olmsted happened into the ticket office,
while the proprietor was eating his lunch of cold corned beef and bread.
``Is that all you eat
for dinner?'' asked Mr. Olmsted.
``I have not eaten a
warm dinner, except on Sundays, since I bought the Museum,'' was the reply,
``and I don't intend to, until I am out of debt.''
``That's right,'' said
Mr. Olmsted, heartily, ``and you'll pay for the Museum before the year is
out.''
And he was right.
The nucleus of this
establishment, Scudder's Museum, was formed in 1810. It was begun in Chatham
Street, and was afterward transferred to the old City Hall, and from small
beginnings, by purchases, and to a considerable degree by presents, it had
grown to be a large and valuable collection. People in all parts of the country
had sent in relics and rare curiosities. Sea captains for years had brought and
deposited strange things from foreign lands; and besides all these gifts, the
previous proprietor had actually expended, as was stated, $50,000 in making the
collection, which valuable as it was when Barnum bought it, was only the
beginning of its subsequent greatness. In 1842 the entire contents of Peale's
Museum was purchased, and in 1850 the Peale collection of Philadelphia was
added. In 1865 the space occupied for museum purposes was more than twice as
large as in 1842. The Lecture Room, originally narrow, ill-contrived, and
inconvenient, was so enlarged and improved that it became one of the most
commodious and beautiful amusement halls in the city of New York. At first the
attractions and inducements were merely the collection of curiosities by day,
and an evening entertainment, consisting of such variety performances as were
current in ordinary shows. Then Saturday afternoons and, soon afterward,
Wednesday afternoons, were devoted to entertainments, and the popularity of the
Museum grew so rapidly that it was presently found expedient and profitable to
open the great Lecture Room every afternoon, as well as every evening, on every
weekday in the year. The first experiments in this direction more than
justified expectations, for the day exhibitions were always more thronged than
those of the evening.
Holidays, of course,
were made the most of, and there is a record of twelve performances, to as many
audiences, being given in one day.
By degrees the
character of the stage performances were changed. The transient attractions of
the Museum were constantly diversified, and educated dogs, industrious fleas,
automatons, jugglers, ventriloquists, living statuary, tableaux, gypsies,
Albinoes, fat boys, giants, dwarfs, rope-dancers, live ``Yankees,'' pantomime,
instrumental music, singing and dancing in great variety, dioramas, panoramas,
models of Niagara, Dublin, Paris, and Jerusalem; Hannington's dioramas of the
Creation, the Deluge, Fairy Grotto, Storm at Sea; the first English Punch and
Judy in this country, Italian Fantoceini, mechanical figures, fancy
glass-blowing, knitting machines, and other triumphs in the mechanical arts;
dissolving views, American Indians, who enacted their warlike and religious
ceremonies on the stage--these, among others, were all exceedingly successful.
No man ever understood
the art of advertising better than Barnum. Knowing that mammon is ever caught
with glare, he took pains that his posters should be larger, his transparencies
more brilliant, his puffing more persistent than anybody elses. And if he resorted
to hyperbole at times in his advertisements, it was always his boast that no
one ever went away from his Museum, without having received the worth of his
money. It used to amuse Mr. Barnum later in life, to relate some of the unique
advertising dodges which his inventive genius devised. Here is a fair sample,
as he once told it:
``One morning a stout,
hearty-looking man came into my ticket-office and begged some money. I asked
him why he did not work and earn his living? He replied that he could get
nothing to do, and that he would be glad of any job at a dollar a day. I handed
him a quarter of a dollar, told him to go and get his breakfast and return, and
I would employ him, at light labor, at a dollar and a half a day. When he
returned I gave him five common bricks.
`` `Now,' said I, `go
and lay a brick on the sidewalk, at the corner of Broadway and Ann Street;
another close by the Museum; a third diagonally across the way, at the corner
of Broadway and Vesey Street, by the Astor House; put down the fourth on the
sidewalk, in front of St. Paul's Church opposite; then, with the fifth brick in
hand, take up a rapid march from one point to the other, making the circuit,
exchanging your brick at every point, and say nothing to any one.'
`` `What is the object
of this?' inquired the man.
`` `No matter,' I
replied: `all you need to know is that it brings you fifteen cents wages per
hour. It is a bit of my fun, and to assist me properly you must seem to be as
deaf as a post; wear a serious countenance; answer no questions; pay no
attention to any one; but attend faithfully to the work, and at the end of
every hour, by St. Paul's clock, show this ticket at the Museum door; enter,
walking solemnly through every hall in the building; pass out, and resume your
work.' ''
With the remark that
``it was all one to him, so long as he could earn his living,'' the man placed
his bricks, and began his round. Half an hour afterward, at least five hundred
people were watching his mysterious movements. He had assumed a military step
and bearing, and, looking as sober as a judge, he made no response whatever to
the constant inquiries as to the object of his singular conduct. At the end of
the first hour, the sidewalks in the vicinity were packed with people, all anxious
to solve the mystery. The man, as directed, then went into the Museum, devoting
fifteen minutes to a solemn survey of the halls, and afterward returning to his
round. This was repeated every hour until sundown, and whenever the man went
into the Museum a dozen or more persons would buy tickets and follow him,
hoping to gratify their curiosity in regard to the purpose of his movements.
This was continued for several days--the curious people who followed the man
into the Museum considerably more than paying his wages--till finally the
policeman, to whom Barnum had imparted his object, complained that the
obstruction of the sidewalk by crowds, had become so serious that he must call
in his ``brick man.'' This trivial incident excited considerable talk and amusement;
it advertised Barnum; and it materially advanced his purpose of making a lively
corner near the Museum.
Barnum realized above
all that to have people pleased with his attractions was the best advertisement
he could possibly have, and he tried honestly to keep the Museum supplied with
every novelty. A curiosity which possessed some merit, and considerable
absurdity was the celebrated model of Niagara, ``with real water.''
One day the
enterprising proprietor was called before the Board of Water Commissioners, and
informed that he must pay a large extra compensation for the immense amount of
water that supplied his Niagara. To the astonishment of the Board Mr. Barnum
gave his assurance that a single barrel of water per month served to run the machine.
Apropos of this
wonderful model, Barnum used to tell how he got even with his friend, Louis
Gaylord Clark, editor of the Knickerbocker, an inveterate joker, and who was
fond of guying the Museum. The first time Clark viewed ``Niagara'' he assumed
great admiration.
``Well, Barnum, I
declare, this is quite an idea; I never saw the like of this before in all my
life.''
``No?'' inquired
Barnum, quite pleased.
``No,'' said Clark,
fervently, ``and I hope to the Lord, I never will.''
Barnum might have
forgiven this, but Clark's next joke was too much to bear. He came in one day
and asked Barnum if he had the club with which Captain Cook was killed. The
Museum boasted a large collection of Indian curiosities, and Barnum showed one
warlike weapon which he assured Clark was the identical club and he had all the
documents to prove it.
``Poor Cook! Poor
Cook!'' said Clark, musingly. ``Well, Mr. Barnum,'' he continued, with great
gravity, at the same time extending his hand, ``I am really very much obliged
to you for your kindness. I had an irrepressible desire to see the club that
killed Captain Cook, and I felt quite confident you could accommodate me. I
have been in half a dozen smaller museums, and as they all had it, I was sure a
large establishment like yours would not be without it.''
But Barnum's turn came.
A few weeks afterward, he wrote to Clark that if he would come to his office he
was anxious to consult him on a matter of great importance. He came, and Barnum
said:
``Now, I don't want any
of your nonsense, but I want your sober advice.''
Clark assured him that
he would serve him in any way in his power, and Barnum proceeded to tell him
about a wonderful fish from the Nile, offered for exhibition at $100 a week,
the owner of which was willing to forfeit $5,000, if, within six weeks, this
fish did not pass through a transformation in which the tail would disappear
and the fish would then have legs.
``Is it possible!''
asked the astonished Clark.
Barnum assured him that
there was no doubt of it.
Thereupon Clark advised
Barnum to engage the wonder at any price; that it would startle the
naturalists, wake up the whole scientific world, draw in the masses, and make
$20,000 for the Museum. Barnum told him that he thought well of the speculation,
only he did not like the name of the fish.
``That makes no
difference whatever,'' said Clark; ``what is the name of the fish?''
``Tadpole,'' Barnum
replied, with becoming gravity, ``but it is vulgarly called `pollywog.' ''
``Sold, by thunder!'' exclaimed
Clark, and he left.
Another story is
illustrative of some of the trials incident to theatrical management.
An actor named La Rue
presented himself as an imitator of celebrated histrionic personages, including
Macready, Forrest, Kemble, the elder Booth, Kean, Hamblin, and others. Taking
him into the green-room for a private rehearsal, and finding his imitations
excellent, Barnum engaged him. For three nights he gave great satisfaction, but
early in the fourth evening he staggered into the Museum so drunk that he could
hardly stand, and in half an hour he must be on the stage! Barnum called an
assistant, and they took La Rue and marched him up Broadway as far as Chambers
Street, and back to the lower end of the Park, hoping to sober him. At this point
they put his head under a pump and gave him a good ducking, with visible
beneficial effect, then a walk around the Park and another ducking, when he
assured them that he should be able to give his imitations ``to a charm.''
``You drunken brute,''
said Barnum, ``if you fail, and disappoint my audience, I will throw you out of
the window.''
He declared that he was
``all right,'' and Barnum led him behind the scenes, where he waited with
considerable trepidation to watch his movements on the stage. La Rue began by
saying:
``Ladies and gentlemen:
I will now give you an imitation of Mr. Booth, the eminent tragedian.''
His tongue was thick,
his language somewhat incoherent, and Barnum had great misgivings as he
proceeded; but as no token of disapprobation came from the audience, he began
to hope he would go through with his parts without exciting suspicion of his
condition. But before he had half finished his representation of Booth, in the
soliloquy in the opening act of Richard III, the house discovered that he was
very drunk, and began to hiss. This only seemed to stimulate him to make an
effort to appear sober, which, as is usual in such cases, only made matters
worse, and the hissing increased. Barnum lost all patience, and, going on the
stage and taking the drunken fellow by the collar, apologized to the audience,
assuring them that he should not appear before them again. Barnum was about to
march him off, when he stepped to the front, and said:
``Ladies and gentlemen:
Mr. Booth has often appeared on the stage in a state of inebriety, and I was
simply giving you a truthful representation of him on such occasions. I beg to
be permitted to proceed with my imitations.''
The audience at once
supposed it was all right, and cried out, ``go on, go on''; which he did, and
at every imitation of Booth, whether as Richard, Shylock, or Sir Giles
Overreach, he received a hearty round of applause. Barnum was quite delighted
with his success; but when he came to imitate Forrest and Hamblin, necessarily
representing them as drunk also, the audience could be no longer deluded; the
hissing was almost deafening, and Barnum was forced to lead the actor off. It
was his last appearance on that stage.
Barnum always denied
that the ``Feejee Mermaid,'' which attained such lasting notoriety, was an
invention of his own. It was first exhibited in London in 1822, where it was
purchased by Mr. Moses Kimball, of the Boston Museum, who sold it to Barnum.
The creature was really most ingeniously constructed, probably by some
Japanese. It drew like magic, and afterward served as a good advertisement,
sent throughout the country for exhibition, the posters reading, ``From
Barnum's Great American Museum, New York.''
Barnum believed in
making his place of exhibition as attractive as possible, and the building was
decorated with flags and banners, the posters were of the most sensational
character, and the first ``Drummond Lights'' ever seen in New York were placed
on top of the Museum, flooding the streets around with brilliance.
THE AMERICAN FLAG AND
ST. PAUL'S--ST, PATRICK'S DAY--THE BABY SHOW--GRAND BUFFALO HUNT--N. P.
WILLIS--THE FIRST WILD-WEST SHOW.
The fame of the
American Museum rose higher and higher. It is doubtful if any place of
entertainment ever attracted such enthusiastic crowds. It was the first place
visited by strangers in the city.
The small Lecture Room
had been converted into a large and beautiful theatre, and in it many afterward
celebrated actors and actresses made their first appearance; Sothern, Barney
Williams, and the charming Mary Garmon. On holidays there were lecture
performances every hour. The actors kept on their stage clothes from eleven
o'clock in the morning until ten at night, their meals were served in the
green-room, and the company received extra pay.
The 4th of July, 1842,
was a great day in the history of the Museum. Barnum had planned a magnificent
display of American flags, as one of the outside attractions, and applied to
the vestrymen of St. Paul's Church, opposite the Museum, for permission to
attach his flag-rope to a tree in the church-yard. Their reply was an indignant
refusal. Returning to the Museum, Barnum directed that his original order
concerning the disposition of the flags be carried out to the letter.
The morning dawned, and
the crowds on Broadway were admiring the display, when two representatives of
the baffled vestry rushed into the office and demanded that the ropes be taken
down. ``The Church of St. Paul's, where Washington worshiped, attached to a
Museum! Sacrilege!''
Barnum assumed a
conciliatory tone, reminding them that he always stopped his band playing
during their week-day services, and suggesting the fairness of the obligation
being made mutual.
``If those flags are
not down in ten minutes,'' cried one of the vestrymen, ``I will cut them
down.''
Then Barnum sprang to
his feet and exclaimed loudly enough for the crowd to hear:
``Well, Mister, I
should just like to see you dare to cut down the American flag on the Fourth of
July; you must be a `Britisher' to make such a threat as that; but I'll show
you a thousand pairs of Yankee hands in two minutes, if you dare to attempt to
take down the Stars and Stripes on this great birthday of American freedom!''
``What's that John Bull
a-saying?'' asked a brawny fellow, placing himself in front of the irate
vestryman. ``Look here, old fellow,'' he continued, ``if you want to save a
whole bone in your body, you had better slope, and never dare to talk again
about hauling down the American flag in the city of New York.''
Throngs of excited,
exasperated men crowded around, and the vestryman, seeing the effect of the
ruse, smiled faintly and said, ``Oh, of course it is all right,'' and he and
his companion quietly edged out of the crowd.
By one o'clock that
day, the Museum was so densely packed that no more visitors could be admitted,
and the proprietor saw with despair the crowds being turned away from the door.
Rushing down-stairs, he directed the carpenter to cut down the partition and
floor in the rear and to put in a temporary flight of stairs. The egress was
ready by three o'clock, and people poured out into Ann Street, while the crowd
from Broadway poured in. After that, the egress was always ready on holidays.
One of Barnum's most amusing reminiscences related to this egress.
``Early in the
following March I received notice from some of the Irish population that they
meant to visit me in great numbers on `St. Patrick's day in the morning.' `All
right,' said I to my carpenter, `get your egress ready for March 17th;' and I
added, to my assistant manager: `If there is much of a crowd, don't let a
single person pass out at the front, even if it were St. Patrick himself; put
every man out through the egress in the rear.' The day came, and before noon we
were caught in the same dilemma as we were on the Fourth of July; the Museum
was jammed, and the sale of tickets was stopped. I went to the egress and asked
the sentinel how many hundreds had passed out?
`` `Hundreds,' he
replied, `why only three persons have gone out by this way, and they came back,
saying that it was a mistake and begging to be let in again.'
`` `What does this
mean?' I inquired; `surely thousands of people have been all over the Museum
since they came in.'
`` `Certainly,' was the
reply; `but after they have gone from one saloon to another, and have been on
every floor, even to the roof, they come down and travel the same route over
again.'
``At this time I espied
a tall Irish woman with two good-sized children whom I had happened to notice
when they came in early in the morning.
`` `Step this way,
madam,' said I, politely; `you will never be able to get into the street by the
front door without crushing these dear children. We have opened a large egress
here, and you can thus pass by these rear stairs into Ann Street, and thus
avoid all danger.'
`` `Sure,' replied the
woman, indignantly, `an' I'm not going out at all, at all, nor the children
either, for we've brought our dinners and we are going to stay all day.'
``Further investigation
showed that pretty much all of the visitors had brought their dinners with the
evident intention of literally `making a day of it.' No one expected to go home
till night; the building was overcrowded, and hundreds were waiting at the
front entrance to get in when they could. In despair, I sauntered upon the
stage behind the scenes, biting my lips with vexation, when I happened to see
the scene-painter at work, and a happy thought struck me. `Here,' I exclaimed,
`take a piece of canvas four feet square and paint on it, as soon as you can,
in large letters, TO THE EGRESS.'
``Seizing his brush, he
finished the sign in fifteen minutes, and I directed the carpenter to nail it
over the door leading to the back stairs. He did so, and as the crowd, after
making the entire tour of the establishment, came pouring down the main stairs
from the third-story, they stopped and looked at the new sign, while some of
them read audibly: `To the Aigress.'
`` `The Aigress,' said
others, `sure that's an animal we haven't seen,' and the throng began to pour
down the back-stairs only to find that the `Aigress ' was the elephant, and
that the elephant was all out o' doors, or so much of it as began with Ann
Street. Meanwhile, I began to accommodate those who had long been waiting with
their money at the Broadway entrance.''
Barnum had planned to
expend the entire profits of the first year in advertising, but so fast did the
money pour in, that he was often embarrassed to devise means to get rid of it,
according to his first idea. One of the most expensive advertisements consisted
of a large number of oil paintings of every animal in zoology. These paintings
were prepared secretly, and were put between the windows of the building at
night. The town was paralyzed with astonishment, and the daily receipts took an
upward jump of nearly a hundred dollars.
Flower shows, dog
shows, poultry and bird shows, with prizes to the best specimens, had long been
features of the Museum, and at last Barnum rashly decided on a baby show. There
was a prize of one hundred dollars attached, and a committee of ladies were
appointed to decide on the best baby. The unsuspecting Barnum stepped into the
circle and announced the prize winner, but to his astonishment the verdict did
not suit anybody but the mother of one baby. The other ninety-nine indignant
mothers ``jumped on'' to Mr Barnum and the committee, and denounced the whole
proceeding as impartial and unjust. Barnum offered to let them select a new
committee, and even agreed to give another hundred dollar prize, but the storm
raged with unabating fury. There were baby shows after that, but the verdict
was delivered in writing, and Mr. Barnum never gave the prize in person.
In June, 1843, a herd
of yearling buffaloes was on exhibition in Boston. Barnum bought the lot,
brought them to New Jersey, hired the race-course at Hoboken, chartered the
ferry-boats for one day, and advertised that a hunter had arrived with a herd
of buffaloes, and that august 31st there would be a ``Grand Buffalo Hunt'' on
the Hoboken race-course --all persons to be admitted free of charge.
The appointed day was
warm and delightful, and no less than twenty-four thousand people crossed the
North River in the ferry-boats to enjoy the cooling breeze and to see the
``Grand Buffalo Hunt.'' The hunter was dressed as an Indian, and mounted on
horseback; he proceeded to show how the wild buffalo is captured with a losso,
but unfortunately the yearlings would not run till the crowd gave a great
shout, expressive at once of derision and delight at the harmless humbug. This
shout started the young animals into a weak gallop and the lasso was duly
thrown over the head of the largest calf. The crowd roared with laughter,
listened to the balcony band, which was also furnished ``free,'' and then
started for New York, little dreaming who was the author of this sensation, or
what was its object.
Mr. N. P. Willis, then
editor of the Home Journal, wrote an article illustrating the perfect good
nature with which the American public submit to a clever humbug. He said that
he went to Hoboken to witness the buffalo hunt. It was nearly four o'clock when
the boat left the foot of Barclay Street, and it was so densely crowded that
many persons were obliged to stand on the railings and hold on to the
awning-posts. When they reached the Hoboken side a boat equally crowded was
coming out of the slip. The passengers just arriving cried out to those who
were coming away, ``Is the buffalo hunt over?'' To which came the reply, ``Yes,
and it was the biggest humbug you ever heard of!'' Willis added that passengers
on the boat with him instantly gave three cheers for the author of the humbug,
whoever he might be.
After the public had
enjoyed their laugh over the Buffalo hunt, Barnum let it become known that he
was the author of the joke. Of course, their cry of ``charlatan,'' ``humbug,''
and ``swindler'' was louder than ever from that time, but Barnum never objected
to being celled names. The more advertising the better.
About this time Barnum
engaged a band of Indians from Iowa.
The party comprised
large and noble specimens of the untutored savage, as well as several very
beautiful squaws, with two or three interesting ``papooses.'' They lived and
lodged in a large room on the top floor of the Museum, and cooked their own
victuals in their own way. They gave their war-dances on the stage in the
Lecture Room with great vigor and enthusiasm, much to the satisfaction of the
audiences. But these wild Indians seemed to consider their dances as realities.
Hence, when they gave a real war-dance, it was dangerous for any parties,
except their manager and interpreter to be on the stage, for the moment they
had finished their war-dance, they began to leap and peer about behind the
scenes in search of victims for their tomahawks and scalping knives! Indeed,
lest in these frenzied moments they might make a dash at the orchestra or the
audience, Barnum had a high rope barrier placed between them and the savages on
the front of the stage.
Barnum counted one
incident in connection with his Indian show as notable, being one of the few
occasions when he played the losing card.
``After they had been a
week in the Museum,'' he said, ``I proposed a change of performance for the
week following by introducing new dances. Among these was the Indian wedding
dance. At that time I printed but one set of posters (large bills) per week, so
that whatever was announced for Monday was repeated every day and evening
during that week. Before the wedding dance came off on Monday afternoon, I was
informed that I was to provide a large, new, red woolen blanket, at a cost of
ten dollars, for the bridegroom to present to the father of the bride. I
ordered the purchase to be made, but was considerably taken aback when I was
informed that I must have another new blanket for the evening, inasmuch as the
savage old Indian chief, father-in-law to the bridegroom, would not consent to
his daughter's being approached with the wedding dance unless he had his
blanket present,
``I undertook to
explain to the chief, through the interpreter, that this was only a `make
believe' wedding; but the old savage shrugged his shoulders, and gave such a
terrific `Ugh!' that I was glad to make my peace by ordering another blanket.
As we gave two performances per day, I was out of pocket $120 for twelve
`wedding blankets' that week.''
One of the beautiful
squaws named Do-humme died in the Museum. She had been a great favorite with
many ladies. Do-humme was buried on the border of Sylvan Water, at Greenwood
Cemetery, where a small monument erected by her friends, designates her last
resting-place. The poor Indians were very sorrowful for many days, and desired
to get back again to their Western wilds. The father and the betrothed of
Do-humme cooked various dishes of food and placed them upon the roof of the
Museum, where they believed the spirit of their departed friend came daily for
its supply; and these dishes were renewed every morning during the stay of the
Indians at the Museum.
SCIENCE FOR THE
PUBLIC--MESMERISM EXTRAORDINARY--KILLING OF A RIVAL--THE TWO GIANTS--DISCOVERY
OF ``TOM THUMB''--SEEKING OTHER WORLDS TO CONQUER--FIRST VISIT TO ENGLAND.
Barnum would never
submit to being outdone by a rival. In ``poker'' parlance, he would ``see him
and go one better.'' His chief competitor now was Peale, who was running
Peale's Museum, and proudly proclaiming it to be a more scientific institution
than Barnum's. Thus, he said, he was catering to a higher class of patrons.
``Science, indeed!''
said Barnum. ``I'll give him science to his heart's content!''
Mesmerism was then a
great novelty, and Peale was given exhibitions of it. He had one subject on
whom he operated daily, with most surprising results; though at times she was
unimpressionable, and the people who had paid to come in and see her
performances complained loudly that they were being swindled. Barnum saw here a
great opportunity to squelch a rival and increase his own fame at a single
stroke. He engaged a bright little girl who was exceedingly susceptible to such
mesmeric influences as he could induce. That is, she learned her lesson
thoroughly, and when he had apparently put her to sleep with a few passes and
stood behind her, she seemed to be duly ``impressed,'' as he desired; raised
her hands as he willed, fell from her chair to the floor; and if he put candy
or tobacco into his own mouth, she was duly delighted or disgusted. She never
failed in these routine performances. Strange to say, believers in mesmerism
used to witness her performances with the greatest pleasure, and adduce them as
positive proofs that there was something in mesmerism, and they applauded
tremendously--up to a certain point.
That point was reached
when, leaving the girl ``asleep,'' Barnum called up some one in the audience,
promising to put him ``in the same state'' within five minutes, or forfeit
fifty dollars. Of course, all his ``passes'' would not put a man in the
mesmeric state; at the end of three minutes he was as wide awake as ever.
``Never mind,'' Barnum
would say, ``looking at his watch; ``I have two minutes more, and meantime, to
show that a person in this state is utterly insensible to pain, I propose to
cut off one of the fingers of the little girl who is still asleep.'' He would
then take out a knife and feel of the edge, and when he turned around to the
girl whom he left on the chair, she had fled behind the scenes, to the intense
amusement of the greater part of the audience, and to the amazement of the
mesmerists who were present.
``Why! where's my
little girl?'' he asked, with feigned astonishment.
``Oh! she ran away when
you began to talk about cutting off fingers.''
``Then she was wide
awake, was she?''
``Of course she was,
all the time.''
``I suppose so; and, my
dear sir, I promised that you should be `in the same state' at the end of five
minutes, and as I believe you are so, I do not forfeit fifty dollars.''
Barnum kept up this
performance for several weeks, till he quite killed Peale's ``genuine''
mesmerism in the rival establishment. At the end of six months he bought Peale's
Museum, and the whole, including the splendid gallery of American portraits,
was removed to the American Museum, and he immediately advertised the great
card of a ``Double Attraction,'' and ``Two Museums in One,'' without extra
charge.
Barnum was now devoting
all his attention and energy to this enterprise, and was achieving great
success. He made everything contribute to its popularity. When a politician
asked him for what candidate he was going to vote, he would answer, ``For the
American Museum;'' and this was an index of his whole demeanor.
Among the genuine and
literally ``great'' features of his show were several giants. They often gave
both the showman and his patrons food for much amusement as well as wonder. The
Quaker giant, Hales, was quite a wag in his way. He went once to see the new
house of an acquaintance who had suddenly become rich, but who was a very
ignorant man. When he came back he described the wonders of the mansion, and
said that the proud proprietor showed him everything from basement to attic;
parlors, bed-rooms, dining-room, and, said Hales, ``what he calls his
`study'--meaning, I suppose, the place where he intends to study his
spelling-book!''
He had at one time two
famous men, the French giant, M. Bihin, a very slim man, and the Arabian giant,
Colonel Goshen. These men generally got on together very well, though, of
course, each was jealous of the other, and of the attention the rival received,
or the notice he attracted. One day they quarreled, and a lively interchange of
compliments ensued, the Arabian calling the Frenchman a ``Shanghai,'' and
receiving in return the epithet of ``Nigger.'' From words both were eager to
proceed to blows, and both ran to the collection of arms, one seizing the club
with which Captain Cook, or any other man, might have been killed, if it were
judiciously wielded, and the other laying hands on a sword of the terrific size
which is supposed to have been conventional in the days of the Crusades.
The preparations for a
deadly encounter, and the high words of the contending parties, brought a dozen
of the Museum attaches to the spot, and these men threw themselves between the
gigantic combatants. Hearing the disturbance, Barnum ran from his private
office to the dueling ground, and said:
``Look here! This is
all right; if you want to fight each other, maiming and perhaps killing one or
both of you, that is your affair; but my interest lies here: you are both under
engagement to me, and if this duel is to come off, I and the public have a
right to participate. It must be duly advertised, and must take place on the
stage of the Lecture Room. No performance of yours would be a greater
attraction, and if you kill each other, our engagement can end with your
duel.''
This proposition, made
in apparent earnest, so delighted the giants that they at once burst into a
laugh, shook hands, and quarreled no more.
From giants to dwarfs.
None of Barnum's attractions has been more famous than ``Tom Thumb.'' The story
of his discovery and engagement is dated in November, 1842. Barnum was then at
Bridgeport, Conn. One day he heard that there belonged in one of the families
of the place a phenomenally small child, and he got his brother, Philo F. Barnum,
to bring the little fellow to his hotel. ``He was,'' Barnum afterward said,
``not two feet high; he weighed less than sixteen pounds, and was the smallest
child I ever saw that could walk alone; he was a perfectly formed bright-eyed
little fellow, with light hair and ruddy cheeks, and he enjoyed the best of
health. He was exceedingly bashful, but after some coaxing, he was induced to
talk with me, and he told me that he was the son of Sherwood E. Stratton, and
that his own name was Charles S. Stratton. After seeing him and talking with
him, I at once determined to secure his services from his parents and to
exhibit him in public. I engaged him for four weeks, at three dollars a week,
with all traveling and boarding charges for himself and his mother at my expense.
They came to New York Thanksgiving day, December 8th, 1842, and I announced the
dwarf on my Museum bills as `General Tom Thumb.' ''
Barnum took the
greatest pains to educate and train the diminutive prodigy, devoting many hours
to the task by day and by night, and he was very successful, for the boy was an
apt pupil, with a great deal of native talent, and a keen sense of the
ludicrous. Barnum afterward re-engaged him for one year, at seven dollars a
week with a gratuity of fifty dollars at the end of the engagement, and the
privilege of exhibiting him anywhere in the United States, in which event his
parents were to accompany him and Barnum was to pay all traveling expenses. He
speedily became a public favorite, and long before the year was out, Barnum
voluntarily increased his weekly salary to twenty-five dollars, and he fairly
earned it.
For two years Barnum
had been the owner of the Museum. He had enjoyed great prosperity. Long ago he
had paid every dollar of the purchase-money out of the profits of the place.
All rivals had been driven from the field. He was out of debt, and had a
handsome balance in the bank. The experimental stage was passed, and the
enterprise was an established success. It was, indeed, in such perfect order
that Barnum felt safe in leaving it to his lieutenants, while he went forth to
seek new realms of conquest. Accordingly he made an agreement for General Tom
Thumb's services for another year, at fifty dollars a week and all expenses,
with the privilege of exhibiting him in Europe. He proposed to test the
curiosity of men and women on the other side of the Atlantic.
After arranging his
business affairs for a long absence, and making every preparation for an
extended foreign tour, on Thursday, January 18th, 1844, he went on board the
new and fine sailing ship ``Yorkshire,'' Captain D. G. Bailey, bound for
Liverpool. The party included General Tom Thumb, his parents, his tutor, and
Professor Guillaudeu, a French naturalist. They were accompanied by several
personal friends, and the City Brass Band kindly volunteered to escort them to
Sandy Hook.
They were met at
Liverpool by a large crowd of sight-seers, who had been attracted thither by
the fame of ``Tom Thumb.'' The curiosity of the populace was not gratified,
however, for Barnum had the child smuggled ashore unseen, under his mother's
shawl.
``My letters of
introduction,'' said the showman, ``speedily brought me into friendly relations
with many excellent families, and I was induced to hire a hall and present the
General to the public, for a short season in Liverpool. I had intended to
proceed directly to London, and begin operations at `headquarters,' that is, in
Buckingham Palace, if possible; but I had been advised that the royal family
was in mourning for the death of Prince Albert's father, and would not permit
the approach of any entertainments. Meanwhile, confidential letters from London
informed me that Mr. Maddox, Manager of Princess's Theatre, was coming down to
witness my exhibition, with a view to making an engagement. He came privately,
but I was fully informed as to his presence and object. A friend pointed him
out to me in the hall, and when I stepped up to him, and called him by name, he
was `taken all aback,' and avowed his purpose in visiting Liverpool. An
interview resulted in an engagement of the General for three nights at
Princess's Theatre. I was unwilling to contract for a longer period, and even
this short engagement, though on liberal terms, was acceded to only as a means
of advertisement. So soon, therefore, as I could bring my short, but highly
successful, season in Liverpool to a close, we went to London.''
AN ARISTOCRATIC
VISITOR--CALLING AT BUCKINGHAM PALACE AND HOBNOBBING WITH ROYALTY--GETTING A
PUFF IN THE ``COURT CIRCULAR'' --THE IRON DUKE--A GREAT SOCIAL AND FINANCIAL
SUCCESS.
The first public
appearance of Tom Thumb in London occurred soon after the arrival of the party
there, at the Princess's Theatre. A short engagement only had been made, but it
was exceedingly successful. The spectators were delighted, the manager
overjoyed, and Barnum himself pleased beyond measure. This brief engagement
answered his purpose, in arousing public interest and curiosity. That was all
the shrewd showman wanted for the present. Accordingly, when the manager of the
theatre urged a renewal of the engagement, at a much higher price, Barnum
positively declined it. He had secured the desired advertising; now he would
exhibit on his own account and in his own way.
He therefore took a
splendid mansion in Grafton Street, Bond Street, in the fashionable and
aristocratic West End of London. Lord Talbot had lived in it, and Lord Brougham
lived close by. It was an audacious stroke for the Yankee showman to invade
this select and exclusive region, but it was successful. In response to his
invitations members of the nobility came eagerly flocking to the house to see
the wonderful child. Barnum showed himself as exclusive as any of them, for he
gave orders to his servants that no callers were to be received who did not
present cards of invitation. This procedure he afterward explained, was
entirely proper. He had not yet announced himself as a public showman. He was
simply an American citizen visiting London, and it was incumbent upon him to
maintain the dignity of his position! His servants, of course, exercised proper
tact, and no offense was given, although many of the nobility and gentry, who
drove to his door in carriages adorned with crests and coats of arms, were thus
turned away.
Among the early callers
was the Hon. Edward Everett, the American minister to England. He was much
pleased with Mr. Barnum and his tiny ward, and had them dine with him the next
day. He also promised that they should, if possible, be received by the Queen
at Buckingham Palace.
A few evenings
afterward the Baroness Rothschild sent her carriage for them. They were
received by a half a dozen servants, and were ushered up a broad flight of
marble stairs to the drawing-room, where they met the Baroness and a party of
twenty or more ladies and gentlemen. In this sumptuous mansion of the richest
banker in the world, they spent about two hours, and when they took their leave
a well-filled purse was quietly slipped into Mr. Barnum's hand. The golden
shower had begun to fall.
Mr. Barnum now thought
the time ripe for beginning his public exhibitions. He engaged Egyptian Hall,
Piccadilly, and announced that Tom Thumb was to be seen there. The rush of
visitors was tremendous. The aristocracy of London thronged the hall night
after night, and a phenomenal success was assured. Barnum did not look beyond
such work. True, Everett had spoken of an audience with the Queen, but Barnum
had no idea that it would ever be granted. One day, however, he met Mr. Murray,
Master of the Queen's Household, at Everett's at breakfast, and that gentleman
asked him what were his plans for the future. Barnum replied that he expected
presently to go to the Continent, but he would most gladly stay in London if he
could get the favor of an audience with Her Majesty.
Mr. Murray kindly
offered his good offices in the case, and the next day one of the Life Guards,
a tall, noble-looking fellow, bedecked as became his station, brought a note,
conveying the Queen's invitation to General Tom Thumb and his guardian Mr.
Barnum, to appear at Buckingham Palace on an evening specified. Special
instructions were the same day orally given by Mr. Murray, by Her Majesty's
command, to suffer the General to appear before her, as he would appear
anywhere else, without any training in the use of the titles of royalty, as the
Queen desired to see him act naturally and without restraint.
Determined to make the
most of the occasion, Mr. Barnum put a placard on the door of the Egyptian
Hall: ``Closed this evening, General Tom Thumb being at Buckingham Palace by
command of Her Majesty.''
When they arrived at
the palace, a Lord-in-Waiting met them, and began ``coaching'' them on points
of court etiquette. Mr. Barnum, especially, was told that he must in no event
speak directly to Her Majesty, but through the medium of the aforesaid Lord. He
must also keep his face constantly turned toward the Queen, and so, in retiring
from the royal presence, must walk backward. Having thus been instructed in the
ways of royalty, Mr. Barnum and the diminutive General were led to the presence
of the Queen.
They passed through a
long corridor to a broad flight of marble steps, which led to the picture
gallery, and there the Queen and Prince Albert, the Duchess of Kent, the Duke
of Wellington, and others were awaiting their arrival. They were standing at
the further end of the room when the doors were thrown open, and the General
walked in, looking like a wax doll gifted with the power of locomotion.
Surprise and pleasure were depicted on the countenances of the royal circle at
beholding this remarkable specimen of humanity so much smaller than they had
evidently expected to find him.
The General advanced
with a firm step, and, as he came within hailing distance, made a very graceful
bow, and exclaimed, ``Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.''
A burst of laughter
followed this salutation. The Queen then took him by the hand, led him about
the gallery, and asked him many questions, the answers to which kept the party
in an uninterrupted strain of merriment. The General familiarly informed the
Queen that her picture gallery was ``first-rate,'' and told her he should like
to see the Prince of Wales. The Queen replied that the Prince had retired to
rest, but that he should see him on some future occasion. The General then gave
his songs, dances, and imitations, and after a conversation with Prince Albert,
and all present, which continued for more than an hour, they were permitted to
depart.
But before this Mr.
Barnum had broken the instructions in etiquette which had been so carefully
impressed upon him by the Lord-in-Waiting. When the Queen began asking him
questions, he answered her, as she addressed him, through the lordly medium, as
he had been told. That was inconvenient and irksome, however, and presently
Barnum addressed his reply directly to her. The Lord-in-Waiting was
horror-struck, but the Queen did not appear to be displeased, for she instantly
followed her guest's example, and spoke thereafter directly to him. In a few
minutes Her Majesty and the Yankee showman were talking together with the
greatest ease and freedom.
``I felt,'' said Mr.
Barnum afterward, ``entirely at ease in her presence, and could not avoid
contrasting her sensible and amiable manners with the stiffness and formality
of upstart gentility at home or abroad.
``The Queen was
modestly attired in plain black, and wore no ornaments. Indeed, surrounded as
she was by ladies arrayed in the highest style of magnificence, their dresses
sparkling with diamonds, she was the last person whom a stranger would have
pointed out in that circle as the Queen of England.
``The Lord-in-Waiting
was perhaps mollified toward me when he saw me following his illustrious
example in retiring from the royal presence. He was accustomed to the process,
and therefore was able to keep somewhat ahead (or rather aback) of me, but even
I stepped rather fast for the other member of the retiring party. We had a
considerable distance to travel in that long gallery before reaching the door,
and whenever the General found he was losing ground, he turned around and ran a
few steps, then resumed his position of backing out, then turned around and
ran, and so continued to alternate his methods of getting to the door, until
the gallery fairly rang with the merriment of the royal spectators. It was
really one of the richest scenes I ever saw; running, under the circumstances,
was an offense sufficiently heinous to excite the indignation of the Queen's
favorite poodle dog, and he vented his displeasure by barking so sharply as to
startle the General from his propriety. He, however, recovered immediately, and
with his little cane, commenced an attack on the poodle, and a funny fight
ensued, which renewed and increased the merriment of the royal party.
``This was near the
door of exit. We had scarcely passed into the ante-room, when one of the
Queen's attendants came to us with the expressed hope of her Majesty that the
General had sustained no damage, to which the Lord-in-Waiting playfully added,
that in case of injury to so renowned a personage, he should fear a declaration
of war by the United States!''
The visitors were then
escorted about the Palace, and treated to refreshments. Before leaving Mr.
Barnum bethought him of the ``Court Circular,'' in which the doings of the
Royal Family were chronicled to the world. Would his reception by the Queen be
mentioned in it? Certainly. Well, then, would it not be possible to secure
something more than mere mention; some words of special commendation; a ``free
advertisement'' in fact? He would try it! So he inquired where he could find
the gentleman who prepared the circular, and was informed that that functionary
was in the Palace at that very moment.
``He was sent for,''
related Mr. Barnum, ``by my solicitation, and promptly acceded to my request
for such a notice as would attract attention. He even generously desired me to
give him an outline of what I sought, and I was pleased to see afterward, that
he had inserted my notice verbatim.
``This notice of my
visit to the Queen wonderfully increased the attraction of `Gen. Tom Thumb,'
and compelled me to obtain a more commodious hall for my exhibition. I
accordingly moved to a larger room in the same building.''
On their second visit
to the Queen, they were received in what is called the Yellow Drawing Room, a
magnificent apartment. It is on the north side of the gallery, and is entered
from that apartment. It was hung with drapery of rich yellow satin damask, the
couches, sofas, and chairs being covered with the same material. The vases,
urns, and ornaments were all of the most exquisite workmanship. The room was
panelled in gold, and the heavy cornices beautifully carved and gilt. The
tables, pianos, etc., were mounted with gold, inlaid with pearl of various
hues, and of the most elegant designs.
They were ushered into
this gorgeous drawing-room before the Queen and royal circle had left the
dining-room, and, as they approached, the General bowed respectfully, and
remarked to Her Majesty, ``that he had seen her before,'' adding, ``I think
this is a prettier room than the picture gallery; that chandelier is very
fine.''
The Queen smilingly
took him by the hand, and said she hoped he was very well.
``Yes, ma'am,'' he
replied, ``I am first-rate.''
``General,'' continued
the Queen, ``this is the Prince of Wales.''
``How are you,
Prince?'' said the General, shaking him by the hand, and then standing beside
the Prince, he remarked, ``the prince is taller than I am, but I feel as big as
anybody,'' upon which he strutted up and down the room as proud as a peacock,
amid shouts of laughter from all present.
The Queen then
introduced the Princess Royal, and the General immediately led her to his
elegant little sofa, which he took with him, and with much politeness sat down
beside her. Then, rising from his seat, he went through his various
performances, and the Queen handed him an elegant and costly souvenir, which
had been expressly made for him by her order, for which, he told her, ``he was
very much obliged, and would keep it as long as he lived.'' The Queen of the
Belgians (daughter of Louis Philippe) was present on this occasion. She asked
the General where he was going when he left London.
``To Paris,'' he
replied.
``Whom do you expect to
see there?'' she continued.
Of course all expected
he would answer, ``the King of the French,'' but the little fellow replied.
``Monsieur
Guillaudeu.''
The two queens looked
inquiringly, and when Mr. Barnum informed them that M. Guillaudeu was his
French naturalist, they laughed most heartily.
On their third visit to
Buckingham Palace, Leopold, King of the Belgians, was also present. He was
highly pleased, and asked a multitude of questions. Queen Victoria desired the
General to sing a song, and asked him what song he preferred to sing.
``Yankee Doodle,'' was
the prompt reply.
This answer was as
unexpected to Mr. Barnum as it was to the royal party. When the merriment it
occasioned had somewhat subsided, the Queen good-humoredly remarked, ``that is
a very pretty song, General, sing it, if you please.'' The General complied,
and soon afterward retired.
The Queen sent to
Barnum a handsome fee for each of his visits, but that was only a small part of
the benefits which his acquaintance with her brought to him. Such was the force
of Court example that it was now deemed unfashionable, almost disloyal, not to
have seen Tom Thumb. Carriages of the nobility, fifty or sixty at a time, were
to be seen at Barnum's door in Piccadilly. Egyptian Hall was crowded at every exhibition,
and the net profits there were on the average more than $500 per day from March
20th to July 20th. Portraits of the tiny General were for sale everywhere, and
were eagerly purchased by thousands. Musical compositions were dedicated to
him, and songs were sung in his honor. Week after week he was the subject of
Punch'swittiest cartoons; and of course all this was just so much free
advertising. Besides his three public performances per day, the little General
attended three or four private parties per week, for which they were paid eight
to ten guineas each. Frequently he would visit two parties in the same evening,
and the demand in that line was much greater than the supply. The Queen Dowager
Adelaide requested the General's attendance at Marlborough House one afternoon.
He went in his court dress, consisting of a richly embroidered brown
silk-velvet coat and short breeches, white satin vest with fancy colored
embroidery, white silk stockings and pumps, wig, bagwig, cocked hat, and dress
sword.
``Why, General,'' said
the Queen Dowager, ``I think you look very smart to-day.''
``I guess I do,'' said
the General, complacently.
A large party of the
nobility were present. The old Duke of Cambridge offered the little General a
pinch of snuff, which he declined. The General sang his songs, performed his
dances, and cracked his jokes, to the great amusement and delight of the
distinguished circle of visitors.
``Dear little
General,'' said the kind-hearted Queen, taking him upon her lap, ``I see you have
no watch. Will you permit me to present you with a watch and chain?''
``I would like them
very much,'' replied the General, his eyes glistening with joy as he spoke.
``I will have them made
expressly for you,'' responded the Queen Dowager; and at the same moment she
called a friend and desired him to see that the proper order was executed. A
few weeks thereafter they were called again to Marlborough House. A number of
the children of the nobility were present, as well as some of their parents.
After passing a few compliments with the General, Queen Adelaide presented him
with a beautiful little gold watch, placing the chain around his neck with her
own hands.
This watch, also,
served the purpose of an advertisement, and a good one, too. It was not only
duly heralded, but was placed upon a pedestal in the hall of exhibition,
together with the presents from Queen Victoria, and covered with a glass vase.
These presents, to which were soon added an elegant gold snuff-box mounted with
turquois, presented by his grace the Duke of Devonshire, and many other costly
gifts of the nobility and gentry, added to the attraction of the exhibition.
The Duke of Wellington
called frequently to see the little General at his public levees. The first
time he called, the General was personating Napoleon Bonaparte, marching up and
down the platform, and apparently taking snuff in deep meditation. He was
dressed in the well-known uniform of the Emperor. Barnum introduced him to the
``Iron Duke,'' who inquired the subject of his meditations. ``I was thinking of
the loss of the battle of Waterloo,'' was the little General's immediate reply.
This display of wit was chronicled throughout the country, and was of itself
worth thousands of pounds to the exhibition.
General Tom Thumb had
visited the King of Saxony and also Ibrahim Pacha, who was then in London. At
the different parties he attended, he met, in the course of the season, nearly
all of the nobility. Scarcely a nobleman in England failed to see General Tom
Thumb at his own house, at the house of a friend, or at the public levees at
Egyptian Hall. The General was a decided pet with some of the first personages
in the land, among whom were Sir Robert and Lady Peel, the Duke and Duchess of
Buckingham, Duke of Bedford, Duke of Devonshire, Count d'Orsay, Lady
Blessington, Daniel O'Connell, Lord Adolphus Fitzclarence, Lord Chesterfield,
and many other persons of distinction They had the free entree to all the
theatres, public gardens, and places of entertainment, and frequently met the
principal artists, editors, poets, and authors of the country. Albert Smith
wrote a play for the General, entitled ``Hop o' my Thumb,'' which was presented
with great success at the Lyceum Theatre, London, and in several of the
provincial theatres.
Thus the London visit
and the tour of England were successful beyond all anticipation, and it was
with an overflowing purse that Barnum set out with his charge for the French
capital.
ARRIVAL IN PARIS--VISIT
TO THE TUILERIES--LONGCHAMPS--``TOM PONCE'' ALL THE RAGE--BONAPARTE AND LOUIS
PHILIPPE--TOUR THROUGH FRANCE--BARNUM'S PURCHASE.
Barnum having returned
from a preliminary trip to France, in which all arrangements, even to starting
the first paragraphs in the Paris papers were made, now went back accompanied
by Tom Thumb. They reached Paris some days before the exhibition was opened,
but on the day following their arrival, a special command reached them to
appear at the Tuileries on the next Sunday evening.
At the appointed hour
the General and his manager were ushered into the presence of the King, the
Queen, the Count de Paris, Prince de Joinville, the Duchess d'Orleans, and a
dozen more distinguished persons, among whom was the editor of the Journal des
Debats.
At the close of the
General's performances, which he went through with to the evident delight of
all present, the King gave him a large emerald and diamond brooch, at the same
time saying to Mr. Barnum: ``You may put it on the General, if you please.'' Which
command was obeyed, to the gratification of the King and the immense delight of
the General.
The King was so
condescending and affable that Mr. Barnum at length ventured to ask a favor of
him. The Longchamps celebration was close at hand--a day once devoted to
religious ceremony, but now conspicuous for the display of court and
fashionable equipages in the various drives and parks--and after the King had
conversed with Mr. Barnum on various topics in a familiar manner, the
diplomatic showman remarked that he had hastened his arrival in Paris for the
express purpose of taking part in the Longchamps celebration. The General's
carriage, he explained, with its ponies and little coachman and footman, was so
small that it would be in great danger in the crowd unless the King would
graciously permit it to appear in the avenue reserved for the court and the
diplomatic corps
The King smiled, and
after a few minutes' consultation with one of the officers of his household.
said: ``Call on the Prefect of Police to-morrow afternoon and you will find a
permit ready for you.''
After a two hours'
visit they retired, the General loaded with presents.
The next morning all
the newspapers chronicled the royal audience, the Journal des Debats giving a
full account of the interview and of the General's performances.
Thus all Paris knew
that Tom Thumb, in all his glory, was in the city.
Longchamps day arrived,
and conspicuous among the splendid equipages on the grand avenue, Tom Thumb's
beautiful little carriage, with four ponies and liveried and powdered coachman
and footman, rode along in the line of carriages bearing the ambassadors to the
Court of France. The air was fairly rent with cheers for ``le General Tom
Ponce.''
The first day's
receipts were 5,500 francs--over three hundred dollars, and this sum might have
been doubled had there been room for more visitors. The elité of Paris flocked
to the exhibition. There were afternoon and evening performances, and seats
were reserved in advance at an extra price for the entire two months.
The papers were full of
praises for the performance; Figaro gave a picture of an immense mastiff
running away with the General's horse and carriage in his month.
Statuettes and pictures
of ``Tom Ponce'' appeared everywhere; a café on one of the boulevards took the
name of ``Tom Ponce,'' with a life-size statue of the General for a sign.
Eminent painters here, as in London, asked to paint his portrait, but the
General's engagements were so pressing that he had little time to sit to artists.
All the leading actors and actresses came to see him, and he received many fine
presents from them. The daily receipts continued to increase, and the manager
had to take a cab to carry home the silver at night.
Twice more was the
General summoned to appear before the royal family at the Tuileries, and on the
King's birthday a special invitation was sent him to view the display of
fireworks in honor of the anniversary.
The last visit to the
Court was made at St. Cloud. The papers, in speaking of the General's
characterizations, mentioned that there was one costume which Tom Thumb wisely
kept at the bottom of his trunk. This was the uniform of Napoleon Bonaparte,
and by special request of the King, it was worn at St. Cloud. The affair was
quite sub rosa, however, none of the papers mentioning it.
At the end of the visit
each of the royal company gave the General a magnificent present, overwhelmed
him with kisses, wishing him a safe journey through France, and a long and
happy life. After making their adieux they retired to another part of the
palace to permit the General to change his costume and to partake of a
collation which was served them. As they were leaving the palace they passed
the sitting-room where the royal family were spending the evening. The door was
open, and some one spying the General there was a call for him to come in and
shake hands once more. They went in, finding the Queen and her ladies engaged
in embroidering, while one young lady read aloud. They all kissed and petted the
General many times around before finally permitting him to depart.
After leaving Paris
they made a most profitable tour, including the cities of Rouen, Orleans,
Brest, and Bordeaux, where they were invited to witness a review of 20,000
soldiers by the Dukes de Nemours and d'Aumale. Thence to Toulon, Montpelier,
Nismes, Marseilles, and many other less important places. At Nantes, Bordeaux,
and Marseilles the General appeared in the theatres in a part written for him
in a French play called ``Petit Poncet.''
During their stay in
Paris, Barnum made a characteristically profitable investment. A Russian
Prince, who had lived in great splendor in Paris, died suddenly, and his
household effects were sold at auction. There was a magnificent gold tea-set, a
dinner service of silver, and some rare specimens of Sevres china, the value of
which were impaired by the Prince's initials being on them. The initials were
``P. T ,'' and Mr. Barnum bought them, and adding ``B.'' to the other letters,
had a very fine table service appropriately marked.
PRESENTED TO KING
LEOPOLD AND THE QUEEN--THE GENERAL'S JEWELS STOLEN--THE FIELD OF WATERLOO--AN
ACCIDENT--AN EXPENSIVE EQUIPAGE--``THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY.''
The day after the
arrival of the party in Brussels they were summoned to the palace. The king and
queen had seen the General in London, but they wished their children and the
distinguished people of the court to have the same pleasure.
After a delightful
visit they came away, the General, as usual, laden with gifts.
The following day the
exhibition opened, and from the first was crowded by throngs of the best people
in the city. One day, in the midst of the exhibition, it was discovered that
the case containing all the valuable presents Tom Thumb had received from
royalty' etc., was missing.
The alarm was instantly
given, and the police notified. A reward was offered of 2,000 francs, and,
after a day or two, the thief was captured and the jewels returned. After that
the case of presents was more carefully guarded.
Everyone who goes to
Brussels is supposed to visit the field of Waterloo; so, before they left, the
entire party--Tom Thumb, Barnum, Prof. Pinte (tutor), and Mr. Stratton (father
of the General), and Mr. H. G. Sherman, went together.
After visiting the
church in the village of Waterloo and viewing the memorial tablets there, they
passed to the house where Lord Uxbridge--Marquis of Anglesey--had had his leg
amputated. There is a little monument in the garden over the shattered limb,
and a part of the boot that covered it was seen in the house. Barnum procured a
three-inch bit of the boot for his Museum, at the same time remarking, that if
the lady in charge was as liberal to all visitors, that boot had held out
wonderfully since 1815.
On approaching the
ground they were beset by a dozen or more guides, each one professing to know
the exact spot where every man had stood, and each claiming to have himself
taken part in the struggle, although most of them were less than twenty-five,
and the battle had been fought some thirty years before. They finally accepted
one old man, who at first declared that he had been killed in the front ranks,
but afterward acknowledged that he had only been wounded and left on the field
for dead three days.
After having the
location of Napoleon's Guard, the Duke of Wellington, the portion of the field
where Blucher entered with the Prussian army, pointed out to them, and the
spots where fell Sir Alexander Gordon and other celebrities, they asked the
guide if he knew where Captain Tippitiwichet, of Connecticut, was killed? ``Oh,
oui, Monsieur,'' replied the guide confidently. After pointing out the precise
spots where fictitious friends from Coney Island, New Jersey, Cape Cod and
Saratoga had received their death-wounds, they paid the old humbug and
dismissed him.
Upon leaving the field
they were met by another crowd of peasants with relics of the battle for sale.
Barnum bought a large number of pistols, bullets, brass French eagles, buttons,
etc., for the Museum, and the others were equally liberal in their purchases.
They bought also maps, guide-books and pictures, until Mr. Stratton expressed
his belief that the ``darned old battle of Waterloo'' had cost more since it
was fought than it ever did before.
Some months afterwards,
while they were in Birmingham, they made the acquaintance of a firm who
manufactured and sent to Waterloo barrels of these ``relics'' every year.
Four or five miles on
the road home they had the misfortune to break the axle-tree of the carriage.
It was past one o'clock, and the exhibition was advertised to commence in
Brussels at two. Of course, they could not expect to walk the distance in less
than three hours, and Barnum was disposed to give up the afternoon performance
altogether. But Mr. Stratton could not bear the idea of losing six or eight
hundred francs, so, accompanied by the interpreter, Prof. Pinte, he rushed down
the road to a farm-house, followed leisurely by the rest of the party.
Mr. Stratton asked the
old farmer if he had a carriage. He had not. ``Have you no vehicle?'' he
inquired.
``Yes, I have that
vehicle,'' he replied, pointing to an old cart filled with manure, and standing
in his barnyard.
``Thunder! is that all
the conveyance you have got?'' asked Stratton. Being assured that it was,
Stratton concluded that it was better to ride in a manure-cart than not to get
to Brussels in time.
``What will you ask to
drive us to Brussels in three-quarters of an hour?'' demanded Stratton.
``It is impossible,''
replied the farmer; ``I should want two hours for my horse to do it in.''
``But ours is a very
pressing case, and if we are not there in time we lose more than five hundred
francs,'' said Stratton.
The old farmer pricked
up his ears at this, and agreed to get them to Brussels in an hour for eighty
francs. Stratton tried to beat him down, but it was of no use.
``Oh, go it,
Stratton,'' said Sherman; ``eighty francs you know is only sixteen dollars, and
you will probably save a hundred by it, for I expect a full house at our
afternoon exhibition to-day.''
``But I have already
spent about ten dollars for nonsense,'' said Stratton, ``and we shall have to
pay for the broken carriage besides.''
``But what can you do
better?'' chimed in Professor Pinte.
``It is an outrageous
extortion to charge sixteen dollars for an old horse and cart to go ten miles.
Why, in old Bridgeport, I could get it done for three dollars,'' replied
Stratton, in a tone of vexation
``It is the custom of
the country,'' said Professor Pinte, ``and we must submit to it.''
``Well, it's a
thundering mean custom, anyhow,'' said Stratton, ``and I won't stand such
imposition.''
``But what shall we
do?'' earnestly inquired Mr. Pinte. ``It may be a high price, but it is better
to pay that than to lose our afternoon performance and five or six hundred
francs.''
This appeal to the
pocket touched Stratton's feelings; so, submitting to the extortion, he replied
to our interpreter, ``Well, tell the old robber to dump his dung-cart as soon
as possible, or we shall lose half an hour in starting.''
The cart was ``dumped''
and a large, lazy-looking Flemish horse was attached to it with a rope harness.
Some boards were laid across the cart for seats, the party tumbled into the
rustic vehicle, a red-haired boy, son of the old farmer, mounted the horse, and
Stratton gave orders to ``get along.'' ``Wait a moment,'' said the farmer,
``you have not paid me yet.'' ``I'll pay your boy when we get to Brussels,
provided he gets there within the hour,'' replied Stratton.
``Oh, he is sure to get
there in an hour,'' said the farmer, ``but I can't let him go unless you pay in
advance.'' The minutes were flying rapidly, the anticipated loss of the day
exhibition of General Tom Thumb flitted before his eyes, and Stratton, in very
desperation, thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth sixteen five-franc
pieces, which he dropped, one at a time, into the hand, of the farmer, and then
called out to the boy, ``There now, do try to see if you can go ahead.''
The boy did go ahead,
but it was with such a snail's pace that it would have puzzled a man of
tolerable eyesight to have determined whether the horse was moving or standing
still. To make it still more interesting, it commenced raining furiously. As
they had left Brussels in a coach, and the morning had promised a pleasant day,
they had omitted umbrellas. They were soon soaked to the skin, but they
``grinned and bore it'' a while without grumbling. At length Stratton, who was
almost too angry to speak, desired Mr. Pinte to ask the red haired boy if he
expected to walk his horse all the way to Brussels.
``Certainly,'' replied
the boy; ``he is too big and fat to do anything but walk. We never trot him.''
Stratton was terrified
as he thought of the loss of the day exhibition; and he cursed the boy, the
cart, the rain, the luck, and even the battle of Waterloo itself. But it was
all of no use; the horse would not run, but the rain did--down their backs.
At two o'clock, the
time appointed for the exhibition, they were yet some seven miles from
Brussels. The horse walked slowly and philosophically through the pitiless
storm, the steam majestically rising from the old manure-cart, to the no small
disturbance of their unfortunate olfactories. ``It will take two hours to get
to Brussels at this rate,'' growled Stratton. ``Oh, no,'' replied the boy; ``it
will only take about two hours from the time we started.''
``But your father
agreed to get us there in an hour,'' answered Stratton.
``I know it,''
responded the boy, ``but he knew it would take more than two.''
``I'll sue him for
damages, by thunder!'' said Stratton.
``Oh, there would be no
use in that,'' chimed in Mr. Pinte, ``for you could get no satisfaction in this
country.''
``But I shall lose more
than a hundred dollars by being two hours instead of one,'' said Stratton.
``They care nothing
about that; all they care for is your eighty francs,'' remarked Pinte.
``But they have lied
and swindled me,'' replied Stratton.
``Oh, you must not mind
that; it is the custom of the country.''
The party arrived in
Brussels precisely two hours and a half from the time they left the farmer's
house. Of course it was too late for the afternoon performance, and hundreds of
people had been turned away disappointed.
EGYPTIAN HALL AND THE
ZOÖLOGICAL GARDENS--THE SPECIAL TRAIN-- OXFORD--STRATFORD-ON-AVON--GUY OF
WARWICK RELICS--PURCHASE OF THE ``HAPPY FAMILY''--RETURN TO AMERICA.
In London the General
again opened his levees in Egyptian Hall, with increased success. His unbounded
popularity on the Continent, and his receptions by King Louis Philippe, of
France, and King Leopold, of Belgium, had added greatly to his prestige and
fame. Those who had seen him when he was in London months before came to see
him again, and new visitors crowded by thousands to the General's levees.
Besides giving these
daily entertainments, the General appeared occasionally for an hour, during the
intermissions, at some place in the suburbs; and for a long time he appeared
every day at the Surrey Zoölogical Gardens, under the direction of the proprietor,
Mr. W. Tyler. This place subsequently became celebrated for its great music
hall, in which Spurgeon, the sensational preacher, first attained his
notoriety. The place was always crowded, and when the General had gone through
with his performances on the little stage, in order that all might see him, he
was put into a balloon, which, secured by ropes, was then passed around the
ground, just above the people's heads. Some forty men managed the ropes and
prevented the balloon from rising; but, one day, a sudden gust of wind took the
balloon fairly out of the hands of half the men who had hold of the ropes,
while others were lifted from the ground, and had not an alarm been instantly
given, which called at least two hundred to the rescue, the little General would
have been lost.
In October Barnum made
a flying visit to America, remaining long enough to renew the lease of the
Museum building, and to attend to various other business matters. When he
returned he was accompanied by his wife and daughters. They took a furnished
house, which, during all their three months' residence, was the scene of
constant hospitality, all the distinguished people in London being entertained
there.
When the engagement at
Egyptian Hall expired they made an extensive tour through England and Scotland,
going as far north as Aberdeen. The General's Scotch costumes, his national
dances and the ``bit of dialect'' which he had acquired had long been a feature
of the performance and was especially admired in Scotland. The party travelled
much of the time in Barnum's own carriage, the General's carriage, ponies and
other properties being conveyed in a huge van. They found this way of
travelling more comfortable than the other, besides enabling them to visit out
of the way places, where often the most successful exhibitions were given.
There was one occasion
when their carriage broke down, and, as they had advertised a performance in
Rugby that evening, they decided to take the cars; but on arriving at the
station they found the last train gone. Barnum immediately looked up the
superintendent and told him that they must have an extra train for Rugby,
without an instant's delay.
``Extra train?'' said
he, with surprise and a half-sneer, ``extra train? why you can't have an extra
train to Rugby for less than sixty pounds.''
``Is that all? well,
get up your train immediately, and here are your sixty pounds. What in the
world are sixty pounds to me, when I wish to go to Rugby, or elsewhere, in a
hurry.''
The astonished
superintendent took the money, bustled about, and the train was soon ready. He
was greatly puzzled to know what distinguished person--he thought he must be
dealing with some prince, or, at least, a duke--was willing to give so much
money to save a few hours of time, and he hesitatingly asked whom he had the
honor of serving.
``General Tom Thumb.''
The performance at
Rugby netted £160, which not only covered expenses but left a handsome margin.
When they were in
Oxford, a dozen or more of the students came to the conclusion that, as the
General was a little fellow, the admission fee to his entertainments should be
paid in the smallest kind of money. They accordingly provided themselves with
farthings, and as each man entered, instead of handing in a shilling for his ticket,
he laid down forty-eight farthings. The counting of these small coins was a
great annoyance to Mr. Stratton, the General's father, who was ticket-seller,
and after counting two or three handfuls, vexed at the delay which was
preventing a crowd of ladies and gentlemen from buying tickets, Mr. Stratton
lost his temper, and cried out:
``Blast your
quarter-pennies! I am not going to count them! you chaps who haven't bigger
money can chuck your copper into my hat and walk in.''
Mr. Stratton was a
genuine Yankee, and thoroughly conversant with the Yankee vernacular which he
used freely. In exhibiting the General, Barnum often said to visitors that Tom
Thumb's parents, and the rest of the family, were persons of the ordinary size,
and that the gentleman who presided in the ticket-office was the General's
father. This made poor Stratton an object of no little curiosity, and he was
pestered with all sorts of questions; on one occasion an old dowager said to
him:
``Are you really the
father of General Tom Thumb?''
``Wa'al,'' replied
Stratton, ``I have to support him!''
This evasive answer is
common enough in New England, but the literal dowager had her doubts, and
promptly rejoined:
``I rather think he
supports you!''
Although Barnum was in
Europe on business, he made the most of his opportunities for sight-seeing, and
in his few leisure hours managed to visit nearly every place of interest both
in England and on the continent.
While in Birmingham,
with his friend Albert Smith, then author and afterwards a successful showman,
he visited Stratford-on-Avon, where lived and wrote the greatest of English
poets--Shakespeare.
While breakfasting at
the Red House Inn, at Stratford, they called for a guide-book of the town, and
to Barnum's great delight the volume proved to be Washington Irving's
``Sketch-book.'' His pleasure was even more increased when he discovered, on
reading the vivid and picturesque description of Stratford, that Irving had
stopped at the very same hotel where they were awaiting breakfast.
After visiting the
house as well as the church where is the tomb of the poet, they took a
post-chaise for Warwick Castle, fourteen miles away.
The Earl of Warwick and
his family being absent, the visitors were shown through the apartments. One
guide took them over the Castle, another escorted them to the top of ``Guy's
Tower,'' another showed them the famous Warwick Vase. They were congratulating
themselves on not being called upon for any more tips, when the old porter at
the lodge informed them that for a consideration he could show them more
interesting things connected with the Castle than any they had yet seen. They
tossed him his fee, and he produced what purported to be Guy of Warwick's
sword, shield, helmet, breastplate, walking-staff, etc. The armor must have
weighed two hundred pounds and the sword alone one hundred. Barnum listened,
and gazed in silence at the horse-armor, large enough for an elephant, and a
pot called ``Guy's porridge-pot,'' which could have held seventy gallons, but
when the old man produced the ribs of a mastodon which he declared had belonged
to a huge dun cow, which had done much injury to many persons before being
slain by the dauntless Guy, he drew a long breath, and feelingly congratulated
the old porter on his ability to concentrate more lies than anyone had ever
before heard in so small a compass.
``I suppose,'' said
Barnum, ``that you have told these marvellous tales so often that you almost
believe them yourself.''
``Almost,'' answered
the old man, with a broad grin.
``Come now, old
fellow,'' continued Barnum, ``what will you take for the entire lot of these
old traps? I want them for my Museum in America.''
``No money would buy
these priceless relics of a bygone age,'' replied the porter, leering.
``Never mind,''
exclaimed the showman; ``I'll have them duplicated for my Museum, so that
Americans can see them without coming here, and in that way I'll burst up your
old show.''
The porter was
paralyzed with astonishment at this threat, and Albert Smith was convulsed with
laughter. He afterwards told Barnum that he first derived his idea of becoming
a showman from this day at Warwick, and Barnum's talk about his doings and
adventures in the business.
They visited that same day
Kenilworth and Coventry, in which latter place Barnum discovered the exhibition
known as the ``Happy Family,'' about two hundred birds and animals of opposite
natures, dwelling in one cage in perfect harmony. He was so delighted with it
that he bought it on the spot, and hired the manager to accompany the
exhibition to New York, where it became a famous feature of the Museum.
Albert Smith afterwards
published a chapter in Bentley's Magazine, entitled ``A Day with Barnum,'' in
which he said they accomplished business with such rapidity that, when he
attempted to write out the accounts of the day, he found the whole thing so
confused in his brain that he came near locating ``Peeping Tom'' in the house
of Shakespeare, while Guy of Warwick would stick his head above the ruins of
Kenilworth, and the Warwick Vase appeared in Coventry.
With the exception of
two brief trips to America, Barnum had been abroad with General Tom Thumb three
years. The season had been one of unbroken pleasure and profit. They had visited
nearly every city and town in France, Belgium, England, Scotland, and the
cities of Belfast and Dublin in Ireland. After this truly triumphant tour, they
set sail in February, 1847, for New York.
Barnum was a man who
never could bear to see injustice done. On one of his business trips to America
he took passage on a Cunard steamer, commanded by a Captain Judkins. Among the
passengers was the celebrated preacher, Robert Baird. One Sunday after dinner
Barnum asked Mr. Baird if he would be willing to preach to the passengers in
the forward cabin. The captain had read the Episcopal service that morning, but
it was done as a mere matter of form, without the slightest suggestion of
devotion in its observance.
Mr. Baird consented to
preach, and Barnum, after mentioning it to the other passengers, who were
delighted at the prospect, went to the captain and said: ``Captain, the
passengers desire to have Dr. Baird conduct a religious service in the forward
cabin. I suppose there is no objection?'' The rest of the story may as well be
told in Barnum's own words. To his inquiry, the captain replied gruffly:
``Decidedly there is,
and it will not be permitted.''
``Why not?''
``It is against the
rules of the ship.''
``What! to have
religious services on board?''
``There have been
religious services once to-day, and that is enough. If the passengers do not
think that is good enough, let them go without,'' was the captain's hasty and
austere reply.
``Captain,'' Barnum
replied, ``do you pretend to say you will not allow a respectable and
well-known clergyman to offer a prayer and hold religious services on board
your ship at the request of your passengers?''
``That, sir, is exactly
what I say. So, now, let me hear no more about it.''
By this time a dozen
passengers were crowding around his door, and expressing their surprise at his
conduct. Barnum was indignant, and used sharp language.
``Well,'' said he,
``this is the most contemptible thing I ever heard of on the part of the owners
of a public passenger ship. Their meanness ought to be published far and
wide.''
``You had better `shut
up,' '' said Captain Judkins, with great sternness.
``I will not `shut up,'
'' he replied; ``for this thing is perfectly outrageous. In that out-of-the-way
forward cabin you allow, on week-days, gambling, swearing, smoking and singing
till late at night; and yet on Sunday you have the impudence to deny the
privilege of a prayer-meeting, conducted by a gray-haired and respected
minister of the gospel. It is simply infamous!''
Captain Judkins turned
red in the face; and, no doubt feeling that he was ``monarch of all he
surveyed,'' exclaimed in a loud voice:
``If you repeat such
language, I will put you in irons.''
``Do it, if you dare,''
said Barnum, feeling his indignation rising rapidly. ``I dare and defy you to
put your finger on me. I would like to sail into New York harbor in handcuffs,
on board a British ship, for the terrible crime of asking that religious worship
may be permitted on board. So you may try it as soon as you please; and, when
we get to New York, I'll show you a touch of Yankee ideas of religious
intolerance.''
Turning on his heel, he
walked over to Mr. Baird and told him how matters stood, adding, with a laugh:
``Doctor, it may be
dangerous for you to tell of this incident when you get on shore; for it would
be a pretty strong draught upon the credulity of many of my countrymen if they
were told that my zeal to hear an orthodox minister preach was so great that it
came near getting me into solitary confinement. But I am not prejudiced, and I
like fair play.''
The old doctor replied:
``Well, you have not lost much; and, if the rules of this ship are so stringent
I suppose we must submit.''
The captain afterwards
came to Barnum and apologized for the rude manner in which he had carried out
the rules of the ship. Barnum was not at the time a teetotaler, and the two men
``washed down'' their differences in a bottle of champagne, and were excellent
friends from that moment.
PARTNERSHIP WITH TOM
THUMB--VISIT TO CUBA--IRANISTAN, HIS FAMOUS PALACE AT BRIDGEPORT--AGRICULTURAL
EXPERIENCES--BARNUM'S GAME-KEEPER AND THE GREAT GAME DINNER--FRANK LESLIE.
One of Barnum's
principal objects in returning to America at this time was to insure the
permanence of his ``American Museum.'' He had a lease of the property, which
had yet three years to run. But he wanted to make sure of it after that term
had expired. Mr. Olmsted, the former owner, was now dead, and It was not
certain that the new proprietor would renew the lease. If not, another home for
the great show must be secured, and Barnum decided that in that event he would
buy land on Broadway and erect a building to suit him. The new owner of the old
property was persuaded, however, to renew the lease for a term of twenty-five
years. The building covered an area of fifty-six by one hundred feet and was
four stories high. Barnum agreed to pay for it a rental of $10,000 a year in
addition to the taxes and all assessments. Then, as the place was not large
enough for his purposes, he rented and connected with it the upper floors of
several adjacent buildings. The Museum was at this time enormously prosperous,
and was thronged with visitors from morning to late at night.
Tom Thumb's European
reputation was of course a great advertisement, and it was ``worked for all it
was worth.'' He appeared at the Museum daily for four weeks, and drew such
crowds of visitors as had never been seen there before. He afterwards spent a
month in Bridgeport with his kindred. To prevent being annoyed by the curious,
who would be sure to throng the houses of his relatives, he exhibited two days
at Bridgeport, and the receipts, amounting to several hundred dollars, were
presented to the Bridgeport Charitable Society.
Barnum's contract with
Tom Thumb had expired on January 1, 1845, while they were in England, and they
had then formed a partnership, dividing equally between them the profits of
their enterprise; excepting during the first four weeks of their return to New
York, during which time the General waived his partnership rights and exhibited
himself for a salary of $50 a week. Mr. Stratton, Tom Thumb's father, was now a
rich man, and he settled a handsome fortune upon his tiny son.
Soon a tour of America
was arranged, the party consisting of Mr. Barnum and Tom Thumb and his parents.
They began at Washington, in April, 1847, where they visited President and Mrs.
Polk at the White House. Thence they went to Richmond, to Baltimore, and to
Philadelphia, where they took in $5,594.91 in twelve days. Next they visited
Boston and Lowell; Providence, where they received nearly $1,000 in a day; New
Bedford, Fall River, Salem, Worcester, Springfield, Albany, Troy, Niagara
Falls, Buffalo and various other places. During the whole year's tour their
receipts averaged from $400 to $500 per day, and their expenses only from $25
to $30. On their way back to New York they stopped at all large towns along the
Hudson river, and then went to New Haven, Hartford, Portland and some other New
England cities.
Absence did not make
them forgotten in New York, however, but only increased public interest in
them. When he returned to his Museum Mr. Barnum found that he himself had come
to be regarded as one of its chief curiosities. ``If I showed myself about the
Museum, or wherever else I was known, I found eyes peering and fingers pointing
at me, and could frequently overhear the remark, `There's Barnum.' On one
occasion, soon after my return, I was sitting in the ticket-office, reading a
newspaper. A man came and purchased a ticket of admission. `Is Mr. Barnum in
the Museum?' he asked. The ticket-seller, pointing to me, answered, `This is
Mr. Barnum.' Supposing the gentleman had business with me, I looked up from the
paper. `Is this Mr. Barnum?' he asked. `It is,' I replied. He stared at me for
a moment, and then, throwing down his ticket, exclaimed, `It's all right; I
have got the worth of my money;' and away he went, without going into the
Museum at all.''
In the fall of 1847
they went South, visiting and giving exhibitions at Charleston, Columbia,
Augusta, Savannah, Milledgeville, Macon, Columbus, Montgomery, Mobile and New
Orleans. At the last-named place they spent three weeks, including the
Christmas holidays. After New Year's they went to Cuba, and were received at
Havana by the Captain-General and the aristocracy of the city. For a month they
gave exhibitions in Havana and Matanzas with great success. The only serious
drawback was the hotels, which they did not find good; indeed, it was difficult
for them to get enough to eat. The Washington House, at Havana, where they
lived for some time, was characterized by Mr. Barnum as ``first-rate bad!''
From Cuba they returned
to New Orleans, and thence to New York by way of the Mississippi river, St.
Louis, Louisville, Cincinnati and Pittsburg. And then, in May, 1848, it was
agreed that Barnum should travel no more with the little General. ``I had,''
says Barnum, ``competent agents who could exhibit him without my personal
assistance, and I preferred to relinquish a portion of the profits rather than
continue to be a travelling showman. I had now been a straggler from home most
of the time for thirteen years, and I cannot describe the feelings of gratitude
with which I reflected that, having by the most arduous toil and deprivations
succeeded in securing a satisfactory competence, I should henceforth spend my
days in the bosom of my family.''
Barnum had selected the
city of Bridgeport, Conn., for his home, and thither he now repaired. He wanted
to be near New York, and he considered the northern shore of Long Island Sound
the most beautiful country he had ever seen. Bridgeport was about the right
distance from New York, and was well situated. It was also an enterprising
place, with the promise of a prosperous future. Some three or four years before
this time Barnum had purchased seventeen acres of land at the western side of
the city, and for two years had been building a palace upon it, the famous
``Iranistan,'' which was now nearly ready for him to occupy.
In telling how he came
to erect this gorgeous and eccentric home, Barnum once said that in visiting
Brighton, England, he had been greatly pleased with the pavilion built there by
George IV. It was at that time the only specimen of Oriental architecture in
England, and the style had not been introduced into America. ``I concluded to
adopt it, and engaged a London architect to furnish me a set of drawings after
the general plan of the pavilion, differing sufficiently to be adapted to the
spot of ground selected for my homestead. On my second return visit to the
United States, I brought these drawings with me and engaged a competent
architect and builder, giving him instructions to proceed with the work, not
`by the job' but `by the day,' and to spare neither time nor expense in
erecting a comfortable, convenient, and tasteful residence. The work was thus
begun and continued while I was still abroad, and during the time when I was
making my tour with General Tom Thumb through the United States and Cuba.
Elegant and appropriate furniture was made expressly for every room in the
house. I erected expensive water-works to supply the premises. The stables,
conservatories and out-buildings were perfect in their kind. There was a
profusion of trees set out on the grounds. The whole was built and established
literally `regardless of expense,' for I had no desire even to ascertain the
entire cost.''
Into this splendid
place he moved on November 14, 1848, nearly a thousand fellow-citizens of
Bridgeport, rich and poor alike, participating in the ``housewarming'' as his
guests. The estate was called, in reference to its Oriental appearance,
Iranistan, which being interpreted means ``a Persian home.'' This name was the
subject of many a joke, as the place itself was of much wonderment and
admiration.
The next two years were
spent by Mr. Barnum chiefly at home with his family, though he paid frequent
visits to his various places of business and amusement; business for him,
amusement for the world. He had for several years a fine Museum in Baltimore,
which was afterward the property of John E. Owens, the actor. In 1849 he also
opened a Museum in Philadelphia, at the corner of Chestnut and Seventh streets.
He spent some time in Philadelphia, until the Museum was profitably
established, and then turned it over to a manager. Two years later he sold it
for a good price. While he was running it, however, his old rival, Peale,
conducted a strong opposition show in Masonic Hall, near by. The competition
between them proved disastrous to Peale, who failed and was sold out by the
sheriff. Barnum and his friend, Moses Kimball, purchased most of his effects
and divided them between Barnum's American Museum in New York and Kimball's
Museum in Boston.
Barnum took an active
interest in the affairs of Bridgeport and of the State of Connecticut. In 1848,
soon after settling in Iranistan, he was elected President of the Fairfield
County Agricultural Society. He was not much of a practical farmer, although he
had bought a hundred or more acres of farm land near his residence and felt a
deep interest in agricultural affairs. He had imported a lot of choice
livestock, which he had at Iranistan, and had gone pretty deeply into fancy
poultry raising. So he was considered eligible to the office of President of
the Agricultural Society.
In 1849 the Society
insisted that he should deliver the annual address. ``I begged to be excused on
the ground of incompetency,'' he said, ``but my excuses were of no avail, and
as I could not instruct my auditors in farming, I gave them the benefit of
several mistakes which I had committed. Among other things, I told them that in
the fall of 1848 my head-gardener reported that I had fifty bushels of potatoes
to spare. I thereupon directed him to barrel them up and ship them to New York
for sale. He did so, and received two dollars per barrel, or about sixty-seven
cents per bushel. But, unfortunately, after the potatoes had been shipped, I
found that my gardener had selected all the largest for market, and left my
family nothing but `small potatoes' to live on during the winter. But the worst
was still to come. My potatoes were all gone before March, and I was obliged to
buy, during the spring, over fifty bushels of potatoes, at $1.25 per bushel! I
also related my first experiment in the arboricultural line, when I cut from
two thrifty rows of young cherry-trees any quantity of what I supposed to be
`suckers,' or `sprouts,' and was thereafter informed by my gardener that I had
cut off all his grafts!''
A friend of Barnum's,
Mr. J. D. Johnson, had a fine place near Iranistan; and Barnum owned a couple
of acres just beyond and adjoining his property. This plot Barnum presently
converted into a deer park, stocking it with fine animals from the Rocky
Mountains. From its location, however, everybody supposed it to be a part of
Johnson's estate, and to confirm this notion--in a waggish spirit--a member of
Johnson's family put up in the park a conspicuous sign, which every passer-by
on the street could read: ``All persons are forbid trespassing on these
grounds, or disturbing the deer.--J. D. JOHNSON.''
Barnum ``acknowledged
the corn,'' and was much pleased with the joke. Johnson was delighted, and
bragged considerably of having got ahead of Barnum, and the sign remained
undisturbed for several days. It happened, at length, that a party of friends
came to visit him from New York, arriving in the evening. Johnson told them
that he had got a capital joke on Barnum; he would not explain, but said they
should see it for themselves the next morning. Bright and early he led them
into the street, and, after conducting them a proper distance, wheeled them
around in front of the sign. To his dismay he discovered that I had added
directly under his name the words ``Game-keeper to P. T. Barnum.''
Thereafter Mr. Johnson
was known among his friends and acquaintances as ``Barnum's gamekeeper.''
Johnson had his
revenge, however. Some time afterward Barnum became president of the Pequonnock
Bank, and gave each year a grand dinner at Iranistan to the directors. In
preparing for these banquets he would send to the West for some boxes of
prairie chickens and other choice game. So, one day, Johnson saw a big case at
the railroad station, addressed to Barnum, and marked ``Game.''
``See here,'' said he
to the station-master, ``I am Mr. Barnum's game-keeper, and I'll take charge of
that!''
And he did so, taking
it to his house, and then notifying Barnum that it could only be redeemed at
cost of a new hat. He knew very well that Barnum would rather give him a dozen
hats than lose the box; and he added that unless he got the hat very soon he
would give a game dinner on his own account! Barnum sent an order for the hat
in a hurry, and recovered his game, enjoying the whole joke as much as Johnson
did.
In 1848, Mr. Frank
Leslie, afterward famous as a publisher, came to America, bringing letters of
introduction to Barnum from friends in England, and Barnum gave him a start in
business by employing him to prepare an elaborate illustrated catalogue of the
American Museum. This he did in an admirable manner, and hundreds of thousands
of copies of it were distributed throughout the country.
DARING
VENTURE--BARNUM'S AMBASSADOR--UNPRECEDENTED TERMS OFFERED--TEXT OF THE
CONTRACT--HARD WORK TO RAISE THE GUARANTEE FUND--EDUCATING THE AMERICAN MIND TO
RECEIVE THE FAMOUS SINGER.
The next enterprise
undertaken by Barnum was an entirely new departure. It was justly regarded by
him as bold in its conception, complete in its development, and astounding in
its success. To the end of his days he looked upon it with pride and
satisfaction. Probably it did more than anything else in all his career to give
him a permanent and supreme position in the esteem of the public.
This enterprise was the
bringing of Jenny Lind to America for a concert tour.
Miss Lind, often called
the ``Swedish Nightingale,'' was one of the most remarkable singers of the
world, in that or any generation. All Europe was enraptured by her art, and her
fame had encircled the globe. Barnum had never heard her, as she had not
visited London until a few weeks after his return to America. But her
reputation was enough to determine him to engage her, if possible, for an
American tour. So he sent Mr. J. H. Wilton, an English musician, who was
visiting New York, back to London to negotiate terms with her. Barnum agreed to
pay Wilton his expenses if he had to return without her; but a handsome sum if
he succeeded in bringing the songstress to America with him. He told Wilton to
engage her on shares if possible. If not, to engage her for any sum up to a
thousand dollars a night, for any number of nights up to 150, besides paying
all her expenses, including servants, carriages, etc., and not more than three
musical assistants. He also offered to secure her by placing the whole $150,000
in the hands of her London bankers in advance!
Wilton went to London,
had some correspondence with her, and then went to Lubeck, where she was
singing. She told him frankly that she had, since he first wrote to her, been
busy making inquiries about Barnum's character, trustworthiness, etc., and that
she was perfectly satisfied with what she had found out. There were, however,
four other men negotiating with her to the same end. One of these gentlemen was
a well-known opera manager in London; another, a theatrical manager in
Manchester; a third, a musical composer and conductor of the orchestra of Her
Majesty's Opera in London; and the fourth, Chevalier Wyckoff, who had conducted
a successful speculation some years previously by visiting America in charge of
the celebrated danseuse, Fanny Ellsler
She also insisted that,
under whatever auspices she should go to America, she should have as an
accompanist Mr.--afterwards Sir--Julius Benedict, the composer, and Signor
Belletti, an eminent Italian singer.
Finally, on January 9,
1850, Wilton succeeded in his mission. Miss Lind agreed to come to America
under Barnum's management, and an elaborate contract was drawn up and signed
This historic document was as follows:
MEMORANDUM of an
agreement entered into this ninth day of January, in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and fifty, between John Hall Wilton, as agent for
PHINEAS T. BARNUM, of New York, in the United States of North America, of the
one part, and Mademoiselle JENNY LIND, Vocalist, of Stockholm, in Sweden, of
the other part, wherein the said Jenny Lind doth agree:
First. To sing for the
said Phineas T. Barnum in one hundred and fifty concerts, including oratorios
within (if possible) one year or eighteen months from the date of her arrival
in the city of New York --the said concerts to be given in the United States of
North America and Havana. She, the said Jenny Lind, having full control as to
the number of nights or concerts in each week, and the number of pieces in
which she will sing in each concert, to be regulated conditionally with her
health and safety of voice, but the former never less than one or two, nor the
latter less than four; but in no case to appear in operas.
Second. In
consideration of said services, the said John Hall Wilton, as agent for the
said Phineas T. Barnum, of New York, agrees to furnish the said Jenny Lind with
a servant as waiting-maid, and a male servant to and for the sole service of
her and her party; to pay the travelling and hotel expenses of a friend to
accompany her as a companion; to pay also a secretary to superintend her
finances; to pay all her and her party's travelling expenses from Europe, and
during the tour in the United States of North America and Havana; to pay all
hotel expenses for board and lodging during the same period; to place at her
disposal in each city a carriage and horses with their necessary attendants,
and to give her in addition the sum of two hundred pounds sterling, or one
thousand dollars, for each concert or oratorio in which the said Jenny Lind
shall sing.
Third. And the said
John Hall Wilton, as agent for the said Phineas T. Barnum, doth further agree
to give the said Jenny Lind the most satisfactory security and assurance for
the full amount of her engagement, which will be placed in the hands of Messrs.
Baring Brothers, of London, previous to the departure, and subject to the order
of the said Jenny Lind, with its interest due on its current reduction by her
services in the concerts or oratorios.
Fourth. And the said
John Hall Wilton, on the part of the said Phineas T. Barnum, further agrees,
that should the said Phineas T. Barnum, after seventy-five concerts, have
realized so much as shall, after paying all current expenses, have returned to
him all the sums disbursed, either as deposits at interest, for securities of
salaries, preliminary outlay, or moneys in any way expended consequent on this
engagement, and in addition, have gained a clear profit of at least fifteen
thousand pounds sterling, then the said Phineas T. Barnum will give the said
Jenny Lind, in addition to the former sum of one thousand dollars current money
of the United States of North America, nightly, one-fifth part of the profits
arising from the remaining seventy-five concerts or oratorios, after deducting
every expense current and appertaining thereto; or the said Jenny Lind agrees
to try, with the said Phineas T. Barnum, fifty concerts or oratorios on the
aforesaid and first-named terms, and if then found to fall short of the
expectations of the said Phineas T. Barnum, then the said Jenny Lind agrees to
reorganize this agreement, on terms quoted in his first proposal, as set forth
in the annexed copy of his letter; but should such be found necessary, then the
engagement continues up to seventy-five concerts or oratorios, at the end of
which, should the aforesaid profit of fifteen thousand pounds sterling have not
been realized, then the engagement shall continue as at first--the sums herein,
after expenses for Julius Benedict and Giovanni Belletti, to remain unaltered,
except for advancement.
Fifth. And the said
John Hall Wilton, agent for the said Phineas T. Barnum, at the request of the
said Jenny Lind, agrees to pay to Julius Benedict, of London, to accompany the
said Jenny Lind, as musical director, pianist, and superintendent of the
musical department, also to assist the said Jenny Lind in one hundred and fifty
concerts or oratorios, to be given in the United States of North America and Havana,
the sum of five thousand pounds (£5,000) sterling, to be satisfactorily secured
to him with Messrs. Baring Brothers, of London, previous to his departure from
Europe, and the said John Hall Wilton agrees further, for the said Phineas T.
Barnum, to pay all his travelling expenses from Europe, together with his hotel
and travelling expenses during the time occupied in giving the aforesaid one
hundred and fifty concerts or oratorios--he, the said Julius Benedict, to
superintend the organization of oratorios if required.
Sixth. And the said
John Hall Wilton, at the request, selection, and for the aid of the said Jenny
Lind, agrees to pay to Giovanni Belletti, barytone vocalist, to accompany the
said Jenny Lind during her tour and in one hundred and fifty concerts or
oratorios in the United States of North America and Havana, and in conjunction
with the aforesaid Julius Benedict, the sum of two thousand five hundred pounds
(£2,500) sterling, to be satisfactorily secured to him previous to his
departure from Europe, in addition to all his hotel and travelling expenses.
Seventh. And it is
further agreed that the said Jenny Lind shall be at full liberty to sing at any
time she may think fit for charitable institutions, or purposes independent of
the engagement with the said Phineas T. Barnum, with a view to mutually
agreeing as to the time and its propriety, it being understood that in no case
shall the first or second concert in any city selected for the tour be for such
purpose, or wherever it shall appear against the interests of the said Phineas
T. Barnum.
Eighth. It is further
agreed that should the said Jenny Lind, by any act of God, be incapacitated to
fulfil the entire engagement before mentioned, that an equal proportion of the
terms agreed upon shall be given to the said Jenny Lind, Julius Benedict, and
Giovanni Belletti, for services rendered to that time.
Ninth. It is further
agreed and understood, that the said Phineas T. Barnum shall pay every expense
appertaining to the concerts or oratorios before mentioned, excepting those for
charitable purposes, and that all accounts shall be settled and rendered by all
parties weekly.
Tenth. And the said
Jenny Lind further agrees that she will not engage to sing for any other person
during the progress of this said engagement with the said Phineas T. Barnum, of
New York, for one hundred and fifty concerts or oratorios, excepting for
charitable purposes as before mentioned; and all travelling to be first and
best class.
In witness hereof to
the within written memorandum of agreement we set hereunto our hand and seal.
[L. S.]
JOHN HALL WILTON, Agent
for Phineas
T. Barnum, of New York,
U. S.
[L. S.]
JENNY LIND.
[T. S.]
JULIUS BENEDICT.
[L. S.]
GIOVANNI BELLETTI.
In the presence of C.
ACHILLING, Consul of His Majesty the King of Sweden and Norway. Extract from a
letter addressed to John H. Wilton by Phineas T. Barnum, and referred to in
paragraph No. 4 of the annexed agreement:
NEW YORK, November 6,
1849.
MR. J. HALL WILTON:
Sir. In reply to your proposal to attempt a negotiation with Mlle. Jenny Lind
to visit the United States professionally, I propose to enter into an
arrangement with her to the following effect: I will engage to pay all her
expenses from Europe, provide for and pay for one principal tenor, and one
pianist, their salaries not exceeding together one hundred and fifty dollars
per night; to support for her a carriage, two servants, and a friend to
accompany her and superintend her finances. I will furthermore pay all and
every expense appertaining to her appearance before the public, and give her
half of the gross receipts arising from concerts or operas. I will engage to
travel with her personally, and attend to the arrangements, provided she will undertake
to give not less than eighty, nor more than one hundred and fifty concerts, or
nights' performances.
PHINEAS T. BARNUM.
I certify the above to
be a true extract from the letter. J. H. WILTON.
There was no Atlantic
cable in those days, and Barnum did not know the result of Wilton's embassy
until the latter returned to America. Barnum was in Philadelphia when Wilton
landed in New York, on February 19. Wilton at once telegraphed to him that he
had secured the singer, who was to come over and begin her concerts in
September. The great showman was startled, and felt pretty nervous; and as so
long a time was to elapse before she came over, he thought it best to keep the
whole matter a secret for a time.
When we reflect how
thoroughly Jenny Lind, her musical powers, her character, and wonderful
successes, were subsequently known by all classes in this country as well as
throughout the civilized world, it is difficult to realize that, at the time
this engagement was made, she was comparatively unknown on this side the water.
We can hardly credit the fact that millions of persons in America had never
heard of her, that other millions had merely read her name, but had no distinct
idea of who or what she was. Only a small portion of the public were really aware
of her great musical triumphs in the Old World, and this portion was confined
almost entirely to musical people, travellers who had visited the Old World,
and the conductors of the press.
Barnum telegraphed to
Wilton to keep the matter secret, and next morning set out for New York. But it
was too late. When he got to New York, he found the news of the engagement in
full in all the papers. Everybody was talking about it, and wondering who Jenny
Lind was, and Barnum soon perceived that he must improve the time, from then to
September, in educating the public up to an approximate appreciation of her
worth.
His first act was to
send, as per agreement, the sum of $187,000 to Miss Lind's bankers in London.
It was not altogether easy for him to do this. After he had scraped together
all his available cash he was still short a large sum. He had plenty of
securities in the form of second mortgages that were perfectly good, but no one
in Wall street would lend him a dollar on them.
In his extremity, he at
last went to the president of the bank where he had transacted his business for
the past eight years. ``I offered him,'' said Barnum afterward, ``as security
for a loan, my second mortgages, and, as additional security, I offered to make
over to him my contract with Jenny Lind, with a written guaranty that he should
appoint a receiver, who, at my expense, should take charge of all the receipts
over and above $3,000 per night, and appropriate them toward the payment of my
loan He laughed in my face, and said: `Mr. Barnum, it is generally believed in
Wall street that your engagement with Jenny Lind will ruin you. I do not think
you will ever receive so much as $3,000 at a single concert.' I was indignant
at his want of appreciation, and answered him that I would not at that moment
take $150,000 for my contract; nor would I. I found, upon further inquiry, that
it was useless in Wall street to offer the `Nightingale' in exchange for
`Goldfinches.' I finally was introduced to Mr. John L. Aspinwall, of the firm
of Messrs. Howland & Aspinwall, and he gave me a letter of credit from his
firm on Baring Brothers, for a large sum on collateral securities, which a
spirit of genuine respect for my enterprise induced him to accept.
``After disposing of
several pieces of property for cash, I footed up the various amounts, and still
discovered myself $5,000 short. I felt that it was indeed the last feather that
breaks the camel's back.' Happening casually to state my desperate case to the
Rev. Abel C. Thomas, of Philadelphia, for many years a friend of mine, he
promptly placed the requisite amount at my disposal. I gladly accepted his
proffered friendship, and felt that he had removed a mountain-weight from my
shoulders.''
And now nothing
remained to do but to arouse public curiosity and interest. Barnum was a
master-hand at that work, and never did he show himself more of a master than
on this occasion. He kept the press literally teeming with notices in one form
or another. Here is a sample of the strain in which he wrote:
``Perhaps I may not
make any money by this enterprise; but I assure you that if I knew I should not
make a farthing profit, I would ratify the engagement, so anxious am I that the
United States should be visited by a lady whose vocal powers have never been
approached by any other human being, and whose character is charity,
simplicity, and goodness personified.
``Miss Lind has great
anxiety to visit America. She speaks of this country and its institutions in
the highest terms of praise. In her engagement with me (which includes Havana),
she expressly reserves the right to give charitable concerts whenever she
thinks proper.
Since her début in
England, she has given to the poor from her own private purse more than the
whole amount which I have engaged to pay her, and the proceeds of concerts for
charitable purposes in Great Britain, where she has sung gratuitously, have
realized more than ten times that amount.''
And so it came to pass
that, before September rolled around, curiosity, interest and enthusiasm over
the great singer were at fever heat, and New York thought and dreamed only of
her coming.
Never, in the history
of music or in the history of entertainments in America, has the advent of a
foreign artist been hailed with so much enthusiasm. A large share of this
public interest was natural and genuine, and would, in any event, have been
accorded to Miss Lind. But a considerable portion of it was due to the shrewd
and energetic advertising of Mr. Barnum. Under any auspices the great singer's
tour in America would have been successful; but under no other management would
it have approximated to what it was under Barnum.
FIRST MEETING WITH
BARNUM--RECEPTION IN NEW YORK--POEMS IN HER HONOR--A FURORE OF PUBLIC INTEREST--SALE
OF TICKETS FOR THE FIRST CONCERT--BARNUM'S CHANGE IN TERMS--TEN THOUSAND
DOLLARS FOR CHARITY--ENORMOUS SUCCESS OF THE FIRST CONCERT.
Jenny Lind sailed for
America on Wednesday morning, August 21, 1850. She was accompanied by Messrs.
Benedict and Belletti, Mr. Wilton, her two cousins, and three or four servants.
She also brought with her a piano for her use. Mr. Barnum had engaged the
necessary accommodations for the company on the steamship Atlantic, and their
departure from England was an event of great public interest. In America their
coming was looked upon much as the visit of a royal personage would have been.
It was expected that the steamer would reach New York on Sunday, September 1st.
Mr. Barnum, however, determined to be on hand to meet his distinguished guest
at no matter what time she reached the port. He, therefore, went on Saturday to
Staten Island, and spent the night at the house of his friend, Dr. Doane, the
health officer of the port.
The steamship was
sighted just before noon on Sunday, and soon afterward Mr. Barnum, who went out
with the health officer, was standing on the deck where, for the first time, he
met the famous singer. After they had shaken hands and uttered a few
commonplace words of greeting Miss Lind asked him when and where he had heard
her sing.
``I never had the
pleasure of seeing you before in my life,'' he replied.
``How is it possible
that you dared risk so much money on a person whom you never heard sing?'' she
asked in great surprise.
``I risked it,''
answered Barnum, ``on your reputation, which in musical matters I would much
rather trust than my own judgment.''
The fact was that,
although Barnum did rely largely upon Miss Lind's reputation as an artist, he
also took into account her equally great reputation for benevolence, generosity
and general loveliness of disposition. He knew that these traits of character
would appeal with a special force to the warm-hearted and enthusiastic American
public. Indeed, he afterward confessed that had it not been for this
peculiarity of her disposition, he never would have ventured to make the
engagement with her; and he always believed that as many people came to see and
hear her on this account as on account of her skill as a singer.
Seldom has any visitor
to New York received a more remarkable greeting than did the ``Swedish
Nightingale.'' Mr. Barnum's efforts to arouse public interest in her had not
been in vain. The whole city was anxious to get the first possible glimpse of
her. But beside this bona fide interest in her, Mr. Barnum had seen to it that
her landing was made all possible use of as an advertisement. On the wharf at
which she landed a bower of green trees, decorated with flags, had been
prepared. There were also two handsome triumphal arches, on one of which was
inscribed, ``Welcome, Jenny Lind!'' and on the other, ``Welcome to America!''
Probably the singer
thought, and possibly some of the general public also imagined, that these
decorations had been erected by the city government, or at least by some
committee of public-spirited citizens. Mr. Barnum, however, never found fault
with any one for suspecting that he was chiefly responsible for them, and there
is every reason to believe that the cost of them was to be found entered in his
books, charged to the account of advertising.
Thousands of people
were thronged along the water front, on the piers and on the shipping, to greet
the Atlantic as it reached its dock. So great was the rush to see the
illustrious guest that one man was crowded overboard, an incident which Miss
Lind herself witnessed, and at which she was much alarmed. He was rescued with
no other harm than a thorough wetting. Barnum's carriage was in waiting for
Miss Lind, and the great showman himself, after placing her within it, mounted
the box at the driver's side. He took that seat as a legitimate advertisement,
and his presence there aided those who filled the windows and sidewalks along
the entire way to the Irving House, and there were many thousands of them, in
coming to the conclusion that Jenny Lind had really arrived.
Five minutes after Miss
Lind had entered the hotel, Barnum invited her to look out of a window opening
on Broadway. When she did so she saw a throng of not less than twenty thousand
persons gathered to do her honor. And there that throng remained all the rest
of the afternoon and until late in the evening. At her request Barnum took
dinner with her that afternoon. According to the European custom she offered to
pledge his health in a glass of wine, and was doubtless much surprised at his
response. He said to her: ``Miss Lind, I do not think you can ask any other
favor on earth which I would not gladly grant. But I am a teetotaler, and must
beg to be permitted to drink to your health and happiness in a glass of cold
water.''
Late that night Miss
Lind was serenaded by the New York Musical Fund Society, which numbered, on
that occasion, two hundred musicians. They were escorted to the hotel by about
three hundred firemen, clad in their picturesque uniform and bearing flaming
torches. Fully thirty thousand spectators were at this hour gathered about the
hotel, and in response to their vociferous calls Miss Lind stepped upon the
balcony and bowed to them
Such was the great
singer's first day in America, and for several weeks thereafter the public
interest in her was scarcely less demonstrative. Her rooms were thronged by
visitors, among whom were the most notable people in society, in the learned
professions and in public life. The street before the hotel was almost blocked
day after day by the carriages of fashionable people, and Barnum's only anxiety
was lest the aristocratic part of the community should monopolize her
altogether, and thus mar his interest by cutting her off from the sympathy she
had excited among the common people. The shop-keepers of the city showered
their attentions upon her, sending her cart-loads of specimens of their most
valuable wares, for which they asked no other return than her acceptance and
her autograph acknowledgment. Gloves, bonnets, shawls, gowns, chairs,
carriages, pianos, and almost every imaginable article of use or ornament was
named for her. Songs and musical compositions were dedicated to her, and poems
were published in her honor. Day after day and week after week her doings
formed the most conspicuous news in the daily journals.
Some weeks before Miss
Lind's arrival in America Barnum had offered a prize of two hundred dollars for
the best ode, to be set to music and sung by her at her first concert. Its
topic was to be, ``Greeting to America.'' In response several hundred poems
were sent in, mostly pretty poor stuff; though several of them were very good.
After a great deal of hard work in reading and considering them, the Prize
Committee selected as the best the one offered by Bayard Taylor. It was set to
music by Julius Benedict, and was as follows:
GREETING TO AMERICA
WORDS BY BAYARD TAYLOR--MUSIC BY JULIUS BENEDICT. I greet with a full heart the
Land of the West,
Whose Banner of Stars o'er a world is unrolled;
And opens to sunset its gateway of gold!
The land of the mountain, the land of the lake,
And rivers that roll in magnificent tide--
Where the souls of the mighty from slumber awake,
And hallow the soil for whose freedom they died!
Thou Cradle of empire! though wide be the foam
That severs the land of my fathers and thee,
I hear, from thy bosom, the welcome of home,
For song has a home in the hearts of the Free!
And long as thy waters shall gleam in the sun,
And long as thy heroes remember their scars,
Be the hands of thy children united as one,
And Peace shed her light on thy Banner of Stars!
This award gave general
satisfaction, although a few disappointed competitors complained. This
remarkable competition and the other features of Miss Lind's reception in
America, attracted so much attention in England that the London Times in one
day devoted several columns of space to the subject.
Of course the American
press literally teemed with matter about Miss Lind and Barnum. The poetical
competition demanded much attention, and presently a witty pamphlet was
published, entitled ``Barnum's Parnassus; being Confidential Disclosures of the
Prize Committee on the Jenny Lind Song.'' It pretended to give all or most of
the poems that had been offered in the competition, though of course none of
them were genuine. Many of them, however, contained fine satirical hits on the
whole business; such, for example, as the following:
BARNUMOPSIS.
A RECITATIVE. When to the common rest that crowns his days,
Dusty and worn the tired pedestrian goes,
What light is that whose wide o'erlooking blaze
A sudden glory on his pathway throws?
'Tis not the setting sun, whose drooping lid
Closed on the weary world at half-past six;
'Tis not the rising moon, whose rays are hid
Behind the city's sombre piles of bricks.
It is the Drummond Light, that from the top
Of Barnum's massive pile, sky-mingling there,
Dart's its quick gleam o'er every shadowed shop,
And gilds Broadway with unaccustomed glare.
There o'er the sordid gloom, whose deep'ning tracks
Furrow the city's brow, the front of ages,
Thy loftier light descends on cabs and hacks,
And on two dozen different lines of stages!
O twilight Sun, with thy far darting ray,
Thou art a type of him whose tireless hands
Hung thee on high to guide the stranger's way,
Where, in its pride, his vast Museum stands.
Him, who in search of wonders new and strange,
Grasps the wide skirts of Nature's mystic robe
Explores the circles of eternal change,
And the dark chambers of the central globe.
He, from the reedy shores of fabled Nile,
Has brought, thick-ribbed and ancient as old iron,
That venerable beast, the crocodile,
And many a skin of many a famous lion.
Go lose thyself in those continuous halls,
Where strays the fond papa with son and daughter;
And all that charms or startles or appals,
Thou shalt behold, and for a single quarter.
Far from the Barcan deserts now withdrawn,
There, huge constrictors coil their scaly backs;
There, cased in glass, malignant and unshorn,
Old murderers glare in sullenness and wax.
There many a varied form the sight beguiles,
In rusty broadcloth decked and shocking hat,
And there the unwieldy Lambert sits and smiles,
In the majestic plenitude of fat.
Or for thy gayer hours, the orang-outang
Or ape salutes thee with his strange grimace,
And in their shapes, stuffed as on earth they sprang,
Thine individual being thou canst trace!
And joys the youth in life's green spring, who goes
With the sweet babe and the gray headed nurse,
To see those Cosmoramic orbs disclose
The varied beauties of the universe.
And last, not least, the marvellous Ethiope,
Changing his skin by preternatural skill,
Whom every setting sun's diurnal slope
Leaves whiter than the last, and whitening still.
All that of monstrous, scaly, strange and queer,
Has come from out the womb of earliest time,
Thou hast, O Barnum, in thy keeping here,
Nor is this all--for triumphs more sublime
Await thee yet! I, Jenny Lind, who reigned
Sublimely throned, the imperial queen of song,
Wooed by thy golden harmonies, have deigned
Captive to join the heterogeneous throng.
Sustained by an unfaltering trust in coin,
Dealt from thy hand, O thou illustrious man,
Gladly I heard the summons come to join
Myself the immeasurable caravan.
A number of complimentary
greetings in verse were also sent in to Miss Lind by various writers of more or
less eminence, among them being the following from Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney:
THE SWEDISH SONGSTRESS AND HER
CHARITIES.
BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. Blest must their vocation be
Who, with tones of melody,
Charm the discord and the strife
And the railroad rush of life,
And with Orphean magic move
Souls inert to life and love.
But there's one who doth inherit
Angel gift and angel spirit,
Bidding tides of gladness flow
Through the realms of want and woe;
'Mid lone age and misery's lot,
Kindling pleasures long forgot,
Seeking minds oppressed with night,
And on darkness shedding light,
She the seraph's speech doth know,
She hath done their deeds below;
So, when o'er this misty strand
She shall clasp their waiting hand,
They will fold her to their breast,
More a sister than a guest.
The first concert was
announced for the evening of September 11th, and it was to take place in the
great hall of Castle Garden, afterward famous as the landing-place for
emigrants at New York. The tickets for this occasion were sold at auction, and
the first one was bid up to the extraordinary figure of $225. This was bid and
the ticket was secured by John N. Genin, a hatter; and the public notice which
was thereby attracted to him was such a great advertisement for his business
that within a few years thereafter he amassed a fortune. It was afterward
stated that Mr. Genin was Barnum's brother-in-law, and that his high bid for
this ticket was a pre-arranged job; but there was no truth in this whatever. The
auction itself was regarded as an occasion of such public interest that the
proprietors of the Garden, where it was held, charged a shilling admission fee
to it. No less than 3,000 persons paid this fee and attended the auction, and
the first day's sale aggregated 1,000 tickets, which brought a total sum of
$10,141.
A few days after her
arrival Barnum told Miss Lind that it would be desirable to make a change in
the terms of their contract, if she would consent. She was startled at this,
and asked him what the change was to be. ``I am convinced,'' replied Barnum,
``that this enterprise will be far more successful than either of us
anticipated. So I wish to stipulate that you shall receive not only $1,000 for
each concert, beside all expenses, but also that, after taking out $5,500 per
night for expenses and for my services, the balance shall be equally divided
between you and me.''
She looked at him in
utter bewilderment, unable to understand his proposition. He repeated it, and
at last made her realize what it was that he proposed to do. Then she grasped
him by the hand and exclaimed: ``Mr. Barnum, you are a gentleman of honor; you
are generous; it is just as I was told. I will sing for you as long as you
please. I will sing for you in America--in Europe--anywhere!''
The day before the
first concert Mr. Barnum told Miss Lind that, judging by appearances, her
portion of the proceeds of the first concert, over and above her fee of $1,000,
would amount to at least $10,000. She immediately resolved to devote every
dollar of it to charity, and forthwith sent for the Mayor of the city, under
whose advice she acted in selecting the various institutions among which it was
to be distributed.
The amount of money
actually received for tickets for the first concert was $17,864.05. So it
appeared that Barnum's estimate had been a little too high, and Miss Lind's
portion was too small to realize the $10,000 which she was to give to charity.
Barnum therefore proposed to make a similar arrangement for the second concert,
and to count neither of these first two in the regular engagement. To this she
agreed. The second concert was given on September 13th, and the receipts, which
amounted to $14,203.03, were disposed of as before, and she was thus enabled to
give the $10,000 to charity. The third concert, which was the first of the
regular series, was given on September 17th.
Barnum's arrangements
of the concert-room for the singer's appearance were very complete. One hundred
ushers, adorned with rosettes and carrying wands tipped with ribbons, looked
after the seating of the audience. In order to prevent confusion the doors were
opened at five o'clock, although the concert was not to commence until eight.
The result was that the five thousand persons who attended made their entry
without crowding and without confusion.
The reception of Jenny
Lind, on her first appearance, in point of enthusiasm, was probably never
before equalled. As Mr. Benedict led her towards the footlights, the entire
audience rose to their feet and welcomed her with three cheers, accompanied by
the waving of thousands of hats and handkerchiefs. This was perhaps the largest
audience to which Jenny Lind had ever sung. She was evidently much agitated,
but the orchestra commenced, and before she had sung a dozen notes of ``Casta
Diva,'' she began to recover her self-possession, and long before the scena was
concluded she was as calm as if she was in her own drawing-room. Towards the
last portion of the cavatina, the audience were so completely carried away by
their feelings, that the remainder of the air was drowned in a perfect tempest
of acclamation. Enthusiasm had been wrought to its highest pitch, but the
musical powers of Jenny Lind exceeded all the brilliant anticipations which had
been formed, and her triumph was complete. At the conclusion of the concert
Jenny Lind was loudly called for, and was obliged to appear three times before
the audience could be satisfied. Then they called vociferously for ``Barnum,''
and he ``reluctantly'' responded to their demand.
On this first night
Julius Benedict firmly established with the American people his European
reputation as a most accomplished conductor and musical composer; while Signor
Belletti inspired an admiration which grew warmer and deeper in the minds of
the public, to the end of his career in this country.
``The Rubicon was
passed,'' says Barnum. ``The successful issue of the Jenny Lind enterprise was
established. I think there were a hundred men in New York, the day after her
first concert, who would have willingly paid me $200,000 for my contract. I
received repeated offers for an eighth, a tenth, or a sixteenth, equivalent to
that price. But mine had been the risk, and I was determined mine should be the
triumph.''
The triumph of Jenny
Lind is a legitimate part of Barnum's history, and it will be of interest to
the present generation to read what the musical critics of that day thought of
that wonderful singer. Here is the New York Tribune's account of her opening
concerts in America:
``Jenny Lind's first
concert is over, and all doubts are at an end. She is the greatest singer we
have ever heard and her success is all that was anticipated from her genius and
her fame. As this is something of an era in our history of art, we give a
detailed account of all that took place on the occasion.
``All the preparatory
arrangements for the concert were made with great care, and from the admirable
system observed, none of the usual disagreeable features of such an event were
experienced. Outside of the gate there was a double row of policemen extending
up the main avenue of the Battery grounds. Carriages only were permitted to
drive up to the gate from the Whitehall side, and pass off into Battery-place.
At one time the line of carriages extended to Whitehall and up State street
into Broadway. Everything was accomplished in a quiet and orderly manner. The
chief of police, with about sixty men, came on the ground at 5 o'clock, and
maintained the most complete order to the end.
``Mr. Barnum, according
to promise, had put up a substantial frame-work, and thrown an immense awning
over the bridge, which is some 200 feet in length. This was brilliantly
lighted, and had almost the appearance of a triumphal avenue on entering the
gate.
``There was an immense
crowd on the Battery, clustering around the gates during the whole evening, but
no acts of disorder occurred. When Jenny Lind's carriage came, but very few
persons knew it, and no great excitement followed. The principal annoyance was
occasioned by a noisy crowd of boys in boats, who gathered around the outer
wall of the castle, and being by their position secure from the police, tried
to disturb those within by a hideous clamor of shouts and yells, accompanied by
a discordant din of drums and fifes. There must have been more than 200 boats
and a thousand persons on the water. They caused some annoyance to that portion
of the audience in the back seats of the balcony, but the nuisance was felt by
none in the parquet. By 10 o'clock they had either become tired or ashamed of
the contemptible outrage they were attempting, and dispersed. We may here
remark that if the river police asked for by Chief Matsell had been in
existence this attempt could not have been made.
``On entering the
castle, a company of ushers, distinguished by their badges, were in readiness
to direct the visitors to that part of the hall where their seats were located.
Colored lamps and hangings suspended to the pillars indicated at a glance the
different divisions, and the task of seating the whole audience of near seven
thousand persons was thus accomplished without the least inconvenience. The
hall was brilliantly lighted, though from its vast extent the stage looked
somewhat dim. The wooden partition which was built up in place of the drop-curtain,
is covered with a painting representing the combined standards of America and
Sweden, below which are arabesque ornaments in white and gold. Considering the
short time allowed for these improvements, the change was remarkable. The only
instance of bad taste which we noticed was a large motto, worked in flowers,
suspended over the pillars of the balcony directly in front of the stage.
`Welcome, Sweet Warbler' (so ran the words), was not only tame and commonplace,
but decidedly out of place.
``The sight of the
grand hall, with its gay decoration, its glittering lamps, and its vast throng
of expectant auditors, was in itself almost worth a $5 ticket. We were
surprised to notice that not more than one-eighth of the audience were ladies.
They must stay at home, it seems, when the tickets are high, but the gentlemen
go, nevertheless. For its size, the audience was one of the most quiet, refined
and appreciative we ever saw assembled in this city. Not more than one-third
were seated before 7 o'clock, and when the eventful hour arrived they were
still coming in. A few of the seats were not taken when the orchestra had
assembled, and Mr. Benedict, who was greeted with loud cheers on his
appearance, gave the first flourish of his baton.
``The musical performance
commenced with Jules Benedict's overture to his opera, The Crusaders, himself
conducting the orchestra of 60 instruments. It was an admirably balanced and
effective orchestra, and notwithstanding that we had to listen as it were round
a corner, we felt the unity and full force of its strong chords, and traced the
precise and delicate outline of its melodies with a distinctness which proved
that a clear musical idea was there, too clearly embodied to be lost even in
that vast space. We liked the first half of the composition best; it had the
dark shading and wild vigor and pathos of Von Weber; the allegro which set in
upon it was more in the light popular manner of Auber and the French. Yet Mr.
Benedict has proved his mastery in this work, which the vast audience
acknowledged with very hearty plaudits.
``Signor Belletti was
the next mark of expectation. In one of Rossini's most ornate and florid
bravura songs (from Maometto Secondo) he produced a barytone of such warm,
rich, solid, resonant and feeling quality as we perhaps have never heard in
this country (though without closer observation from the less remote position
in which a barytone naturally requires to be heard, we hardly dare to place it
above Badiali's); while in refinement of conception and of execution he left
little to be desired.
``Now came a moment of
breathless expectation. A moment more, and Jenny Lind, clad in a white dress,
which well became the frank sincerity of her face, came forward through the
orchestra. It is impossible to describe the spontaneous burst of welcome which
greeted her. The vast assembly rose as one man, and for some minutes nothing
could be seen but the waving of hands and handkerchiefs, nothing heard but a
storm of tumultuous cheers. The enthusiasm of the moment, for a time beyond all
bounds, was at last subdued after prolonging itself by its own fruitless
efforts to subdue itself, and the divine songstress, with that perfect bearing,
that air of all dignity and sweetness, blending a child-like simplicity and half-trembling
womanly modesty with the beautiful confidence of genius and serene wisdom of
art, addressed herself to song, as the orchestral symphony prepared the way for
the voice in Casta Diva. A better test-piece could not have been selected for
her début. Every soprano lady has sung it to us; but nearly every one has
seemed only trying to make something of it, while Jenny Lind was the very music
of it for the time being. We would say no less than that; for the wisest and
honestest part of criticism on such a first hearing of a thing so perfect, was
to give itself purely up to it, without question, and attempt no analysis of
what too truly fills one to have yet begun to be an object of thought.
``If it were possible,
we would describe the quality of that voice, so pure, so sweet, so fine, so
whole and all-pervading, in its lowest breathings and minutest fioriture as
well as in its strongest volume. We never heard tones which in their sweetness
went so far. They brought the most distant and ill-seated auditor close to her.
They were tones, every one of them, and the whole air had to take the law of
their vibrations. The voice and the delivery had in them all the good qualities
of all the good singers. Song in her has that integral beauty which at once proclaims
it as a type for all, and is most naturally worshipped as such by the
multitude.
``Of those who have
been before her we were most frequently reminded of Madame Bishop's quality
(not quantity) of voice. Their voices are of metal somewhat akin. Jenny Lind's
had incomparably more power and more at all times in reserve; but it had a shade
of that same veiled quality in its lowest tones, consistently with the same
(but much more) ripeness and sweetness, and perfect freedom from the crudeness
often called clearness, as they rise. There is the same kind of versatile and
subtile talent, too, in Jenny Lind, as appeared later in the equal inspiration
and perfection of her various characters and styles of song. Her's is a genuine
soprano, reaching the extra high notes with that ease and certainty which make
each highest one a triumph of expression purely, and not a physical marvel. The
gradual growth and sostenuto of her tones; the light and shade, the rhythmic
undulation and balance of her passages; the bird-like ecstacy of her trill; the
faultless precision and fluency of her chromatic scales; above all, the sure
reservation of such volume of voice as to crown each protracted climax with
glory, not needing a new effort to raise force for the final blow; and indeed
all the points one looks for in a mistress of the vocal art were eminently
her's in Casta Diva. But the charm lay not in any point, but rather in the
inspired vitality, the hearty, genuine outpouring of the whole--the real and
yet truly ideal humanity of all her singing. That is what has won the world to
Jenny Lind; it is that her whole soul and being goes out in her song, and that
her voice becomes the impersonation of that song's soul if it have any, that
is, if it be a song. There is plainly no vanity in her, no mere aim to effect;
it is all frank and real and harmoniously earnest.
``She next bewitched
all by the delicate naïveté and sparkling espieglerie, interchanged with true
love pathos, of her duet with Belletti, from Rossini's I Turchi in Italia, the
music being in the same voice with that of his `Barber of Seville.' The
distinct rapidity, without hurry, of many passages, was remarkable in both
performers. But perhaps the most wonderful exhibition of her vocal skill and
pliancy and of her active intimacy with nature was in the Trio Concertante,
with two flutes, from Meyerbeer's `Camp of Silesia.' Exquisitely her voice
played in echo between the tasteful flute-warblings of Messrs. Kyle and Siede.
``But do not talk of
her flute-like voice; the flute-tone is not one a real voice need cultivate;
except where it silvers the edges of a dark mass of orchestral harmony, the
flute's unmitigated sweetness must and should contrast with the more clarionet
and reed-like quality of a voice as rich and human as that of Jenny Lind.
``Naturally the
favorites of the evening were the two national songs. Her Swedish `Herdsman's
Song' was singularly quaint, wild and innocent. The odd musical interval (a
sharp seventh) of the repeated loud call of the cows, the joyful laugh, and the
echo, as if her singing had brought the very mountains there, were extremely
characteristic. This was loudly encored and repeated; and when again encored
was of course answered with her `Greeting to America,' the National Prize Song,
written by Bayard Taylor, and set to a vigorous and familiar style of music,
well harmonizing with the words, by Benedict. The greeting had a soul in it
coming from those lips.
``We have but now to
acknowledge the fine style of Belletti's Largo al Factotum (though the gay
barber's song always requires the stage) and the admirable orchestra performance
of Weber's Overture to Oberon.
``We are now sure of
Jenny Lind, the singer and the artist. Last night she was herself, and well
accompanied, and gloriously responded to. But we have yet to hear her in the
kind of music which seems to us most to need and to deserve such a singer --in
the Agatha of Der Freyschütz, and in Mozart and the deep music of the great
modern German operas.
``At the close the
audience (who made no movement to leave till the last note had been uttered)
broke out in a tempest of cheers, only less vehement than those which welcomed
her in Casta Diva. She came forward again, bowed with a bright, grateful face,
and retired. The cheers were now mingled with shouts of `Barnum!' who at last
came forward, and with some difficulty obtained sufficient order to speak. `My
friends,' said he, `you have often heard it asked, `Where's Barnum?'' Amid the
cheers and laughter which followed, we only caught the words: `Henceforth, you
may say, `Barnum's nowhere!' '
``Mr. Barnum, after
expressing his gratification at the splendid welcome which had been given
Mdlle. Lind, stated that he would disclose a piece of news which he could no
longer keep secret, and which would show how well that welcome was deserved.
Mdlle. Lind on Monday morning informed him that it was her intention to give
her share of the net proceeds of the present concert, amounting to considerable
more than $10,000, to the various charities in the city.
``The announcement was
a signal for another storm. We did not count the number of cheers given, but we
never witnessed such a pitch of enthusiasm. Mr. Barnum then proceeded to read
the list of her donations, interrupted at every name by a fresh burst of
applause:
To the Fire Department
Fund . . . $3,000
Musical Fund Society .
. . . . . . . .2,000
Home for the Friendless
. . . . . . . . 500
Society for the Relief
of Indigent Females . . .500
Dramatic Fund
Association . . . . . . . 500
Home for Colored and
Aged Persons . . . 500
Colored and Orphan
Association . . . . .500
Lying-in Asylum for
Destitute Females. . 500
New York Orphan Asylum
. . . . . . . . .500
Protestant Half-Orphan
Asylum . . . . . 500
Roman Catholic
Half-Orphan Asylum . . . 500
Old Ladies' Asylum . .
. . . . . . . . 500
Total . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . $10,000
``In case the money
coming to her shall exceed this sum, she will hereafter designate the charity
to which it is to be appropriated. Mr. Barnum was then about retiring, when
there was a universal call for Jenny Lind. The songstress, however, had already
taken her departure, and the excited crowd, after giving a few more cheers,
followed her example, and slowly surged out of the castle door, and down the
canopied bridge, in a glow of good-humor and admiration. A few disorderly vagrants
collected on the bridges leading to the Bath Houses, hooted at the throng as it
passed out, but everybody went home quietly, with a new joy at his heart, and a
new thought in his brain.
``Jenny Lind's second
concert was in every respect as complete a triumph as the first. The audience
numbered upward of seven thousand, filling the vast amphitheatre to the topmost
circles of the gallery. The sight of that dense sea of heads, from either
extremity of the balcony, reminded us of one of Martin's grand, gloomy
pictures, and the resemblance was further increased by the semi-oriental
appearance of the hall, with its long, light pillars dropping from the centre,
as well as by the dimness of its illumination, the lamps, many and bright as
they were, being lost in the immense area of the building.
``The concert was a
repetition of the first, with the only difference that the orchestra
volunteered the ``Wedding March,'' from Mendelssohn's ``Midsummer Night's
Dream,'' whose short, crackling blaze of harmony received full justice from the
sure and well-tempered brass instruments. Weber's overture to ``Oberon'' was
finely rendered, and the composition is as fine a specimen of musical
fairy-land as could be found before young Mendelssohn dreamed Shakspere's dream
over in his own way.
``In Jenny Lind we
still feel that it is not easy to separate the singer from the person. She
sings herself. She does not, like many skilful vocalists, merely recite her
musical studies, and dazzle you with splendid feats unnaturally acquired; her
singing, through all her versatile range of parts and styles, is her own proper
and spontaneous activity--integral, and whole. Her magnificent voice, always
true and firm, and as far beyond any instrument as humanity is beyond nature,
seems like the audible beauty of her nature and her character. That she is an
artist in the highest sense is a question long since settled, and any little
incidental variation from the bold and perfect outline of success in any
special effort, as the faltering of her voice from natural embarrassment in the
commencing of Casta Diva that first night, could not to a true listener at all
impede the recognition of the wonderful art which could afford a little to
humanity on so trying an occasion. For she was as it were beginning her career
anew; literally to her was this a new world; and she felt for a moment as if in
her first blushing maidenhood of song. This second time the hesitation of the
voice in that commencement was not felt. The note began soft and timid and scarce
audible, as the prayer of Norma might have done; but how it gradually swelled
with the influx of divine strength into the soul! The grand difficulty in the
opening andante movement of Casta Diva lies in its broad, sustained phrasing,
in the long, generous undulation of its rhythm, which with most singers drags
or gets broken out of symmetry. Jenny Lind conceived and did it truly. The
impassioned energy of the loud-pleading syncopated cries in which the passage
attains its climax; the celestial purity and penetrating sweetness of that
highest note afterward; the exquisite cadenza to the andante; and the inspiring
eloquence of the allegro: Ah! bello a me ritorna, were far beyond anything we
have had the fortune hitherto to hear.
``They that sat, or
even stood, in Castle Garden, may mark down a white day in their calendar. In
point of audience, programme, execution and inspiration, it was the greatest
concert, so far. If anything more had been needed to confirm the impression
which Jenny Lind had previously made on an American public, and to place her
continued success beyond the possibility of doubt, last night's experience
certainly supplied it.
``It was foreseen in
the morning that the attendance would be greater even than on Friday night. The
American Museum and Hall's Music Store were besieged through the whole day and
up to the very hour of commencement. At the former place the crowding for
tickets was tremendous, the very sidewalk in front being blockaded most of the
time. At seven o'clock, when we took up the line of march for Castle Garden,
both sides of Broadway were thronged, and the main avenue of the Battery was
filled with a steady stream of persons pressing into the Castle gate. As on the
first night, a double line of policemen had been formed, which effectually
prevented all disorder. A few more lamps were introduced into the hall,
rendering its aspect much more light and cheerful. By eight o'clock the vast
hall was crowded to overflowing. Scarcely a foot of space was unoccupied; from
the very edge of the ceiling to the orchestral platform in the centre, around
the immense span of the building, there was but one dense mass of heads. We
should, at a rough guess, estimate the number in the auditory at seven
thousand. A much larger proportion than on former nights were ladies, and for
the first time we caught glimpses of the fashionable society from above
Bleecker. It is worthy of note, that the first and second concerts, immense as
they were, were composed almost entirely of the intelligent and appreciative
middle class.
``Some disturbance was
created by a rush to obtain seats, made by those who had promenade tickets for
the balcony, the moment the orchestra began to collect. This proceeding, in
violation of the specified arrangements, was most disgraceful. The ushers did
all they could to prevent it, but in spite of all their efforts many persons
who arrived before the hour of commencement were deprived of their seats. It
would be a good plan to have a few policemen in the balcony on future occasions.
``The orchestra
commenced with Rossini's Overture to ``William Tell''--perhaps the finest piece
of instrumental picture music since Haydn's Creation and the Pastoral Symphony
of Beethoven. Its fresh and vivid coloring, its atmospheric changes, its smart
Alpine vigor and heroic ensemble, were made as present and as real as any sixty
instruments could make them. Exquisitely did those three violoncellos sketch
the first scene of soft, cool sunset on the unruffled lake; the mellow Corno Anglaise,
male partner to the oboe, sweetly woke the flute-like mountain echoes; the low
moan and whistle of the storm rose life like in the crescendo of the violins,
and as it died away the startling quick-step of liberty leaped strong and
simultaneous from such a tutti as we have hardly heard from any orchestra. We
can believe that Mr. Benedict was quite sincere in telling them he had not
conducted a better orchestra in Europe. The other Overture to Masaniello was
also splendidly played, but the composition is, to our taste, too hackneyed to
fill out the programme of a Jenny Lind before the largest audience in the
world. The accompaniments to the singing were usually given with sympathetic
precision, and subdued shading or vigorous seconding, as the case required. We
cannot speak too well of M. Benedict's control of his forces.
``The second piece was
the Viravviso (``As I View Now'') from La Somnambula, delivered in the richest
and most vibrating barytone that we Americans have heard, by Sig. Belletti. Now
that we have heard him from a nearer position, we have not a doubt left of his
superiority in voice, style, execution to all our Italian favorites of the same
register hitherto. He absolutely glorified the cavatina which rapidly grew
commonplace with Brough, and had but half recovered even in the hands of the
worthy Italian artists who have since sung it on the stage for us. His crowning
achievement last night, however, was the actual singing of a Tarentella by
Rossini-- a kind of movement which we have hitherto heard only from
instruments--a whirling, spinning, delirious, top-like movement in which the
singer seems galvanized and tyrannized by one too happy and all-mastering idea
in spite of himself. The audience too, in spite of themselves, were sucked into
its whirling ecstacy, and it was imperatively encored. In Mozart's Non più
Andrai the chaster prototype of Rossini's Largo al factotum, his vocalization
was elastic, spirited and elegant, but the effect of such a piece was
necessarily lost upon the outer circles of so vast an auditory.
``For other variety
there was a brilliant show duett on themes from La Somnambula for piano and
violin by Messrs. Benedict and Noll, and a solo on the pianoforte by that most
promising young artist, Hoffman. For this he chose De Meyer's fantasy on
Semiramide, decidedly of the modern monster school of pianoforte composition,
though quite a vigorous, graceful and redeeming specimen thereof.
``And now for the
`Queen of Song'--or, if so qualifying it will better suit the Italians, the
Northern Queen of Song.
``She commenced with
one of the most tender and graceful, and hereabouts least hackneyed airs of
Bellini-- the Qui la Voce from I Puritani. Her liquid purity of voice and
graceful gliding through its flowery labyrinthine passages was to us not more
remarkable than the true but quiet fervor which animated it. Jenny Lind shows
no feeling! and excites none! draws no tears! True Art supplies the place of
tears by touching the emotions which are deeper and serener, and not a whit
less human. But of this more fully when we have room.
``The splendid song
from Mozart's `Magic Flute,' Non Paventar, brought into play the salient
diamonds of her highest voice, which arches like the tall shaft of a fountain
sparkling in the sun. The introduction, a bold, exhorting strain, in grandiose
style, full of large intervals, was given with a glorious fervor, and no lark
ever carolled more blithely or more at ease than her voice as it soared to F in
alt! Benedict's English ballad, `Take this Lute,' she sang with a simplicity
and pathos that won the audience completely; and no part seemed more genuine or
more expressive than the difficult cadenza at its close.
``The romanza from
Robert le Diable was perhaps the most fascinating of her more studied
performances. This, like all her brilliant things, if not impassioned in the
cheaper superficial sense, was at all events vital, and from the soul. She is
never mechanical, whatever you may say about want of passion. Is any tragic
pathos, such as is ready on the smallest occasion, or on none, more admirable
and more inspiring, more from the inmost soul, than is that gushing up of a
full, glad, true heart which is her native mood of song, and which was so
glorious last night in the Ah! non Giunge from Somnambula? The rapturous encore
to this was answered by the Swedish `Herdsman's Song.'
``It was in the song
from Mozart's `Magic Flute' that we first fully knew the voice and art and soul
of Jenny Lind. She warmed to that music. It is narrow criticism which imprisons
such a singer within the partial scope, albeit classical, of the Italian
School; ignores that vital part of her which may exceed the conventional
requirements of such a School, and condemns whatever in her is most
characteristic, and in contrast with its models. It has been well said by those
who make the most intelligent reference to those models and that school, that
the style of the Swedish Nightingale is sui generis, as marked as her own
personality. True, you would not say of her, in the conventional Italian sense
of the word, what is often said in first acknowledgment of a good singer: `She
has style'--meaning the one style which is assumed as the standard. If we are
to limit style to that sense, Mdlle. Lind has more than style; she has
genius--Northern genius, to be sure, which is precisely what she should have to
make her greatness genuine. Song is original in her; and from her singing we
drink in new life, after long satiety of such passion-sweets as have become
habits rather than fresh inspirations in the delightful --we may almost say
perfected--but yet confined music of the Italians.
``It is, perhaps, too
late to await the advent of a Queen of Song from the warm South. The South has
had its turn; it has fulfilled its mission; the other end of the balance now
comes up. The Northern Muse must sing her lesson to the world. Her fresher,
chaster, more intellectual, and (as they only seem to some) her colder strains
come in due season to recover our souls from the delicious languor of a Music
which has been so wholly of the Feelings, that, for the want of some
intellectual tonic and some spiritual temper, Feeling has degenerated into mere
Sensibility and a very cheap kind of superficial, skin-deep excitability that
usurps the name of Passion.
``We admire and feel
and love the Melody of Italy. We reverence her native gift of song, her popular
sensibility to it. We have been again and again transported by her best vocal
artists who have visited these shores, and they are not the best--the world-wide
celebrities, we have to confess, are only traditions to us--traditions,
however, to which we yield ourselves in full faith. From what we have heard and
experienced of Italian singing, we know, as well as if we had heard Grisi,
Pasta and Rubini, that it is not in the genius of the Italian School to produce
or hardly to appreciate such a new revelation of song as this human nightingale
or canary of Sweden.
``Is this underrating
the Italian music? By no means. That is an established fact, and has its
characteristic worth. Equally so, but in a contrasted way has the music of the
North, which, till this Nightingale appeared, had found its utterance mainly
through instruments and orchestras. Now it finds worthy utterance in song. But
of its peculiar characteristic we must take another time to speak.''
SUCCESSFUL
ADVERTISING--THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF RICHES--VISIT TO IRANISTAN--OVATIONS AT
BOSTON, PHILADELPHIA, BALTIMORE AND WASHINGTON--VISIT TO MT. VERNON--CHARLESTON--HAVANA--
FREDERICKA BREMER.
All of Barnum's
inventive powers were called into play effectually to advertise his song-bird.
Biographies of Jenny Lind were circulated. ``Foreign correspondence'' raved
over her talents, narratives of her benevolence filled the papers; her pictures
and her name were seen everywhere. So when she made her first appearance, it
was before an audience already wrought up to a high pitch of enthusiasm in her
behalf. Never before, or after for that matter, was any singer so lauded by the
press. The following editorial from the New York Herald of September 10th,
1850, is a fair sample:
``What ancient monarch
was he, either in history or in fable, who offered half his kingdom (the price
of box-tickets and choice seats in those days) for the invention of an original
sensation, or the discovery of a fresh pleasure? That sensation--that pleasure
which royal power in the Old World failed to discover-- has been called into
existence at a less price, by Mr. Barnum, a plain republican, and is now about
to be enjoyed by the sovereigns of the New World.
``Jenny Lind, the most
remarkable phenomenon in the musical art which has for the last century flashed
across the horizon of the Old World, is now among us, and will make her debut
to-morrow night to a house of nearly ten thousand listeners, yielding in
proceeds by auction, a sum of forty or fifty thousand dollars. For the last ten
days our musical reporters have furnished our readers with every matter
connected with her arrival in this metropolis, and the steps adopted by Mr.
Barnum in preparation for her first appearance. The proceedings of yesterday,
consisting of the sale of the remainder of the tickets, and the astonishing,
the wonderful sensation produced at her first rehearsal on the few persons,
critics in musical art, who were admitted on the occasion, will be found
elsewhere in our columns.
``We concur in
everything that has been said by our musical reporter, describing her
extraordinary genius--her unrivalled combination of power and art. Nothing has
been exaggerated, not an iota. Three years ago, more or less, we heard Jenny
Lind on many occasions, when she made the first great sensation in Europe, by
her debut at the London Opera House. Then she was great in power--in art--in genius;
now she is greater in all. We speak from experience and conviction. Then she
astonished, and pleased, and fascinated the thousands of the British
aristocracy; now she will fascinate, and please, and delight, and almost make
mad with musical excitement, the millions of the American democracy. To-morrow
night, this new sensation--this fresh movement--this excitement excelling all
former excitements--will be called into existence, when she pours out the notes
of Casta Diva, and exhibits her astonishing powers--her wonderful
peculiarities, that seem more of heaven than of earth-- more of a voice from
eternity, than from the lips of a human being.
``We speak
soberly--seriously--calmly. The public expectation has run very high for the
last week--higher than at any former period of our past musical annals. But
high as it has risen, the reality --the fact--the concert--the voice of Jenny
Lind-- will far surpass all past expectations. Jenny Lind is a wonder, and a
prodigy in song--and no mistake.''
Barnum had not hoped to
manage such an enormous enterprise as this one, without some trouble and
anxiety, but he soon discovered that in this case, realization far exceeded
anticipation. He often declared that from the first concert, September 11th,
1850, until the ninety-third concert, June 9th, 1851, he did not experience a
single waking moment that was free from care.
Miss Lind was utterly
unprepared for the enthusiasm of her American audience, and it is scarcely to
be wondered at that she should appear to listen at first to the dishonorable
counsels of some of her friends, who constantly besought her to break her
contract with Barnum, who, they urged, was ``coining money out of her genius,''
and to take the enterprise into her own hands. But whether Miss Lind realized
that Mr. Barnum's management was largely responsible for her triumph, or
whether she was simply too high-minded to consider such a breach of honor,
certain it is that she continued to stand by her contract. John Jay, her
lawyer, took every occasion to interfere, and Barnum suffered much from his
unreasonable intrusions. The following letter, written to Mr. Joshua Bates of
Baring Bros. & Co., London, will show the difficulties which beset the
perplexed manager:
``NEW YORK, October 23,
1850.
``JOSHUA BATES, Esq.:
``Dear Sir: I take the liberty to write you a few lines, merely to say that we
are getting along as well as could reasonably be expected. In this country you
are aware that the rapid accumulation of wealth always creates much envy, and
envy soon augments to malice. Such are the elements at work to a limited degree
against myself, and although Miss Lind, Benedict and myself have never, as yet,
had the slightest feelings between us, to my knowledge, except those of
friendship, yet I cannot well see how this can long continue in the face of the
fact that, nearly every day they allow persons (some moving in the first
classes of society) to approach them, and spend hours in traducing me; even her
attorney, Mr. John Jay, has been so blind to her interests, as to aid in
poisoning her mind against me, by pouring into her ears the most silly twaddle,
all of which amounts to nothing and less than nothing--such as the regret that
I was a showman, exhibiter of Tom Thumb, etc., etc.
``Without the elements
which I possess for business, as well as my knowledge of human nature, acquired
in catering for the public, the result of her concerts here would not have been
pecuniarily one-half as much as the present--and such men as the Hon. Edward
Everett, G. G. Howland, and others, will tell you that there is no charlatanism
or lack of dignity in my management of these concerts. I know as well as any
person, that the merits of Jenny Lind are the best capital to depend upon to
secure public favor, and I have thus far acted on this knowledge. Everything
which money and attention can procure for their comfort, they have, and I am
glad to know that they are satisfied on this score. All I fear is, that these
continued backbitings, if listened to by her, will, by and by, produce a
feeling of distrust or regret, which will lead to unpleasant results.
``The fact is, her mind
ought to be as free as air, and she herself as free as a bird, and being
satisfied of my probity and ability, she should turn a deaf ear to all envious
and malevolent attacks on me. I have hoped that by thus briefly stating to you
the facts in the case, you might be induced for her interests as well as mine
to drop a line of advice to Mr. Benedict and another to Mr. Jay on this
subject. If I am asking or expecting too much, I pray you to not give it a
thought, for I feel myself fully able to carry through my rights alone,
although I should deplore nothing so much as to be obliged to do so in a
feeling of unfriendliness. I have risked much money on the issue of this
speculation--it has proved successful. I am full of perplexity and anxiety, and
labor continually for success, and I cannot allow ignorance or envy to rob me
of the fruits of my enterprise.
``Sincerely and gratefully yours,
``P. T. BARNUM.''
Miss Lind's benevolence
had been so largely extolled that it was not surprising that she should have
been continually beset by applicants for charity.
In almost all cases she
gave liberally in sums varying from $20 to $1,000, and to one Swedish friend,
it is said, she actually gave $5,000.
On her return from
Boston to New York the whole party stopped at Iranistan, Mr. Barnum's
Bridgeport place. The next morning Miss Lind was escorted over the grounds, the
beauty of which delighted her. ``Do you know, Mr. Barnum,'' she said, ``that if
you had not built Iranistan, I should never have come to America for you?'' Mr.
Barnum, much surprised, asked her to explain.
``I had received
several applications to visit the United States,'' she continued, ``but I did
not much like the appearance of the applicants, nor did I relish the idea of
crossing 3,000 miles of ocean; so I declined them all. But the first letter
which Mr. Wilton, your agent, addressed me, was written upon a sheet headed
with a beautiful engraving of Iranistan. It attracted my attention. I said to
myself, a gentleman who has been so successful in his business as to be able to
build and reside in such a palace cannot be a mere `adventurer.' So I wrote to
your agent, and consented to an interview, which I should have declined, if I
had not seen the picture of Iranistan.''
``That, then, fully
pays me for building it,'' replied Barnum.
The night after Miss
Lind's arrival in Boston, there was a display of fireworks, in her honor, in
front of the Revere House, which was followed by a torchlight procession by the
Germans of the city. At Philadelphia, they were met by such a dense throng of people
that it was with the greatest difficulty that they pressed through the crowds
to their hotel. Jenny was suffering from a very severe headache and retired at
once to her rooms. Outside, the streets were packed with the thousands that had
followed them to the door, and were now clamoring for Jenny Lind.
Knowing that the noise
would seriously disturb the sensitive songstress, Barnum tried to induce the
crowd to disperse; but they declared they would not until Miss Lind appeared on
the balcony. In despair he finally put Jenny's bonnet and shawl on her
companion, Miss Ahmansen, who went out on the balcony and bowed gracefully to
the multitude, who gave three hearty cheers and dispersed.
Miss Lind hated crowds,
and always wished her arrival in any city kept secret, so as to avoid the
excitement of a public reception, but Barnum knew that the success of the
enterprise depended in a large measure on this very excitement.
One day Miss Lind
remarked to Mr. Barnum, ``I have just heard that you and I are to be married.
Now how do you suppose such a report ever originated?''
``Probably from the
fact that we are `engaged,' suggested Barnum, the inveterate punster.
Miss Lind always went
to church when she could do so without attracting too much attention, always
inquiring for the Swedish church wherever it could be found.
One Sunday in
Baltimore, Miss Caroline Barnum, now Mrs. David W. Thompson, of New York, went
with a friend of hers who resided in the city, into the choir, where she joined
in the singing.
A number of people in
the audience had seen her with her father the day previous and supposed her to
be Jenny Lind. Like lightning the news that Jenny Lind was in the choir, flew
through the church, and when Miss Barnum, whose voice was not at all extraordinary,
rose with the rest to sing, the congregation listened breathlessly.
``Heavenly!'' ``Exquisite!'' ``Angelic!'' sighed the excited audience. The two
young ladies, all unconscious of the furore they had inspired were utterly
astonished when, after church, the crowd pressed round them so closely that
they had the greatest difficulty in reaching their carriage.
The day after their
appearance in Washington, President Fillmore called, and left his card, Miss
Lind being out. Jenny was very much flurried when she returned, and was
prepared to call at the White House immediately, as would have been proper had
Mr. Fillmore been the head of any European country. Barnum assured her,
however, that etiquette was not so strict in America, and she postponed her visit
until the next day, when with Benedict, Belletti and Mr. Barnum she spent
several delightful hours in the President's family.
The President, the
Cabinet and nearly every member of Congress attended both concerts. The great
Statesman Webster was so pleased with one of her songs that he drew himself up
to his full height and bowed profoundly, to Miss Lind's great gratification. Of
all the distinguished men who called upon her in Washington, none impressed her
like Webster. She walked up and down in great excitement after he had gone,
exclaiming: ``Ah! Mr. Barnum, what a man! I have never before seen such a
man!''
Miss Lind was escorted
through both Houses of Congress and through the Capitol and grounds, by Hon. C.
F. Cleveland, Representative from Connecticut. She was very much pleased with
everything and asked innumerable questions about the American Government.
During their stay in
Washington, they were invited by Colonel Washington, then owner of Mt. Vernon,
to visit the home and the tomb of the first President.
The party first visited
the tomb and then proceeded to the house where they were introduced to Mrs.
Washington and several other ladies.
Much interest was shown
by Miss Lind in examining the various mementos of the great man, and when before
leaving, Mrs. Washington presented her with a book from the library with
Washington's autograph on the title page, she was overwhelmed with emotion.
Miss Lind had been
through so much excitement in the North that she determined to see no callers
during her stay in the South. One young lady, the daughter of a wealthy
planter, was so determined to see her, that she bribed a maid to lend her her
cap and apron, and let her carry in Miss Lind's tea. This incident amused
Barnum immensely, but Miss Lind was much vexed, declaring the young lady's
motive to be curiosity rather than admiration. The voyage from Wilmington to
Charleston had been very rough, the trip requiring over thirty-six hours. When
they arrived at last, the vessel had been given up for lost and the wreck had
been telegraphed all over the country. The voyage to Havana was very much
pleasanter, however.
Arriving there, they
found the house which Mr. Barnum had sent a man on to provide for them,
anything but comfortable. Miss Lind, especially, was much displeased, and,
hiring a carriage, she drove off, accompanied by an interpreter. She was gone
four hours, to the great alarm of the rest of the party. Returning, she
announced that she had hired a charming house in the suburbs, and invited the whole
company to be her guests during their stay in Havana. It is needless to say
they accepted her invitation.
There, freed from all
care and annoyance and away from the too zealous counsellors, she spent a
delightful month, seeing no callers, coming and going as she pleased, and
romping like a schoolgirl in the great court-yard back of the house. She used
to force Mr. Barnum to play ball with her until he was exhausted and fain to
beg off. Then she would laugh and say: ``Oh, Mr. Barnum! you are too fat and
lazy; you cannot stand it to play ball with me.''
The celebrated Swedish
authoress, Fredericka Bremer, spent a few days with them in their Havana
retreat.
CONQUEST OF THE
HABANEROS--THE ITALIAN AND HIS DOG--MAD BENNETT--A SUCCESSFUL RUSE--RETURN TO
NEW ORLEANS--A LUDICROUS INCIDENT--UP THE MISSISSIPPI--LEGERDEMAIN.
Soon after arriving at
Havana, Barnum made a discovery. The Habaneros, not accustomed to the high
prices which opera tickets command in the States, had determined that they
would force Barnum to lower the admission fee. This the manager refused to do,
and it soon became evident that although they attended the concerts, they were
not disposed to show the singer the least favor. It was, therefore, with much
inward trepidation that Barnum watched the curtain rise on the first concert.
The following account of that concert is taken from the New York Tribune:
``Jenny Lind soon
appeared, led on by Signor Belletti. Some three or four hundred persons clapped
their hands at her appearance, but this token of approbation was instantly
silenced by at least two thousand five hundred decided hisses. Thus having
settled the matter that there should be no forestalling of public opinion, and
that it applause was given to Jenny Lind in that house it should first be
incontestably earned, the most solemn silence prevailed. I have heard the
Swedish Nightingale often in Europe as well as in America, and have ever
noticed a distinct tremulousness attending her first appearance in any city.
Indeed this feeling was plainly manifested in her countenance as she neared the
foot-lights; but when she witnessed the kind of reception in store for her--so
different from anything she had reason to expect--her countenance changed in an
instant to a haughty self-possession, her eyes flashed defiance, and, becoming
immovable as a statue, she stood there perfectly calm and beautiful. She was
satisfied that she now had an ordeal to pass and a victory to gain worthy of
her powers. In a moment her eye scanned the immense audience, the music began
and then followed--how can I describe it?--such heavenly strains as I verily
believe mortal never breathed except Jenny Lind, and mortal never heard except
from her lips. Some of the oldest Castilians kept a frown upon their brow and a
curling sneer upon their lips; their ladies, however, and most of the audience
began to look surprised. The gushing melody flowed on, increasing in beauty and
glory. The caballeros, the senoras and senoritas began to look at each other; nearly
all, however, kept their teeth clenched and their lips closed, evidently
determined to resist to the last. The torrent flowed deeper and faster, the
lark flew higher and higher, the melody grew richer and grander; still every
lip was compressed. By and by, as the rich notes came dashing in rivers upon
our enraptured ears, one poor critic involuntarily whispered a `brava.' This
outbursting of the soul was instantly hissed down. The stream of harmony rolled
on till, at the close, it made a clean sweep of every obstacle, and carried all
before it. Not a vestige of opposition remained, but such a tremendous shout of
applause as went up I never before heard.
``The triumph was most
complete. And how was Jenny Lind affected? She who stood a few moments previous
like adamant, now trembled like a reed in the wind before the storm of
enthusiasm which her own simple notes had produced. Tremblingly, slowly, and
almost bowing her face to the ground, she withdrew. The roar and applause of
victory increased. `Encore! encore! encore!' came from every lip. She again
appeared, and courtesying low, again withdrew; but again, again and again did
they call her out and at every appearance the thunders of applause rang louder
and louder. Thus five times was Jenny Lind called out to receive their
unanimous and deafening plaudits.''
With tears of joy
rolling down his cheeks, Barnum rushed behind the scenes, and met her as she
was withdrawing after the fifth encore.
``God bless you,
Jenny,'' he cried, ``you've settled them!''
``Are you satisfied?''
said the singer, throwing her arms around his neck and weeping for joy. This
was the first she had known of the opposition, all hint of it having been kept
from her by Mr. Barnum, but she fully sympathized with him in his determination
not to lower the prices.
The papers continued to
cry out for a reduction, and this caused many people to stay away from the
concerts, expecting Barnum to yield. But when, after three concerts, it was
announced that the next one, devoted to charity, was also to be Miss Lind's
farewell, they became very much excited. Committees waited on them to request
more concerts, which resulted only in refusals: some of the leading Dons
offered to guarantee them $25,000, for three concerts, but Barnum assured them
that there was not money enough in the Island of Cuba to induce him to consent.
The proceeds of the
fourth concert were distributed between two hospitals and a convent, besides
giving $500 to Barnum's old protege Vivalla, the little Italian plate-dancer,
whom they had met in Havana. The poor fellow's fortunes were at a very low ebb,
having lost the use of his left side from paralysis. He supported himself by
exhibiting a performing dog, which turned a spinning wheel and did several
other tricks. Miss Lind had heard of his case and was very anxious that part of
the benefit money should be given him.
The morning after the
concert the bell rang and Barnum found, on going to the door, a procession of
children from the convent which had received a large sum of money from Miss
Lind. The children were attended by ten or twelve priests in rich vestments.
They had come to see the songstress and to thank her in person. But Jenny shrank
from appearing before such a stately deputation: ``Tell them I cannot see
them,'' she exclaimed. ``They have nothing to thank me for. If I have done good
it was no more than my duty.'' And the grand procession with its wreaths and
banners, were obliged to depart.
The same day, Vivalla
called and brought her a basket of fruit. With tears of joy, he called down
every blessing on the head of the benevolent lady. ``I shall go back to Italy!
I shall see my brothers and sisters again!'' he cried. Miss Lind had gone for a
drive, but Barnum promised to give her the fruit and the message. As he was
passing out the door he hesitated end said: ``Mr. Barnum, I should like so much
to have the good lady see my dog turn a wheel. It is very nice; he can spin
very good; shall I bring the dog and the wheel for her? She is such a good
lady, I wish to please her very much.'' Mr. Barnum told the grateful fellow
that Miss Lind had refused to see the priests from the convent that morning,
because she never received thanks for favors, and that he was quite welcome to
the money.
When Miss Lind returned
and heard the story, she exclaimed: ``Poor man, poor man, do let him come; its
all the good creature can do for me;'' then with tears rolling down her
face--``I like that, I like that; do let him come and bring his dog. It will
make him so happy.''
``God bless you, it
will make him happy,'' said Barnum. ``He shall come to-morrow.'' And he went
himself to tell Vivalla that Jenny Lind would see his dog perform, the next day
at four precisely.
``I will be punctual,''
said Vivalla, quite overcome with emotion, ``but I was sure she would like to
see my dog perform.''
For full half an hour
before the time appointed did Jenny Lind sit in her window on the second floor
and watch for Vivalla and his dog. A few minutes before the appointed hour, she
saw him coming. ``Ah, here he comes! here he comes!'' she exclaimed in delight,
as she ran down stairs and opened the door to admit him. A negro boy was
bringing the small spinning-wheel, while Vivalla led the dog. Handing the boy a
silver coin, she motioned him away, and taking the wheel in her arms, she said,
``This is very kind of you to come with your dog. Follow me. I will carry the
wheel up stairs.'' Her servant offered to take the wheel, but no, she would let
no one carry it but herself. She called the whole party to her parlor, and for
one full hour did she devote herself to the happy Italian. She went down on her
knees to pet the dog and to ask Vivalla all sorts of questions about his
performances, his former course of life, his friends in Italy, and his present
hopes and determinations. Then she sang and played for him, gave him some
refreshments, finally insisted on carrying his wheel to the door, and her
servant accompanied Vivalla to his boarding-house.
Poor Vivalla! He was
probably never so happy before, but his enjoyment did not exceed that of Miss
Lind. A few months later, however, the Havana correspondent of the New York
Herald announced the death of Vivalla, and stated that the poor Italian's last
words were about Jenny Lind and Mr. Barnum.
In the party which
accompanied Barnum to Havana was a man who had formerly kept the Peale Museum
in New York, afterwards managing the establishment for Mr. Barnum. At present
he was acting as ticket-taker.
He was a curious
fellow, at times full of fun and gayety and at other times melancholy to the
verge of insanity. Madness ran in his family, and one of his brothers, in a
moment of frenzy had blown his brains out. Barnum knew of Bennett's tendency to
melancholy and watched him constantly. When they were on board the steamer
``Falcon'' on their way back to New Orleans, a thrilling incident occurred
which Barnum afterwards related in this way:
Mr. James Gordon
Bennett, editor of the New York Herald, and his wife, were also passengers.
After permitting one favorable notice in his paper, Bennett had turned around,
as usual, and had abused Jenny Lind and bitterly attacked me. I was always glad
to get such notices, for they served as inexpensive advertisements to my
museum.
``Ticket-taker Bennett,
however, took much to heart the attacks of Editor Bennett upon Jenny Lind. When
Editor Bennett came on board the `Falcon,' his violent name-sake said to a
by-stander:
`` `I would willingly
be drowned if I could see that old scoundrel go to the bottom of the sea.'
``Several of our party
overheard the remark and I turned laughingly to Bennett and said: Nonsense; he
can't harm any one, and there is an old proverb about the impossibility of drowning
those who are born for another fate.'
``That very night,
however, as I stood near the cabin door, conversing with my treasurer and other
members of my company, Henry Bennett came up to me with a wild air, and
hoarsely whispered:
`` `Old Bennett has
gone forward alone in the dark--and I am going to throw him overboard!'
``We were all startled,
for we knew the man, and he seemed terribly in earnest. Knowing how most
effectively to address him at such times, I exclaimed:
`` `Ridiculous! you
would not do such a thing.'
`` `I swear I will,'
was his savage reply. I expostulated with him, and several of our party joined
me.
`` `Nobody will know
it,' muttered the maniac, `and I shall be doing the world a favor.'
``I endeavored to
awaken him to a sense of the crime he contemplated, assuring him that it could
not possibly benefit any one, and that from the fact of the relations existing
between the editor and myself, I should be the first to be accused of his
murder. I implored him to go to his stateroom, and he finally did so,
accompanied by some of the gentlemen of our party. I took pains to see that he
was carefully watched that night, and, indeed, for several days, till he became
calm again. He was a large, athletic man, quite able to pick up his name-sake
and drop him overboard. The matter was too serious for a joke, and we made
little mention of it; but more than one of our party said then, and has said
since, what I really believe to be true, that `James Gordon Bennett would have
been drowned that night had it not been for P. T. Barnum.' ''
Bennett's end was
tragic, as might be expected. Sometime after the Havana journey Barnum sent him
to London. He conducted the business successfully, wrote up the accounts to a
penny, then handing the papers to a mutual friend with directions to give them
to Barnum when he should arrive, he went to his lodgings and committed suicide.
``In New Orleans the
wharf was crowded by a great concourse of persons, as the steamer ``Falcon''
approached. Jenny Lind had enjoyed a month of quiet, and dreaded the excitement
which she must now again encounter.
``Mr Barnum, I am sure
I can never get through that crowd,'' she said in despair.
``Leave that to me.
Remain quiet for ten minutes, and there shall be no crowd here,'' replied
Barnum.
Taking his daughter on
his arm, she drew her vail over her face and they descended the gangway.
``That's Barnum, I know
him,'' called out several persons at the top of their voices.
``Open the way, if you
please for Mr. Barnum and Miss Lind!'' cried Le Grand Smith over the railing of
the ship, the deck of which he had just reached from the wharf.
``Don't crowd her, if
you please, gentlemen,'' said Barnum, and so pushing and squeezing they reached
the carriage and drove to Miss Lind's apartments. A few minutes later Jenny and
her companion came quietly in a carriage and were in the house before the ruse
was discovered. In answer to the calls of the crowd she appeard on the balcony,
and bowed to the throng, which gave her three cheers and dispersed.
A very funny incident
occurred in New Orleans. Next to the theatre where the concerts were given, was
an exhibition in the large open lots of mammoth hogs, grizzly bears and other
animals.
A gentleman had a son
about twelve years old, who had a wonderful ear for music. He could whistle or
sing any tune after hearing it once. His father did not know nor care for a
single note, but so anxious was he to please his son, that he paid thirty dollars
for two tickets to the concert.
``I liked the music
better than I expected,'' said he the next day, ``but my son was in raptures.
He was so perfectly enchanted that he scarcely spoke the whole evening, and I
would on no account disturb his delightful reveries. When the concert was
finished we came out of the theatre. Not a word was spoken. I knew that my
musical prodigy was happy among the clouds, and I said nothing. I could not
help envying him his love of music, and considered my thirty dollars as
nothing, compared to the bliss which it secured to him. Indeed, I was seriously
thinking of taking him to the next concert, when he spoke. We were just passing
the numerous shows upon the vacant lots. One of the signs attracted him, and he
said, `Father, let us go in and see the big hog!' The little scamp! I could
have horse-whipped him!' said the father, who loving a joke, could not help
laughing at the ludicrous incident.
The party took passage
to Cairo, Illinois, in the beautiful river steamer ``Magnolia.'' They had made
arrangements with the captain to delay in Natchez and in Memphis where concerts
were given.
The time on board the
steamer was pleasantly spent in reading and watching the scenery. One day they
had a musicale in the ladies' cabin for the gratification of the passengers, at
which Miss Lind volunteered to sing. Barnum amused the passengers with his
inexhaustible fund of anecdotes and stories, and the tricks of legerdemain,
which he had learned and used in the South under rather different
circumstances. Among other tricks, he made a silver piece disappear so
mysteriously that the negro barber who witnessed the feat, came to the
conclusion that the great man must be in league with the devil. ``The next
morning,'' says Mr. Barnum, ``I seated myself in the barber's chair and the
darkey began to talk:
`` `Beg pardon, Mr.
Barnum, but I have heard a great deal about you, and I saw more than I wanted
to see last night. Is it true that you have sold yourself to the devil, so that
you can do what you've a mind to?'
`` `Oh, yes,'' was my
reply, `that is the bargain between us.'
`` `How long did you
agree for?' was the question next in order.
`` `Only nine years,'
said I. `I have had three of them already. Before the other six are out, I
shall find a way to nonplus the old gentleman, and I have told him so to his
face.'
``At this avowal, a
larger space of white than usual was seen in the darkey's eyes, and he
inquired, `Is it by this bargain that you get so much money?'
`` `Certainly. No matter
who has money, nor where he keeps it, in his box or till, or anywhere about
him, I have only to speak the words and it comes.'
``The shaving was
completed in silence, but thought had been busy in the barber's mind, and he
embraced the speediest opportunity to transfer his bag of coin to the iron safe
in charge of the clerk.
The movement did not
escape me, and immediately a joke was afoot. I had barely time to make two or
three details of arrangement with the clerk, and resume my seat in the cabin, ere
the barber sought a second interview, bent on testing the alleged powers of
Beelzebub's colleague.
`` `Beg pardon, Mr.
Barnum, but where is my money? Can you get it?'
`` `I do not want your
money,' was the quiet answer. `It is safe.'
`` `Yes, I know it is
safe--ha! ha!--it is in the iron safe in the clerk's office--safe enough from
you?'
`` `It is not in the
iron safe!' said I. This was said so quietly, yet positively, that the colored
gentleman ran to the office, and inquired if all was safe. `All right,' said
the clerk. `Open, and let me see,' replied the barber. The safe was unlocked
and lo! the money was gone!
``In mystified terror
the loser applied to me for relief. `You will find the bag in your drawer,'
said I, and there it was found!
``His curiosity was
still great. `Please do another trick,' said he.
`` `Very well,' I
replied, `stand perfectly still.'
``He did so, and I
commenced muttering some mysterious words, as if performing an incantation.
`` `What are you
doing?' said the barber.
`` `I am changing you
into a black cat,' I replied, `but don't be afraid; I will change you back
again, if I don't forget the words to do it with.'
``This was too much for
the terrified darkey; with an awful screech he rushed to the side of the boat
resolved to drown rather than undergo such a transformation.
``He was captured and
brought back to me, when I dispelled his fright by explaining the way in which
I had tricked him. Relieved and reassured, he clapped his hands and executed an
impromtu jig, exclaiming, `Ha! ha! when I get back to New Orleans won't I come
de Barnum ober dem niggers!' ''
ST. LOUIS--THE
SECRETARY'S LITTLE GAME--LEGAL ADVICE--SMOOTH WATERS AGAIN--BARNUM'S EFFORTS
APPRECIATED--AN EXTRAVAGANT ENCONIUM.
The concerts at Natchez
and Memphis were extremely successful. The sixty-first concert was given in St.
Louis, and on the morning of their arrival in the city Miss Lind's secretary
came to Mr. Barnum, commissioned, as he claimed, by the singer, and told the
Manager that as sixty concerts had already been given, Miss Lind proposed to
avail herself of one of the conditions of the contract and cancel the
engagement next morning. Much startled by this sudden complication, but
outwardly undisturbed, Barnum asked if Miss Lind had authorized the notice. ``I
so understand it,'' was the secretary's reply. Thinking that it might be another
scheme of her advisers and that Miss Lind herself might possibly know nothing
of it, Barnum told the secretary that he would see him again in an hour. He
then proceeded to his old friend Sol Smith for legal advice. They went over the
contract together, Barnum telling his friend of the annoyances he had suffered
from Miss Lind's advisers, and they both agreed that if she broke the contract
thus suddenly, she was bound to pay back all that she had received over the
stipulated $1000, for each concert. As she had been paid $137,000, for sixty
concerts, this extra money amounted to something like $77,000.
Barnum then went back
to the secretary and told him that he was ready to settle with Miss Lind and to
close the engagement.
``But,'' said he,
evidently much surprised, ``you have already advertised concerts in Louisville
and Cincinnati, have you not?''
``Yes,'' answered
Barnum calmly, ``but you may take the contracts for halls and printing off my
hands at cost.'' He further offered the assistance of his agent and his own
personal services to give Miss Lind a good start on her own account.
The secretary
emboldened by this liberality then made a proposition so extraordinary that
Barnum at once saw that Miss Lind could have had nothing to do with the scheme.
``Now suppose,'' he
asked, ``Miss Lind should wish to give some fifty concerts in this country,
what would you charge as manager?''
``A million dollars a
concert,'' answered Barnum promptly; then he added, ``Now see here; I don't
believe Miss Lind has authorized you to make this proposition. If she has, just
bring me a line to that effect, over her own signature, and her check for the
amount due me by the terms of our contract, some $77,000, and we will close our
business connection at once.''
``But why not make a
new arrangement,'' persisted the secretary, ``for fifty more concerts, by which
Miss Lind will pay you liberally, say $1,000 a concert?''
``For the simple reason
that I hired Miss Lind, and not she me,'' replied Barnum, ``and because I ought
never to take a farthing less for my risk and trouble than the contract gives
me. I have voluntarily given Miss Lind more than twice as much as I originally
contracted to give her, or as she expected to receive when she engaged with me.
Now if she is not satisfied I wish to settle instantly and finally. If you do
not bring me her decision to-day, I shall ask her for it in the morning.''
The next morning Barnum
asked him again for the written communication from Miss Lind; the secretary
replied that it was all a ``joke,'' and that he merely wanted to see what the
manager would say to the proposition. He begged that nothing would be said to
Miss Lind concerning it. So it is altogether likely that she knew nothing of
it. The four concerts at St. Louis were given and the program as arranged for
the other cities was carried out, with no more troublous incidents occurring.
To show that Barnum's
efforts as manager of the Jenny Lind enterprise were appreciated, we copy the
dedication of Sol Smith's Autobiograpy published in 1854. Smith was one of the
characters of his time, being celebrated as a comedian, an author, a manager
and a lawyer:
``TO PHINEAS T. BARNUM,
PROPRIETOR OF THE AMERICAN MUSEUM, ETC.
``Great Impressario.
Whilst you were engaged in your grand Jenny Lind speculation, the following
conundrum went the rounds of the American newspapers:
`` `Why is it that
Jenny Lind and Barnum will never fall out?' Answer: `Because he is always
for-getting, and she is always for-giving.'
``I have never asked
you the question directly, whether you, Mr. Barnum, started that conundrum, or
not; but I strongly suspect that you did. At all events, I noticed that your
whole policy was concentrated into one idea--to make an angel of Jenny, and
depreciate yourself in contrast.
``You may remember that
in this city (St. Louis), I acted in one instance as your `legal adviser,' and
as such, necessarily became acquainted with all the particulars of your
contract with the so-called Swedish Nightingale, as well as the various
modifications claimed by that charitable lady, and submitted to by you after
her arrival in this country; which modifications (I suppose it need no longer
be a secret) secured to her--besides the original stipulation of one thousand
dollars for every concert, attendants, carriages, assistant artists, and a
pompous and extravagant retinue, fit (only) for a European princess--one-half
of the profits of each performance. You may also remember the legal advice I
gave you on the occasion referred to, and the salutary effect of your following
it. You must remember the extravagant joy you felt afterwards, in Philadelphia,
when the `Angel' made up her mind to avail herself of one of the stipulations
in her contract, to break off at the end of a hundred nights, and even bought
out seven of that hundred--supposing that she could go on without your aid as
well as with it. And you cannot but remember, how, like a rocket-stick she
dropped, when your business connection with her ended, and how she `fizzed out'
the remainder of her concert nights in this part of the world, and soon
afterwards retired to her domestic blissitude in Sweden.
``You know, Mr. Barnum,
if you would only tell, which of the two it was that was `for-getting,' and
which `for-giving;' and you also know who actually gave the larger portion of
those sums which you heralded to the world as the sole gifts of the `divine
Jenny.'
``Of all your
speculations--from the negro centenarian, who didn't nurse General Washington,
down to the Bearded Woman of Genoa--there was not one which required the
exercise of so much humbuggery as the Jenny Lind concerts; and I verily believe
there is no man living, other than yourself, who could, or would, have risked
the enormous expenditure of money necessary to carry them through
successfully--travelling, with sixty artists; four thousand miles, and giving
ninety-three concerts, at an actual cost of forty-five hundred dollars each, is
what no other man would have undertaken --you accomplished this, and pocketed
by the operation but little less than two hundred thousand dollars! Mr. Barnum,
you are yourself, alone!
``I honor you, oh!
Great Impressario, as the most successful manager in America or any other
country. Democrat, as you are, you can give a practical lesson to the
aristocrats of Europe how to live. At your beautiful and tasteful residence,
`Iranistan' (I don't like the name, though), you can and do entertain your
friends with a warmth of hospitality, only equalled by that of the great landed
proprietors of the old country, or of our own `sunny South.' Whilst riches are
pouring into your coffers from your various `ventures' in all parts of the
world, you do not hoard your immense means, but continually `cast them forth
upon the waters,' rewarding labor, encouraging the arts, and lending a helping
hand to industry in all its branches. Not content with doing all this, you deal
telling blows, whenever opportunity offers, upon the monster Intemperance. Your
labors in this great cause alone should entitle you to the thanks of all good
men, women and children in the land. Mr. Barnum, you deserve all your good
fortune, and I hope you may long live to enjoy your wealth and honor.
``As a small
installment towards the debt, I, as one of the community, owe you, and with the
hope of affording you an hour's amusement (if you can spare that amount of time
from your numerous avocations to read it), I present you with this litttle
volume, containing a very brief account of some of my `journey-work' in the
South and West; and remain, very respectfully,
``Your friend, and
affectionate uncle,
``SOL SMITH.
``CHOUTEAU AVENUE, ST. LOUIS,
``NOV. 1, 1854.''
Although Barnum never
acknowledged it, there was a vast deal of truth in Mr. Smith's statements.
Whenever Miss Lind sang
for charity she gave what she might have earned at a regular concert; Barnum
always insisted upon paying for the hall, orchestra, printing and other
expenses. But Miss Lind received the entire credit for liberality and
benevolence.
It is but just to say,
however, that she frequently remonstrated with Barnum and declared that the
expenses ought to be deducted from the proceeds of the concert, but he always
insisted on doing what he called his share.
APRIL FOOL JOKES AT
NASHVILLE--A TRICK AT CINCINNATI--RETURN TO NEW YORK--JENNY LIND PERSUADED TO
LEAVE BARNUM-- FINANCIAL RESULTS OF THE ENTERPRISE.
Five concerts were
given at St. Louis, and then they went to Nashville, Tenn., where the
sixty-sixth and sixty-seventh of the series were given. At the latter place,
Jenny Lind, accompanied by Barnum and his daughter, Mrs. Lyman, visited ``The
Hermitage,'' where Barnum himself had years before seen ``Old Hickory''
Jackson. While there, the prima donna heard, for the first time in her life,
wild mocking birds singing in the trees, and great was her delight thereat.
They spent the first of
April, 1851, at Nashville. In the forenoon of the day, the various members of
the party amused themselves by playing little ``April Fool'' jokes on Barnum,
and after dinner he took his revenge upon them. Securing a supply of telegraph
blanks and envelopes, he set to work preparing messages full of the most
sensational and startling intelligence, for most of the people in the party. Almost
every one of them presently received what purported to be a telegraphic
despatch. Barnum's own daughter did not escape. She was informed that her
mother, her cousin, and several other relatives, were waiting for her in
Louisville, and various other important and extraordinary items of domestic
intelligence were communicated to her. Mr. Le Grand Smith was told by a
despatch from his father that his native village in Connecticut, was in ashes,
including his own homestead, etc. Several of Barnum's employees had most
liberal offers of engagements from banks and other institutions at the North.
Burke, and others of the musical professors, were offered princely salaries by
opera managers, and many of them received most tempting inducements to proceed
immediately to the World's Fair in London.
One married gentleman
received the gratifying intelligence that he had for two days been the father
of a pair of bouncing boys (mother and children doing well), an event which he
had been anxiously looking for during the week, though on a somewhat more
limited scale. In fact, nearly every person in the party engaged by Barnum
received some extraordinary telegraphic intelligence; and, as the great
impressario managed to have the despatches delivered simultaneously, each recipient
was for some time busily occupied with his own personal news.
By and by each began to
tell his neighbor his good or bad tidings; and each was, of course, rejoiced or
grieved, according to circumstances. Several gave Mr. Barnum notice of their
intention to leave him, in consequence of better offers; and a number of them
sent off telegraphic despatches and letters by mail, in answer to those
received.
The man who had so
suddenly become the father of twins, telegraphed to his wife to ``be of good cheer,''
and that he would ``start for home tomorrow.'' And so cleverly did Barnum
manage the whole business that his victims did not discover how they had been
fooled until next morning, when they read the whole story in a local newspaper,
to which it had been given by Barnum himself.
From Nashville, Jenny
Lind and a few of the party went to the Mammoth Cave, and thence to Louisville,
the others going directly to the latter point by steamer. There they were
joined by Signor Salvi, whom Barnum had engaged at Havana. Three concerts were
given at Louisville, and they then proceeded to Cincinnati, accompanied by
George D. Prentice, the famous editor of The Louisville Journal. A stop was
made at Madison long enough to give one concert, and they reached Cincinnati
the next morning. There was a tremendous crowd on the wharf, and Barnum was
afraid that an attempt to repeat the ruse he had played with his daughter at
New Orleans would not work here, as an account of it had been published in the
Cincinnati papers, and everyone would be suspecting it. But he was fertile in
expedients, and quickly devised another scheme.
So he took Miss Lind on
his arm and boldly started to walk down the gang-plank in the face of the
crowd. As he did so, Le Grand Smith, who was in the plot, called out from the
deck of the boat, as if he had been one of the passengers, ``That's no go, Mr.
Barnum; you can't pass your daughter off for Jenny Lind this time.'' The remark
elicited a peal of merriment from the crowd, several persons calling out,
``that won't do, Barnum! You may fool the New Orleans folks, but you can't come
it over the `Buckeyes.' We intend to stay here until you bring out Jenny
Lind!'' They readily allowed him to pass with the lady whom they supposed to be
his daughter, and in five minutes afterwards the Nightingale was complimenting
Mr. Coleman upon the beautiful and commodious apartments which were devoted to
her in the Burnett House.
A concert was given at
Wheeling, and another at Pittsburg, and then, early in May, the company
returned to New York. There they gave fourteen concerts, partly at Castle
Garden and partly at Metropolitan Hall, making ninety-two of the regular
series.
Miss Lind now came
within the influence of various legal and other advisers, who seemed intent on
creating trouble between her and her manager. Barnum soon discovered this state
of affairs, but was little troubled by it. Indeed he really hoped that they
would persuade her to stop at the hundredth concert, for he was already worn
out with the constant excitement and unremitting exertions of the tour. He
thought that perhaps it would be well for Miss Lind to try giving a few
concerts on her own account, or under some other manager, in order to disprove
what her friends had told her, namely, that Mr. Barnum had not managed the
enterprise as successfully as he might have done.
Accordingly he was much
pleased when, after the eighty-fifth concert, she told him that she had decided
to pay the forfeit of $25,000, and terminate the concert tour after the one
hundredth performance. After the second series of concerts in New York, they
went to Philadelphia, where Barnum had advertised the ninety-third and
ninety-fourth concerts. As he did not care enough for the probable profits of
the last seven of the hundred concerts to run the risk of disturbing the very
friendly relations which had so far existed between him and Miss Lind, he now
offered to relinquish the engagement, if she desired it, at the end of the
ninety-third concert. The only terms he required were that she would allow him
$1,000 for each of the remaining seven concerts, besides the $25,000 forfeit
already agreed upon. She accepted this offer, and the engagement was forthwith
ended.
After parting with
Barnum, Miss Lind gave a number of concerts, with varied success. Then she went
to Niagara Falls for a time, and afterward to Northampton, Massachusetts. While
living at the latter place she visited Boston, and was there married to Otto
Goldschmidt. He was a German composer and pianist, who had studied music with
her in Germany, and to whom she had long been much attached. He had, indeed,
travelled with her and Barnum during a portion of their tour, and had played at
several of the concerts.
After the end of their
engagement, Barnum and Miss Lind met on several occasions, always in the
friendliest manner. Once, at Bridgeport, she complained rather bitterly to him
of the unpleasant experiences she had had since leaving him. ``People cheat me
and swindle me very much,'' said she, ``and I find it very annoying to give
concerts on my own account.''
``I was always,'' said
Mr. Barnum, sometime afterward, ``supplied with complimentary tickets when she
gave concerts in New York, and on the occasion of her last appearance in
America I visited her in her room back of the stage, and bade her and her
husband adieu, with my best wishes. She expressed the same feeling to me in
return. She told me she should never sing much, if any more, in public; but I
reminded her that a good Providence had endowed her with a voice which enabled
her to contribute in an eminent degree to the enjoyment of her fellow beings,
and if she no longer needed the large sums of money which they were willing to
pay for this elevating and delightful entertainment, she knew by experience what
a genuine pleasure she would receive by devoting the money to the alleviation
of the wants and sorrows of those who needed it.''
``Ah! Mr. Barnum,'' she
replied, ``that is very true; and it would be ungrateful in me to not continue
to use, for the benefit of the poor and lowly, that gift which our kind
Heavenly Father has so graciously bestowed upon me. Yes, I will continue to
sing so long as my voice lasts, but it will be mostly for charitable objects,
for I am thankful to say that I have all the money which I shall ever need.''
It is pleasant to add
that this noble resolution was carried out. A large proportion of the concerts
which she gave after her return to Europe and during the remainder of her
entire public career, were devoted to objects of charity. If she consented, for
example, to sing for a charitable object in London, the fact was not advertised
at all, but the tickets were readily disposed of in private for from $5 to $10
each.
As for Mr. Barnum, he
was glad to enjoy a season of rest and quiet after such an arduous campaign.
After leaving Miss Lind, in Philadelphia, therefore, he went to Cape May for a
week and then to his home Iranistan, where he spent the remainder of the
summer.
It is interesting, as a
matter of record, to review at this point, the financial results of this
notable series of concerts. The following recapitulation is entirely accurate,
being taken from Mr. Barnum's own account books:
JENNY LIND CONCERTS.
TOTAL RECEIPTS, EXCEPTING OF CONCERTS DEVOTED TO CHARITY. ------New
York...........$17,864.05No. 38.Baltimore......... $8,121.33------New
York...........$14,203.03No. 39.Washington City... $6,878.55No. 40.Washington
City... $8,507.05No. 1.New York...........$12,519.59No.
41.Richmond..........$12,385.21No. 2.New York...........$12,266.09No.
42.Charleston........ $6,775.00No. 3.New York...........$12,174.74No.
43.Charleston........ $3,653.75No. 4.New York...........$16,028.39No.
44.Havana............ $4,666.17No. 5.Boston.............$16,479.50No.
45.Havana............ $2,837.92No. 6.Boston.............$11,848.62No.
46.Havana............ $2,931.95No. 7.Boston............. $8,639.92No. 47.New
Orleans.......$12,599.85No. 8.Boston.............$10,169.25No. 48.New
Orleans.......$10,210.42No. 9.Providence......... $6,525.54No. 49.New
Orleans....... $8,131.15No. 10Boston.............$10,524.87No. 50.New
Orleans....... $6,019.85No. 11Boston............. $5,240.00No. 51.New
Orleans....... $6,644.00No. 12Boston............. $7,586.00No. 52.New
Orleans....... $9,720.80No. 13Philadelphia....... $9,291.25No. 53.New
Orleans....... $7,545.50No. 14Philadelphia....... $7,547.00No. 54.New
Orleans....... $6,053.50No. 15Philadelphia....... $8,458.65No. 55.New
Orleans....... $4,850.25No. 16New York........... $6,415.90No. 56.New
Orleans....... $4,495.35No. 17New York........... $4,009.70No. 57.New
Orleans....... $6,630.35No. 18New York........... $5,982.00No. 58.New
Orleans....... $4,745.10No. 19New York........... $8,007.10No.
59.Natchez........... $5,000.00No. 20New York........... $6,334.20No.
60.Memphis........... $4,539.56No. 21New York........... $9,429.15No. 61.St.
Louis......... $7,811.85No. 22New York........... $9,912.17No. 62.St.
Louis.........$7,961.92No. 23New York........... $5,773.40No. 63.St.
Louis......... $7,708.70No. 24New York........... $4,993.50No. 64.St.
Louis....... $4,086.50No. 25New York........... $6,670.15No. 65.St.
Louis....... $3,044.70No. 26New York........... $9,840.33No.
66.Nashville....... $7,786.30No. 27New York............ $7,097.15No.
67.Nashville....... $4,248.00No. 28New York............ $8,263.30No.
68.Louisville...... $7,833.90No. 29New York............$10,570.25No.
69.Louisville...... $6,595.60No. 30New York............$10,646.45No.
70.Louisville...... $5,000.00No. 31Philadelphia........ $5,480.75No. 71.Madison.........
$3,693.25No. 32Philadelphia........ $5,728.65No. 72.Cincinnati......
$9,339.75No. 33Philadelphia........ $3,709.88No.
73.Cincinnati......$11,001.50No. 34Philadelphia........ $4,815.48No.
74.Cincinnati...... $8,446.30No. 35Baltimore........... $7,117.00No.
75.Cincinnati...... $8,446.30No. 36Baltimore........... $8,357.05No.
76.Cincinnati...... $6,500.40No. 37Baltimore........... $8,406.50No.
77.Wheeling........ $5,000.00
78.Pittsburg........... 7,210.5886.New York......... 6,642.0479.New York............
6,858.4287.New York......... 3,738.7580.New York............5,453.0088.New
York.........4,335.2881.New York............5,463.7089.New
York.........5,339.2382.New York............7,378.3590.New
York.........4,087.0383.New York............7,179.2791.New
York.........5,717.0084.New York............6,641.0092.New
York.........9,525.8085.New
York............6,917.1393.Philadelphia.....3,852.75 Of Miss Lind's half receipts of the first two Concerts she
devoted $10,000 to charity in New York. She afterwards gave Charity Concerts in
Boston, Baltimore, Charleston, Havana, New Orleans, New York and Philadelphia,
and donated large sums for the like purposes in Richmond, Cincinnati and
elsewhere. There were also several Benefit Concerts, for the Orchestra, Le
Grand Smith, and other persons and objects.
RECAPITULATION. New York........
35 Concerts Receipts..$286,216.64 Average....$8,177.50 Philadelphia.... 8
Concerts Receipts...$48,884.41 Average....$6,110.55 Boston.......... 7 Concerts
Receipts...$70,388.16 Average...$10,055.45 Providence...... 1 Concert.
Receipts....$6,525.54 Average....$6,525.54 Baltimore....... 4 Concerts
Receipts...$32,101.88 Average....$8,000.47 Washington...... 2 Concerts
Receipts...$15,385.60 Average....$7,602.80 Richmond........ 1 Concert.
Receipts...$12,385.21 Average...$12,385.21 Charleston...... 2 Concerts
Receipts...$10,428.75 Average....$5,214.37 Havana.......... 3 Concerts
Receipts...$10,436.04 Average....$3,478.68 New Orleans..... 12 Concerts
Receipts...$87,646.12 Average....$7,303.84 Natchez.......... 1 Concert.
Receipts....$5,000.00 Average.....$5,000.00 Memphis......... 1 Concert.
Receipts....$4,539.56 Average....$4,539.56 St. Louis....... 5 Concerts
Receipts...$30,613.67 Average....$6,122.73 Nashville....... 2 Concerts
Receipts...$12,034.30 Average....$6,017.15 Louisville...... 3 Concerts
Receipts...$19,429.50 Average....$6,476.50 Madison......... 1 Concert.
Receipts....$3,693.25 Average....$3,693.25 Cincinnati...... 5 Concerts
Receipts...$44,242.13 Average....$8,848.43 Wheeling........ 1 Concert.
Receipts....$5,000.00 Average....$5,000.00 Pittsburg....... 1 Concert.
Receipts....$7,210.58 Average....$7,210.58 Total...........95 Concerts
Receipt..$712,161.34 Average....$7,496.43
JENNY LIND'S RECEIPTS. From the Total Receipts of
Ninety-five Concerts...........$712,161.34
Deduct the receipts of
the first two, which, as between
P. T. Barnum and Jenny Lind were aside from the
contract, and are not numbered in the table...............$32,067.08
Total Receipts of
Concerts from No. 1 to No. 93...........$680,094.26
Deduct the Receipts of
the 28 Concerts,
each of which fell short of $5,500........................$123,311.15
Also deduct $5,500 for
each of the
remaining 65 Concerts.....................$357,500.00480,811.15
Leaving the total
excess, as above............$199,283.11
Being equally divided,
Miss Lind's portion was.................$99,641.55
Barnum paid her $1,000
for each of the 93 Concerts..............93,000.00
Also one-half the receipts
of the first two Concerts............16,033.54
Amount paid to Jenny
Lind......................................$208,675.09
She refunded to Barnum
as forfeiture, per contract, in
case she withdrew after the 100th Concert........................$25,000
She also paid him
$1,000 each for the seven concerts
relinquished..............................................7,000$32,000.00
JENNY LIND'S net avails
of 95 concerts.........................$176,675.09
P. T. BARNUM'S gross
receipts, after paying Miss Lind............535,486.25
TOTAL RECEIPTS of 95
Concerts............................$712,161.34
The highest prices paid
for tickets were at auction, as follows: John N. Genin, in New York, $225;
Ossian E. Dodge, in Boston, $625; Col. William C. Ross, in Providence, $650; M.
A. Root, in Philadelphia, $625; Mr. D'Arcy, in New Orleans, $240; a keeper of a
refreshment saloon in St. Louis, $150; a Daguerrotypist, in Baltimore, $100.
After the sale of the first ticket the premium usually fell to $20, and so
downward in the scale of figures. The fixed price of tickets ranged from $7 to
$3. Promenade tickets were from $2 to $1 each.
THE EXPEDITION TO
CEYLON--HARNESSING AN ELEPHANT TO A PLOW-- BARNUM AND VANDERBILT--THE TALKING
MACHINE--A FIRE AT IRANISTAN--MOUNTAIN GROVE CEMETERY.
The great showman did
not allow even so great an enterprise as the Jenny Lind concerts to monopolize
his attention. In 1849 he planned the formation of a great travelling show,
combining the features of a museum, a menagerie and a circus. In this he
associated with himself Mr. Seth B. Howes, who was already a noted and
successful showman, and also Mr. Stratton, the father of Tom Thumb. In order to
procure a supply of novelties for this show they chartered the ship
``Regatta,'' and sent it from New York in May, 1850, to Ceylon. The object of
this voyage, was to procure, either by purchase or by capture, a number of
living elephants and other wild animals. To make sure of a sufficient supply of
fodder for them, nearly a thousand tons of hay were purchased in New York and
taken out aboard the ship. Five hundred tons of it were left at the Island of
St. Helena, to be taken up on the return trip, and a great supply of staves and
hoops were also left there for the construction of water casks.
This extraordinary
mission was successful. In almost exactly a year from the day of sailing the
ship returned to New York. Its novel cargo was unloaded, the ten elephants
which had been secured were harnessed in pairs to a gigantic chariot, and the
whole show paraded up Broadway past the Irving House. It was reviewed from the
window of that hotel by Jenny Lind, who was stopping there on her second visit
to New York. An elaborate outfit of horses, wagons, tents, etc., was added, the
whole costing over $100,000, and then the show went on the road under the
nominal leadership of Tom Thumb. It was called, ``Barnum's Great Asiatic
Caravan, Museum and Menagerie;'' it travelled about the country for four years,
and yielded to its proprietors enormous profits.
At the end of this tour
Barnum sold out the entire establishment, including animals, cages, chariots
and everything else, excepting one elephant. This huge brute he took to his
farm at Bridgeport, for advertising purposes. It occurred to him that if he
should keep the animal there for a time and put him to some novel use, such as
working on the farm, it would set people to talking and greatly add to public
curiosity and interest in his American Museum.
He accordingly took the
elephant to Bridgeport and put him in charge of a competent keeper, who was
dressed in a striking Oriental costume. A six acre field close by the New York
and New Haven railroad track was set apart for their use. Barnum gave the
keeper a time-table of the road and directed him to make a point, whenever
trains were passing, always to be busily engaged with the elephant at plowing
or other agricultural work as close to the track as possible. Of course the
passengers noticed the strange spectacle, items concerning it appeared in the
newspapers, extending even to the press of foreign lands, and thousands of
people came from all parts of the country to witness the strange sight. Every
mail brought numerous letters inquiring about it. Many of these were from the
officers of agricultural societies in all parts of the United States, making
serious and earnest inquiry as to the utility of the elephant as an
agricultural animal. These letters were greatly diversified in tone, but the
substance of their inquires was about as follows:
1. ``Is the elephant a
profitable agricultural animal?''
2. ``How much can an
elephant plow in a day?''
3. ``How much can he
draw?''
4. ``How much does he
eat?''--this question was invariably asked, and was a very important one.
5. ``Will elephants
make themselves generally useful on a farm?''
6. ``What is the price
of an elephant?''
7. ``Where can
elephants be purchased?''
Then would follow a
score of other inquiries, such as, whether elephants were easily managed; if
they would quarrel with cattle; if it was possible to breed them; how old calf
elephants must be before they would earn their own living; and so on indefinitely.
Barnum presently began
to be alarmed lest some one should buy an elephant and thus share the fate of
the man who drew one in a lottery and did not know what to do with him.
``Accordingly,'' he says, ``I had a general letter printed, which I mailed to all
my anxious inquirers. It was headed `strictly confidential,' and I then stated,
begging my correspondents `not to mention it,' that to me the elephant was a
valuable agricultural animal, because he was an excellent advertisement to my
museum; but that to other farmers he would prove very unprofitable for many
reasons. In the first place, such an animal would cost from $3,000 to $10,000;
in cold weather he could not work at all; in any weather he could not earn half
his living; he would eat up the value of his own head, trunk and body every
year; and I begged my correspondents not to do so foolish a thing as to
undertake elephant farming.''
The result of this
experiment in advertising was highly successful. Newspaper correspondents sent
highly colored accounts of it all over the world, and numerous pictures of the
elephant harnessed to a plow appeared in the illustrated papers and magazines.
After the field had been plowed over fifty or sixty times, Barnum concluded
that the elephant had been ``worked for all he was worth,'' and sold him to Van
Amburgh's menagerie.
In 1851 Mr. Barnum
became a part owner of the steamship ``North America,'' which he proposed to
run between America and Ireland as a passenger and freight vessel. This idea
was presently abandoned, and the ship was sent around Cape Horn to San
Francisco and put into service on the Pacific Mail Line, Commodore Cornelius
Vanderbilt having purchased a one-half interest in it and Mr. Barnum retaining
one-third interest in the remaining half. After she had made several trips
Barnum called upon Mr. Vanderbilt at his office and introduced himself. It was
their first meeting, and this is Barnum's own account of the interview:
`` `Is it possible you
are Barnum?' exclaimed the Commodore, in surprise, `why, I expected to see a
monster, part lion, part elephant, and a mixture of rhinoceros and tiger! Is it
possible,' he continued, `that you are the showman who has made so much noise
in the world?'
``I laughingly replied
that I was, and added that if I too had been governed in my anticipation of his
personal appearance by the fame he had achieved in his line, I should have
expected to have been saluted by a steam whistle, and to have seen him dressed
in a pea jacket, blowing off steam, and crying out `all aboard that's going.'
`` `Instead of which,'
replied Mr. Vanderbilt, `I suppose you have come to ask me to walk up to the
Captain's office and settle.
``After this
interchange of civilities, we talked about the success of the `North America'
in having got safely around the Horn, and of the acceptable manner in which she
was doing her duty on the Pacific side.
`` `We have received no
statement of her earnings yet,' said the Commodore, `but if you want money,
give your receipt to our treasurer, and take some.'
``A few months
subsequent to this, I sold out my share in the steamship to Mr. Daniel Drew.''
Numerous smaller
enterprises also marked this stage of Mr. Barnum's career. Some of these were
connected with his museum, while others were entirely independent of it. Thus
in 1844, in Paris, besides purchasing Robt. Houdin's ingenius automatic writer
and other costly curiosities for the museum, he had made at great expense, a
huge panorama of the funeral of Napoleon Bonaparte. This gigantic picture showed
every event of that pageant, beginning with the embarkation of the body at St.
Helena and ending with its final entombment at the Hotel des Invalides. This
exhibition, after having had its day at the American Museum, was sold, and
extensively and profitably exhibited elsewhere. While Barnum was in London,
during the same year, he engaged a company of ``Campanalogians, or Lancashire
Bell Ringers,'' then performing in Ireland, to make an American tour. They were
really admirable performers, and by means of their numerous bells of various
sizes, they produced the most delightful music. They attracted much attention
in various parts of the United States, in Canada, and in Cuba.
After the loss of the
bell ringers to the English public Barnum secured and sent thither a party of
sixteen North American Indians, who were widely exhibited. On his return to
America after his first visit to Europe he engaged an ingenius workman to
construct an automatic orator. This was a life-size and remarkably life-like
figure, and when worked from a key-board similar to that of a piano it actually
uttered words and sentences with surprising distinctness. It was exhibited for
several months in London and elsewhere in England, but though it was really a
wonderful machine and attracted the earnest attention of some people, it was
not a popular success. The Duke of Wellington visited it several times, and at
first he thought that the ``voice'' proceeded from the exhibiter, whom he
assumed to be a skilful ventriloquist. He was asked to touch the keys with his
own fingers, and, after some instruction in the method of operating, he was
able to make the machine speak, not only in English but also in German, with
which language the Duke seemed familiar. Thereafter, he entered his name on the
exhibiter's autograph book, and certified that the ``Automaton Speaker'' was an
extraordinary production of mechanical genius.
Barnum also secured
duplicates of the models of machinery exhibited at the Royal Polytechnic
Institution in London and a great many interesting panoramas and pictures.
These were all exhibited at his museum in New York and afterwards sold to other
travelling showmen who exhibited them throughout the country. In the summer of
1850 he added to the museum his famous Chinese collection, including a Chinese
family of two men, two ``small footed'' women, and two children.
Few of his curiosities
attracted more attention than the performances of the ``Scotch Boys.'' One of
these was securely blindfolded, and then, in answer to questions put by the
other, accurately described any objects presented by persons who attended the
surprising exhibition. The mystery, which was merely the result of patient
practice, consisted wholly in the manner in which the question was propounded;
in fact, the question invariably carried its own answer; for instance:
``What is this?'' meant
gold; ``Now what is this?'' silver; ``Say, what is this?'' copper; ``Tell me
what this is?'' iron; ``What is the shape?'' long; ``Now, what shape?'' round;
``Say what shape?'' square; ``Please say what this is,'' a watch; ``Can you
tell what is in this lady's hand?'' a purse; ``Now, please say what this is?''
a key; ``Come now, what is this?'' money; ``How much?'' a penny; ``Now, how
much?'' sixpence; ``Say how much,'' a quarter of a dollar; ``What color is
this?'' black; ``Now, what color is this?'' red; ``Say what color?'' green; and
so on, ad infinitum. To such perfection was this brought that it was almost
impossible to present any object that could not be quite closely described by
the blindfolded boy.
In 1850, the celebrated
Bateman children acted for several weeks at the American Museum, and in June of
that year Barnum sent them to London with their father and Mr. Le Grand Smith,
where they played in the St. James Theatre, and afterwards in the principal
provincial theatres. The elder of these children, Miss Kate Bateman,
subsequently attained the highest histrionic distinction in America and abroad,
and reached the head of her profession.
Miss Catharine Hayes and
Herr Begnis were engaged by Barnum in the fall of 1852 to give a series of
sixty concerts in California, and the enterprise proved highly profitable,
although Mr. Barnum intrusted its execution to his agents, not caring himself
to travel so far. Before she set out for California Miss Hayes, with her mother
and sister, spent several days at Iranistan to attend the marriage of Barnum's
eldest daughter, Caroline, to Mr. David W. Thompson.
The wedding was to take
place in the evening, and on the afternoon of that day Mr. Barnum went to
Bridgeport to get shaved for the occasion. While he was lying in the barber's
chair, half of his face shaved and the other half covered with lather, his
prospective son-in-law, Mr. Thompson, drove up to the door of the shop and
rushed in, exclaiming excitedly, ``Mr. Barnum, Iranistan is in flames!'' Barnum
jumped up from the chair and, half shaved and with the lather still on his
face, jumped into the wagon and started for home with the horse on a run. ``I
was greatly alarmed,'' he afterward said, ``for the house was full of visitors
who had come from a distance to attend the wedding, and all the costly
presents, dresses, refreshments, and everything prepared for a marriage
celebration to which nearly a thousand guests had been invited, were already in
my house. Mr. Thompson told me he had seen the flames bursting from the roof,
and it seemed to me that there was little hope of saving the building.
``My mind was
distressed, not so much at the great pecuniary loss which the destruction of
Iranistan would involve, as at the possibility that some of my family or
visitors would be killed or seriously injured in attempting to save something
from the fire. Then I thought of the sore disappointment this calamity would
cause to the young couple, as well as to those who were invited to the wedding.
I saw that Mr. Thompson looked pale and anxious.
`` `Never mind!' said
I; `we can't help these things; the house will probably be burned; but if no
one is killed or injured, you shall be married to-night, if we are obliged to
perform the ceremony in the coach-house.'
``On our way, we
overtook a fire company, and I implored them to `hurry up their machine.'
Arriving in sight of Iranistan, we saw huge volumes of smoke rolling out from
the roof and many men on the top of the house were passing buckets of water to
pour upon the fire. Fortunately, several men had been engaged during the day in
repairing the roof, and their ladders were against the house. By these means
and with the assistance of the men employed upon my grounds, water was passed
very rapidly, and the flames were soon subdued without serious damage. The
inmates of Iranistan were thoroughly frightened; Catherine Hayes and other
visitors, packed their trunks and had them carried out on the lawn; and the
house came as near destruction as it well could and escape.''
While Miss Hayes was at
Bridgeport she gave, at Barnum's request, a concert for the benefit of
``Mountain Grove Cemetery,'' and the large proceeds were devoted to the erection
of the stone tower and gateway that now adorn the entrance to that beautiful
resting place of the dead. Barnum had bought the eighty acres of land for this
cemetery a few years before from several farmers. He had been in the habit of
tramping over it, gunning, and while thus engaged, had observed its admirable
fitness for the purposes of a cemetery. After the title deeds for the property
were secured, it was offered for a cemetery, and at a meeting of citizens,
several lots were subscribed for. enough. indeed, to cover the amount of the
purchase money. Thus was begun the ``Mountain Grove Cemetery,'' which is now
beautifully laid out and adorned with many tasteful and costly monuments. Among
these are Barnum's own substantial granite monument, the family monuments of
Harral, Bishop, Hubbell, Lyon, Wood, Loomis, Wordin, Hyde, and others, and
General Tom Thumb erected a tall marble shaft which is surmounted by a
life-size statue of himself. There is no more charming burial-ground in the
whole country; yet when the project was suggested, many persons preferred an
intermural cemetery to this rural resting-place for their departed friends;
though now all concur in considering it fortunate that this adjunct was secured
to Bridgeport before the land could be permanently devoted to other purposes.
Mr. Dion Boucicault
also lectured at Bridgeport for the benefit of this cemetery and Tom Thumb gave
an entertainment for the same object. At Barnum's request and under his
management, Tom Thumb and his wife, and Commodore Nutt and his wife, gave
several exhibitions and entertainments for the benefit of the Bridgeport
Charitable Society, the Bridgeport Library, and other local institutions.
PUTTING A PICKPOCKET ON
EXHIBITION--TRAVELLING INCOGNITO--THE PEQUONNOCK BANK--THE NEW YORK CRYSTAL
PALACE--A POEM ON AN INCIDENT AT IRANISTAN.
In the summer of 1853
Alfred Bunn, formerly manager of Drury Lane Theatre, London, arrived in Boston.
He was then one of the most notable figures in the theatrical world. It was he
who had made the first engagement with Jenny Lind to appear in London. She had
been induced to break this engagement, however, through the solicitations of
Mr. Lumley, of Her Majesty's Theatre, with the result that Mr. Lumley had to
pay to Mr. Bunn heavy damages for the breach of contract. Barnum and Bunn had
never met, though they knew each other well by reputation, and indeed Bunn
labored under the delusion that he had met Barnum, for soon after his arrival
he hastened to New York and entered Barnum's private office at the Museum with
the exclamation, ``Well, Barnum, do you remember me?''
Barnum was confident
that he had never seen him before, and indeed did not really know who he was.
But, quick as a flash, he thought that the ex-manager of Drury Lane must be the
only living Englishman with presumption enough to accost him in this way. So he
answered without hesitation, ``Why, this is Mr. Bunn, isn't it?''
``Ah, my boy,'' said
Bunn, slapping him familiarly on the back, ``I thought you would remember me.
Well, Barnum, how have you been since I last saw you?''
Barnum replied in a
manner that encouraged his impression that they were old acquaintances, and
during the next two hours they had much gossip about men and affairs in London.
Bunn called upon Barnum several times after that, and probably never realized
that Barnum really had been in London two or three years without making his
acquaintance. When Barnum went to London again in 1858 he renewed his
acquaintance with Bunn and they became great chums.
The years 1851, 1852
and 1853 were mostly spent at Bridgeport, with frequent visits to New York of a
day or two each. In the last-named year he resigned the office of President of
the Fairfield County Agricultural Society, but in accepting his resignation the
society insisted that it should not go into effect until after the annual fair
of 1854 His administration of the affairs of the society had been very
successful, especially in relation to the fairs and cattle shows.
The manner in which
Barnum turned every circumstance to account in the interest of these fairs is
well shown in his dealings with a pickpocket at the fair of 1853. The man was
caught in the act of taking a pocket-book from a country farmer, and on arrest
was found to be a notorious English thief. He had already victimized many other
visitors to the fair, and there was almost a state of panic among the visitors.
The fair was to close the next day.
Early the next morning
the thief was taken before a justice, legally examined, and was bound over for
trial. Barnum then obtained consent from the Sheriff that the fellow should be
put on the fair grounds, for the purpose of giving those who had been robbed an
opportunity of identifying him. For this purpose he was handcuffed and placed
in a conspicuous position, where of course he was ``the observed of all
observers.'' Then Barnum papered the country round about with handbills,
stating that, for the last day of the fair, the managers had secured an extraordinary
attraction. They would, he said, exhibit, safely handcuffed, and without extra
charge, a live pickpocket, who had on the day preceding been caught in the act
of robbing an honest farmer. Crowds of people rushed in to see the show,
parents for miles around brought their children to see the awful example of
iniquity, and great was the profit to the treasury of the fair.
At the close of his
presidency in 1854 Barnum was asked to deliver the opening speech at the County
Fair at Stamford. He did so, delivering simply a portion of his lecture on
``The Philosophy of Humbug.'' The next morning, as he was being shaved in the
village barber's shop, which was at the time crowded with customers, the
ticket-seller to the fair came in. Here is Barnum's own account of what
followed:
``What kind of a house
did you have last night?'' asked one of the gentlemen in waiting.
``Oh, first-rate, of
course. Barnum always draws a crowd,'' was the reply of the ticket-seller, to
whom I was not known.
Most of the gentlemen present,
however, knew me, and they found much difficulty in restraining their laughter.
``Did Barnum make a
good speech?'' I asked.
``I did not hear it. I
was out in the ticket-office. I guess it was pretty good, for I never heard so
much laughing as there was all through his speech. But it makes no difference
whether it was good or not,'' continued the ticket-seller, ``the people will go
to see Barnum.''
``Barnum must be a
curious chap,'' I remarked
``Well, I guess he is
up to all the dodges.''
``Do you know him?'' I
asked.
``Not personally,'' he
replied; ``but I always get into the Museum for nothing. I know the doorkeeper,
and he slips me in free.''
``Barnum would not like
that, probably, if he knew it,'' I remarked.
``But it happens he don't
know it,'' replied the ticket-seller, in great glee.
``Barnum was on the
cars the other day, on his way to Bridgeport,'' said I, ``and I heard one of
the passengers blowing him up terribly as a humbug. He was addressing Barnum at
the time, but did not know him. Barnum joined in lustily, and indorsed
everything the man said. When the passenger learned whom he had been
addressing, I should think he must have felt rather flat.''
``I should think so,
too,'' said the ticket-seller.
This was too much, and
we all indulged in a burst of laughter; still the ticket-seller suspected
nothing. After I had left the shop, the barber told him who I was. I called
into the ticket-office on business several times during the day, but the poor
ticket-seller kept his face turned from me, and appeared so chapfallen that I
did not pretend to recognize him as the hero of the joke in the barber's shop.
There were many
incidents similar to the foregoing in Barnum's career. One occurred on board a
steamboat, going from New York to Bridgeport. As they entered the harbor of the
latter city a stranger asked the great showman to point out ``Barnum's house''
from the deck. Barnum did so, and then another bystander remarked, ``I know all
about that house, for I did a lot of painting there for several months while
Barnum was in Europe.'' He went on to say that it was the meanest and worst
contrived house he ever saw, and added, ``It will cost old Barnum a mint of
money and not be worth two cents after it is finished.'' ``I suppose from that
that old Barnum didn't pay you very punctually,'' observed Barnum himself.
``Oh, yes; he pays promptly every Saturday night,'' said the other; ``there's
no trouble about that. He has made half a million by exhibiting a little boy
whom he took from Bridgeport and whom we never thought any great shakes until
Barnum took him and trained him.''
Presently one of the
other passengers told this man who Barnum was, and nothing more was seen of
him.
On another occasion,
says Barnum, I went to Boston by the Fall River route. Arriving before sunrise,
I found but one carriage at the depot. I immediately engaged it, and, giving
the driver the check for my baggage, told him to take me directly to the Revere
House, as I was in great haste, and enjoined him to take in no other
passengers, and I would pay his demands. He promised compliance with my wishes,
but soon afterwards appeared with a gentleman, two ladies, and several
children, whom he crowded into the carriage with me, and, placing their trunks
on the baggage-rack, started off. I thought there was no use in grumbling, and
consoled myself with the reflection that the Revere House was not far away. He
drove up one street and down another for what seemed to me a very long time,
but I was wedged in so closely that I could not see what route he was taking.
After half an hour's
drive he halted, and I found we were at the Lowell Railway Depot. Here my
fellow-passengers alighted, and after a long delay the driver delivered their
baggage, received his fare, and was about closing the carriage door preparatory
to starting again. I was so thoroughly vexed at the shameful manner in which he
had treated me, that I remarked:
``Perhaps you had
better wait till the Lowell train arrives; you may possibly get another load of
passengers. Of course my convenience is of no consequence. I suppose if you
land me at the Revere House any time this week, it will be as much as I have a
right to expect.''
``I beg your pardon,''
he replied, ``but that was Barnum and his family. He was very anxious to get
here in time for the first train, so I stuck him for $2, and now I'll carry you
to the Revere House free.''
``What Barnum is it?''
I asked.
``The Museum and Jenny
Lind man,'' he replied.
The compliment and the
shave both having been intended for me, I was of course mollified, and replied,
``You are mistaken, my friend, I am Barnum.''
``Coachee'' was
thunderstruck, and offered all sorts of apologies.
``A friend at the other
depot told me that I had Mr. Barnum on board,'' said he, ``and I really
supposed he meant the other man. When I come to notice you, I perceive my
mistake, but I hope you will forgive me. I have carried you frequently before,
and hope you will give me your custom while you are in Boston. I never will
make such a mistake again.''
The Pequonnock Bank of
Bridgeport was organized in the spring of 1851. Barnum had no interest whatever
in it, not holding a single share of the stock. He was, however, unanimously
elected President of it. He accepted the office, but as he knew he could not
devote much time to it, requested that Mr. Hubbell, then Mayor of Bridgeport,
should be made Vice-President.
Mr. Barnum also
invested $20,000, as special partner, in a company for the publication of an
illustrated weekly newspaper in New York. This was The Illustrated News. The
first number was issued on the 1st of January, 1853, and within a month it had
seventy thousand circulation. Various complications arose, which greatly
annoyed Barnum, and at the end of the first year the whole concern was sold out
without loss.
He was earnestly urged,
in February, 1854, to accept the presidency of the Universal Exposition, which
was held in New York in the famous Crystal Palace. At first he positively
declined. But the matter was persistently urged upon him by many influential
gentlemen, who represented to him that the success of the enterprise depended
upon his acceptance of the position. The result was that at last he did accept
it, and he entered upon its duties with all the vigor he could command. The
concern was almost bankrupt, and to save it from utter ruin Barnum advanced
large sums of money from his own purse. By this means and by various other
efforts, such as the re-inauguration, the famous Jullien concerts, etc., here
stored a semblance of prosperity. But it was uphill work, and after a time he
resigned the presidency and abandoned the institution to its fate.
A little incident which
occurred at Iranistan, in the winter of 1852, was observed by a lady from
Philadelphia who was visiting there at the time. She afterward made it the
subject of a poem, which Mr. Barnum prized highly. It was as follows:
FOUNDING EAST
BRIDGEPORT--GROWTH OF THE CITY--THE JEROME CLOCK BUBBLE--A RUINED MAN--PAYING
HONEST DEBTS--DOWN IN THE DEPTHS.
In the year 1851 Mr.
Barnum had purchased from William H. Noble, of Bridgeport, Conn., the undivided
half of his late father's homestead--fifty acres of land on the east side of
the river, opposite the city of Bridgeport. Together they bought the one
hundred and seventy-four acres adjoining, and laid out the entire property in
regular streets, and lined them with trees. A beautiful grove of eight acres
was reserved for a park. This they intended for a nucleus of a new city, to be
known as East Bridgeport.
They then commenced
selling alternate lots, at the same price as the land had cost them by the
acre, always on condition that a suitable dwelling-house, store or manufactory
should be erected on the ground within a year; that every building should be
placed at a certain distance from the street; that the style of architecture
should be approved by the sellers; that the grounds be inclosed with suitable
fences, and that in all respects the locality should be kept desirable for
respectable residents.
A new foot-bridge was built
across the river, connecting the new town with the city of Bridgeport, and a
public toll-bridge, which belonged to Barnum and Noble, was thrown open to the
public free. They also erected a covered drawbridge at a cost of $16,000, which
was made free to the public for several years.
They built and leased
to a union company of young coach-makers a large manufactory, which was one of
the first buildings erected in the town, and which went into operation on the
first day of the year 1852.
In addition to the
inducements of low prices for the lots, the owners advanced one-half,
two-thirds, and sometimes all the funds to erect buildings, permitting the
purchasers to repay them in small sums at their own convenience. The town,
under such favorable auspices, began to develop and to grow with great
rapidity.
No one of Barnum's
schemes had ever interested him as this one did. He was willing to listen to
any one who thought they had a project favorable to the advancement of the new
city. It was the man's weak spot, and it was this weak spot which was destined
to be touched once too often.
There was a small clock
factory in the town of Litchfield, in which Barnum was a stockholder. Thinking
always of his beloved enterprise, it occurred to him at length that if the
Litchfield clock company could be transferred to East Bridgeport, it would
necessarily bring with it numerous families to swell the population. A new
stock company was formed, under the name of the ``Terry and Barnum
Manufacturing Company,'' and in 1852 a factory was built in East Bridgeport.
It will be seen how
recklessly the owners of the site were spending money. They looked for their
profits wholly from the sale of the reserved lots, which they felt sure would
bring high values.
In 1855 Mr. Barnum was
visited by the President of the Jerome Clock Company, Mr. Chauncey Jerome, with
a proposition that the concern, which was reputed to be very wealthy, should be
removed to East Bridgeport. Negotiations were opened, and at last Barnum was
offered a transfer of the great manufactory with its seven hundred to one
thousand employees, if he would lend his name as security for $110,000 in aid
of the company.
He was shown an
official report of the directors of the company, exhibiting a capital of
$400,000 with a surplus of $187,000. They were in need of money to tide over a
dull season and a market glutted with goods. The company also was represented
as being extremely loth to dismiss any of their employees, who would suffer
greatly if their means of livelihood were taken from them. The company was
reputed to be rich; the President, Mr. Chauncey Jerome, had built a church in
New Haven, at a cost of $40,000, and proposed to present it to a congregation;
he had given a clock to a church in Bridgeport, and these things showed that
he, at least, thought he was wealthy. The Jerome clocks were for sale all over
the world, even in China, where the Celestials were said to take out the
``movements,'' and use the cases for little temples for their idols, ``Thus proving
that faith was possible without `works,' '' as Mr. Barnum said.
Further testimony came
in the form of a letter from the cashier of one of the New Haven banks,
expressing the highest confidence in the financial strength of the company.
Barnum afterwards learned that his correspondent represented a bank which was
one of the largest creditors of the concern.
Barnum finally agreed
to lend the clock company his notes for a sum not to exceed $50,000, and to
accept drafts to an amount not to exceed $60,000. He also received the written
guarantee of the President, Chauncey Jerome, that in no event should he lose by
the loan, as he would be personally responsible for the repayment. Mr. Barnum
was willing that his notes should be taken up and renewed an indefinite number
of times just so the maximum of $110,000 was not exceeded. Upon the
representation that it was impossible to say exactly when it would be necessary
to use the notes, Barnum was induced to put his name to several notes for
$3,000, $5,000 and $10,000, leaving the date of payment blank, it being
stipulated that the blanks should be filled to make the notes payable in five,
ten, or even sixty days from date. On the other hand, it was agreed that the
Jerome Company should exchange its stock with the Terry and Barnum
stockholders, thus absorbing that concern, and unite the whole business in East
Bridgeport.
Three months later
Barnum's memoranda showed that the entire $110,000 had been used. He was then
solicited by the New York agent of the company for five additional notes for
$5,000 each. The request was refused unless they would return an equal amount
of his own cancelled notes, since the agent assured him that they were
cancelling these notes ``every week.'' The cancelled notes were brought him next
day and he renewed them. This he did afterwards very frequently, until at last
his confidence in their integrity became so firmly established that he ceased
to ask to see the notes that had been taken up, but furnished new paper as
often as it was desired.
But gradually the rumor
that the banks were hesitating about discounting his paper came to Barnum's
ears. Wondering at this, he made a few inquiries, which resulted in the
startling discovery that his notes had never been taken up, as represented by the
Jerome Company, and that some of the blank-date notes had been made payable in
twelve, eighteen and twenty-four months. Further investigation revealed the
fact that he had indorsed for the company to the amount of over half a million
dollars, and that most of the notes had been exchanged for old Jerome Company
notes due to the banks and other creditors.
Barnum simply went to
work, paid every debt he owed in the world, and--failed!
The Jerome Company also
failed, and in addition to absorbing Barnum's fortune, was able to pay only
about fifteen per cent. of its own obligations. Of course it never removed to
East Bridgeport at all.
The failure was a
nine-days' wonder all over the country. Never had Barnum achieved such
notoriety. As he expressed it, he was taken to pieces, analyzed, put together
again, kicked, ``pitched into,'' tumbled about, preached to, preached about,
and made to serve every purpose to which a sensation loving world could put
him.
Barnum declared that he
could stand the abuse, the cooling of false friends and even the loss of
fortune, but it made him furious to read and hear the moralizings over the
``instability of ill-gotten gains.'' His fortune, if made quickly, had been
honestly worked for and honorably acquired, though envious people pretended not
to believe it.
FALSE AND TRUE
FRIENDS--MEETING OF BRIDGEPORT CITIZENS--BARNUM'S LETTER--TOM THUMB'S
OFFER--SHILLABER'S POEM--BARNUM'S MESSAGE TO THE CREDITORS OF THE JEROME CLOCK
COMPANY--REMOVAL TO NEW YORK--BEGINNING LIFE ANEW AT FORTY-SIX.
But while misfortune
reveals a man his foes, it also shows him his friends. Barnum was overwhelmed
with offers of assistance, funds were declared at his disposal, both for the
support of his family and to re-establish him in business. ``Benefits'' by the
score were offered him, and there was even a proposition among leading citizens
of New York to give a series of benefits.
Every one of these
offers Barnum declined on his unvarying principle of never accepting a money
favor. The following correspondence is taken from the New York papers of the
time, and will show the stand he took in the matter:
NEW YORK, June 2d,
1856.
MR. P. T. BARNUM:
Dear Sir. The financial ruin of a man of acknowledged energy and enterprise is
a public calamity. The sudden blow, therefore, that has swept away, from a man
like yourself, the accumulated wealth of years, justifies, we think, the public
sympathy. The better to manifest our sincere respect for your liberal example
in prosperity, as well as exhibit our honest admiration of your fortitude under
overwhelming reverses, we propose to give that sympathy a tangible expression
by soliciting your acceptance of a series of benefits for your family, the
result of which may possibly secure for your wife and children a future home,
or at least rescue them from the more immediate consequences of your
misfortune.
Freeman Hunt, E. K.
Collins, Isaac V. Fowler, James Phalen, Cornelius Vanderbilt, F. B. Cutting,
James W. Gerard, Simeon Draper, Thomas McElrath, Park Godwin, R. F. Carman,
Gen. C. W. Sanford, Philo Hurd, President H. R. R.; Wm. Ellsworth, President
Brooklyn Ins. Co.; George S. Doughty, President Excelsior Ins. Co.; Chas. T. Cromwell,
Robert Stuyvesant, E. L. Livingston, R. Busteed, Wm. P. Fettridge, E. N.
Haughwout, Geo. F. Nesbitt, Osborne Boardman & Townsend, Charles H.
Delavan, I. & C. Berrien, Fisher & Bird, Solomon & Hart, B. Young,
M. D., Treadwell, Acker & Co., St. Nicholas Hotel; John Wheeler, Union
Square Hotel; S. Leland & Co., Metropolitan Hotel; Albert Clark, Brevoort
House; H. D. Clapp, Everett House; John Taylor, International Hotel; Sydney
Hopman, Smithsonian Hotel; Messrs. Delmonico, Delmonico's; Geo. W. Sherman,
Florence's Hotel; Kingsley & Ainslee, Howard Hotel; Libby & Whitney,
Lovejoy's Hotel; Howard & Brown, Tammany Hall; Jonas Bartlett, Washington
Hotel; Patten & Lynde, Pacific Hotel; J. Johnson, Johnson's Hotel, and over
1,000 others.
To this gratifying communication
he replied as follows:
LONG ISLAND, Tuesday,
June 3d, 1856.
GENTLEMEN: I can hardly find words to express my gratitude for your very kind
proposition. The popular sympathy is to me far more precious than gold, and
that sympathy seems in my case to extend from my immediate neighbors, in
Bridgeport, to all parts of our Union.
Proffers of pecuniary
assistance have reached me from every quarter, not only from friends, but from
entire strangers. Mr. Wm. E. Burton, Miss Laura Keene, and Mr. Wm. Niblo have
in the kindest manner tendered me the receipts of their theatres for one
evening, Mr. Gough volunteered he proceeds of one of his attractive lectures;
Mr. James Phalon generously offered me the free use of the Academy of Music;
many professional ladies and gentlemen have urged me to accept their gratuitous
services. I have, on principle, respectfully declined them all, as I beg, with
the most grateful acknowledgments (at least for the present), to decline
yours--not because a benefit, in itself, is an objectionable thing, but because
I have ever made it a point to ask nothing of the public on personal grounds,
and should prefer, while I can possibly avoid that contingency, to accept
nothing from it without the honest conviction that I had individually given it
in return a full equivalent.
While favored with
health, I feel competent to earn an honest livelihood for myself and family.
More than this I shall certainly never attempt with such a load of debt
suspended in terrorem over me. While I earnestly thank you, therefore, for your
generous consideration, gentlemen, I trust you will appreciate my desire to
live unhumiliated by a sense of dependence, and believe me, sincerely yours,
P. T. BARNUM.
To Messrs. FREEMAN
HUNT, E. K. COLLINS, and others.
And with other offers
of assistance from far and near, came the following from a little gentleman who
did not forget his old friend and benefactor in the time of trial:
JONES HOTEL,
PHILADELPHIA,May 12th, 1856.
MY DEAR MR. BARNUM: I understand your friends, and that means ``all creation,''
intend to get up some benefits for your family. Now, my dear sir, just be good
enough to remember that I belong to that mighty crowd, and I must have a finger
(or at least a ``thumb'') in that pie. I am bound to appear on all such
occasions in some shape, from ``Jack the Giant killer,'' Up-stairs, to the
door-keeper down, whichever may serve you best; and there are some feats that I
can perform as well as any other man of my inches. I have just started out on
my Western tour, and have my carriage, ponies, and assistants all here, but I
am ready to go on to New York, bag and baggage, and remain at Mrs. Barnum's
service as long as I, in a small way, can be useful. Put me into any ``heavy''
work, if you like. Perhaps I can not lift as much as some other folks, but just
take your pencil in hand and you will see I can draw a tremendous load. I drew
two hundred tons at a single pull to-day, embracing two thousand persons, whom
I hauled up safely and satisfactorily to all parties, at one exhibition. Hoping
that you will be able to fix up a lot of magnets that will attract all New
York, and volunteering to sit on any part of the loadstone, I am, as ever, your
little but sympathizing friend,
GEN. TOM THUMB.
All the prominent papers
published editorials and paragraphs full of sympathy for the great man's
misfortune, the Saturday Evening Gazette of Boston breaking out in the
following poem.
BARNUM, your hand! Though you are ``down,''
And see full many a frigid shoulder,
Be brave, my brick, and though they frown,
Prove that misfortune makes you bolder.
There's many a man that sneers, my hero,
And former praise converts to scorning,
Would worship--when he fears--a Nero,
And bend ``where thrift may follow fawning.''
You humbugged us--that we have seen,
We got our money's worth, old fellow,
And though you thought our minds were green,
We never thought your heart was yellow.
We knew you liberal, generous, warm,
Quick to assist a falling brother, And, with such virtues, what's the harm
All memories of your faults to smother?
We had not heard the peerless Lind,
But for your spirit enterprising,
You were the man to raise the wind,
And make a coup confessed surprising.
You're reckoned in your native town
A friend in need, a friend in danger,
You ever keep the latch-string down,
And greet with open hand the stranger.
Stiffen your upper lip. You know
Who are your friends and who your foes now;
We pay for knowledge as we go;
And though you get some sturdy blows now,
You've a fair field--no favors crave--
The storm once passed will find you braver--
In virtue's cause long may you wave,
And on the right side, never waver.
The editor of the paper was
Mr. B. P. Shillaber, better known as ``Mrs. Partington,'' and to him Barnum
years later wrote to find out the author of this effuson. Mr. Shillaber replied
as follows:
CHELSEA, April 25th,
1868.
MY DEAR MR. BARNUM: The poem in question was written by A. Wallace Thaxter,
associate editor with Mr. Clapp and myself, on the Gazette--since deceased, a
glorious fellow--who wrote the poem from a sincere feeling of admiration for
yourself. Mr. Clapp (Hon. W. W. Clapp) published it with his full approbation.
I heard of your new trouble, in my sick chamber, where I have been all winter,
with regret, and wish you as ready a release from attending difficulty as your
genius has hitherto achieved under like circumstances.
Yours, very truly
B. F. SHILLABER.
The manifestations of
sympathy from his fellow-citizens in Bridgeport gratified Barnum more than all
the rest. The Mayor headed and more than 300 leading citizens signed a call for
a mass meeting of sympathy.
At the hour appointed
for the meeting a large assemblage crowded Washington Hall, the principal hall
of the city. Many people thronged the door, unable to gain entrance.
Mr. Charles B. Hubbell,
President of the Pequonnock Bank, was appointed President; Messrs. Charles
Foote, Cashier of the Connecticut Bank; Stephen Tomlinson, President of the
Farmers' Bank; Samuel F. Hurd, President of the Bridgeport City Bank, Hanford
Lyon, Dwight Morris, E. Ferris Bishop, A. P. Houston, and Wm. H. Noble,
Vice-Presidents, and Messrs. Samuel M. Chesney and Julius L. Hanover,
Secretaries.
Mr. Dwight Morris said
that they had met for the purpose of expressing their sympathy with their
former fellow-citizen, P. T. Barnum, in his pecuniary reverses. It was well
known how much Mr. Barnum had done for Bridgeport. He had expended large sums
to build up their city, had accommodated many of them with the means of
securing themselves homes, and it was principally to him that they owed their
present beautiful resting-place for the dead. [Applause.] The citizens of
Bridgeport hoped that his misfortunes would soon pass away, and that he would
ere long resume his position in Bridgeport, and among the citizens of Fairfield
County. [Prolonged applause.]
Mr. Wm. H. Noble read
the following resolutions.
WHEREAS, Our late
neighbor and friend, P. T. Barnum, has become involved in financial misfortune
which seems likely to be irretrievable, and to prevent his again residing in
our vicinity--
Resolved, That we as
citizens of Bridgeport deem it an act of justice no less than a slight return
for the many acts of liberality, philantropy, and public spirit in our midst,
which have marked his prosperity, to offer him our tribute of respect and sympathy
in this the hour of his trouble.
Resolved, That in his
intercourse with us in the private and social relations of life, Mr. Barnum is
remembered as a man of upright dealings and honorable sentiments--a kind and
genial neighbor, and exemplary character, a beneficent philantropist, and a
most generous friend.
Resolved, That in his
more extended capacity as a citizen he has enduringly associated his name with
numerous objects, which remain as monuments among us, connected with the
institutions of religion, education, and commercial prosperity--with the
advancement of the mechanical, agricultural, and other useful arts and
sciences--with the spirit of public improvement and public morals; and that so
long as these remain to us matters of interest, we shall never forget that he
has been of them all among the foremost, most liberal, and most efficient
promoters.
Resolved, That we
hereby express to him our heartfelt sympathy in his misfortunes, our unshaken
confidence in his integrity, and our admiration of the dignified fortitude and
composure with which he has met the reverses into which he has been dragged,
through no fault of his own, except a too generous confidence in pretended
friends, and our earnest hope that he may yet return to that wealth which he
has so nobly employed and to the community he has so signally benefited.
Resolved, That copies
of these resolutions, signed by the President and other officers of this
meeting, be transmitted to Mr. Barnum, and also to the press of this city.
Mr. E. B. Goodsell said
that Mr. Barnum had been the friend of the poor, and his hospitalities had been
extended to men of every State in the Union. The citizens of Bridgeport should
be proud to claim as one of their citizens P. T. Barnum. His name was written upon
every charity in their city, and the temples of God bore its impress. By a few
fell strokes of an ugly pen, he has been drawn into that whirlpool of
destruction to himself and almost destruction to many in the city. In the midst
of his prosperity, while he was building up a city on the east side of their
little harbor, he had fallen by the hand of traitors. He hoped that he might
survive his misfortunes and come back to live in their midst. He did not expect
that he could ever return with that ``pocketful of rocks'' which he used to
talk so much about; but, if he would come, he for one was ready to pledge
himself that he should never starve in the city of Bridgeport. [Loud and
prolonged applause.]
Mr. Oakley was loudly
called for. He said that he had deep regard for Mr. Barnum in his distress. He
was one of the very few people in Bridgeport who had never received any aid
from Mr. Barnum, but he was ready to join in any expression of sympathy, and
saw no reason why it should not assume a material form [loud applause]. He
would only allude to Mr. Barnum's unostentatious benevolence. To one of the
churches of the city Mr. Barnum gave $500--to one of their churches in which he
felt no interest beyond his interest for Bridgeport, and this was but a
specimen of his munificence. Nobody could say that Mr. Barnum had not made the
best and most benevolent use of his money [Applause]. He had been the means of
adding a large number to the population of Bridgeport. He never yet had found a
man who was more eminently the friend of the poor man than P. T. Barnum
[Cheers]. He had alleviated the sufferings of many a broken heart, and he had
aided many a young man to start in business. If Mr. Barnum had erred, it was
only an error of judgment [Cheers]. He sympathized with Mr. Barnum. He had
talents which would cope with those of most of the human race. He did not
believe that there was a man in the city who had so little soul as to begrudge
a tear to him in his misfortune [loud applause]. They should at least send him
assurance that there were thousands of hearts in his own city which appreciated
his noble benevolence, and loved and honored his character.
Mr. Noble read the
following letter from Mr. Barnum:
``NEW YORK, April 25th,
1856.
``DEAR SIR: I have just received a slip containing a call for a public meeting
of the citizens of Bridgeport, to sympathize with me in my trouble. It is
headed by his Honor the Mayor, and is signed by most of our prominent citizens,
as well as by many more who by hard labor earn their daily bread, and who
appreciate a calamity which at a single blow strips a man of his fortune, his
dear home, and all the worldly comfort which years of diligent labor has
acquired. It is due to truth to say that I knew nothing of this movement until
your letter informed me of it. In misfortune, the true sympathy of neighbors is
more consoling and precious than anything which money can purchase. This
voluntary offering of my fellow-citizens, though it thrills me with painful
emotions and causes tears of gratitude, yet it imparts renewed strength and
fills my heart with thankfulness to Providence for raising up to my sight,
above all this wreck, kind hearts which soar above the sordid atmosphere of
`dirty dollars.' I can never forget this unexpected kindness from my old
friends and neighbors. I trust I am not blind to my many faults and
shortcomings; I, however, do feel great consolation in believing that I never
used money or position to oppress the poor or wrong my fellowmen, and that I
never turned empty away whom I had the power to assist. My poor sick wife, who
needs the bracing air which our dear home (made beautiful by her willing hand)
would now have afforded her, is driven by the orders of her physician to a
secluded spot on Long Island, where the sea-wind lends its healthful influence,
and where I have also retired for the double purpose of consoling her and
recruiting my own constitution, which, through the excitement of the last few
months, has most seriously failed me. In our quiet and humble retreat that
which I most sincerely pray for is tranquillity and contentment. I am sure that
the remembrance of the kindness of my Bridgeport friends will aid me in
securing these cherished blessings. No man who has not passed through similar
scenes, can fully comprehend the misery which has been crowded into the last
few months of my life; but I have endeavored to preserve my integrity, and I
humbly hope and believe that I am being taught humility and reliance upon
Providence, which will yet afford a thousand times more peace and true
happiness than can be acquired in the dire strife and turmoil, excitements and
struggles of this money-worshiping age. The man who coins his brain and blood
into gold, who wastes all of his time and thought upon the almighty dollar, who
looks no higher than blocks of houses and tracts of lands, and whose iron chest
is crammed with stocks and mortgages, tied up with his own heart-strings, may
console himself with the idea of safe investments; but he misses a pleasure
which I firmly believe this lesson was intended to secure to me, and which it
will secure, if I can fully bring my mind to realize its wisdom. I think I hear
you say,
When the devil was sick,
The devil a saint would be,
But when the devil got well,
The devil a saint was he.'
``Granted, but after all the
man who looks upon the loss of money as anything compared to the loss of honor,
or health, or self-respect, or friends; a man who can find no source of
happiness except in riches, is to be pitied for his blindness. I certainly feel
that the loss of money, of home and my home comforts, is dreadful; that to be
driven again to find a resting place away from the friends that I loved, and
from where I had fondly hoped I was to end my days. And when I had lavished
time, money, and everything to make my descent to the grave placid and
pleasant, is indeed a severe lesson; but after all I firmly believe it is for
the best, and though my heart may break I will not repine. I regret, beyond
expression, that any man should be a loser for having trusted to my name; it
would not have been so if I had not myself been deceived. As it is, I am
gratified in knowing that all my individual obligations will be met. It would
have been much better if clock creditors had accepted the best offers that it
was in my power to make them. But it was not so to be, it is now too late, and
as I willingly give up all I possess, I can do no more. Wherever my future lot
may be cast, I shall ever fondly cherish the kindness which I have always
received from the citizens of Bridgeport. I am, my dear sir,
``Truly yours, P. T. BARNUM.''
The reading of the
letter excited much sensation, applause, and laughter.
The resolutions were
re-read and passed unanimously.
Mr. William Bishop said
it was unusual for citizens to meet together to express sympathy with one who
had lost his fortune. It was very common for the people and the press to
eulogize a man when he was beyond the reach of human sympathy. He thought it
was far better to tender a man the marks of approval while he was yet alive and
could appreciate it. [Applause] For along time in this city they were
accustomed to bury their dead among the living. Mr. Barnum had done more than
any other man to secure to this city the most beautiful cemetery in
Connecticut. He alone had secured to the city what it had never had before--a
public square. On the east side of the river he had almost completed a
school-house, a thing which could be said of no other man. [Loud cheering.] If
material aid were needed, he should be proud to assist in raising it. There was
one clause in the resolutions which he did not believe. He did not believe that
``in all probability he could ever retrieve'' his fortune. [Prolonged
cheering.]
Mr. J. E. Dunham made a
brief but earnest speech. He hoped this meeting would put down the sneers which
were in circulation in relation to Mr. Barnum's sincerity, by showing that
those estimated him most who knew him best.
Mr. Nathaniel Greene
and Mr. Bowles made short but effective speeches.
The meeting was characterized
throughout by the greatest enthusiasm, and adjourned with three loud cheers for
Barnum.
Nor was sympathy all
his neighbors offered him; shortly after this meeting a number of gentlemen in
Bridgeport offered him a loan of $50,000, if that sum would meet the exigency.
Little by little the
magnitude of the fraud practiced upon Barnum's too confiding nature dawned upon
him. Not only had his notes been used to five times the amount stipulated, but
the money had been applied, not to relieving the temporary embarrassment of the
company, but almost entirely to the redemption of the old claims of years gone
by. Barnum sent two of his friends to New Haven to ask for a meeting of the
creditors, authorizing them to say for him in substance:
``GENTLEMEN: This is a
capital practical joke! Before I negotiated with your clock company at all, I
was assured by several of you, and particularly by a representative of the bank
which was the largest creditor of the concern, that the Jerome Company was
eminently responsible, and that the head of the same was uncommonly pious. On
the strength of such representations solely, I was induced to agree to indorse
and accept paper for that company to the extent of $110,000--no more. That sum
I am now willing to pay for my own verdancy, with an additional sum of $40,000
for your 'cuteness, making a total of $150,000, which you can have if you cry
`quits' with the fleeced showman and let him off.''
Many of the old
creditors favored this proposition; but it was found that the indebtedness was
so scattered it would be impracticable to attempt a settlement by an unanimous
compromise of the creditors.
Barnum therefore turned
over his Bridgeport property to Connecticut assignees, moved his family to New
York, and made an assignment there of all his other property, real estate and
personal effects.
About this time he
received a letter from Philadelphia proffering the loan of $500 in case he
really was in need. The wording of the letter made Barnum suspicious that it
was a trick to ascertain whether he really had any property or if he made an
honest settlement to the best of his ability. To this letter Barnum replied
that he did need $500, and as he had expected the money never came.
But the Philadelphia
banks which were holding the Jerome paper for a higher percentage, at once
acceded to the terms which Mr. Barnum had adnounced himself able to pay,
Every dollar which he
owed on his own account he had already paid, and for the liabilities incurred
by the swindle which had involved him he offered such a percentage which he
thought his estate, when sold, would eventually pay. Mrs. Barnum also gave up
certain portions of her own property to redeem such notes as could be secured
upon these terms.
They went to live in a
hired furnished house in New York, the landlady and her family boarding with
them. At forty-six Barnum found himself once more at the foot of the
ladder--beginning life anew.
``The situation is
disheartening,'' he said, ``but I have experience, energy, health, and hope.''
ANNOYING PERSECUTIONS
OF CREDITORS--SUMMER ON LONG ISLAND-- THE BLACK WHALE PAYS THE BOARD BILL--THE
WHEELER & WILSON COMPANY REMOVE TO EAST BRIDGEPORT--SETTING SAIL FOR
ENGLAND.
In the summer of 1855
Barnum had sold the American Museum to Messrs. John Greenwood, Jr., and Henry
D. Butler. They paid nearly twice as much for the collection as it had
originally cost, giving notes for nearly the entire amount, securing the notes
by a chattel mortgage, and hiring the premises from Mrs. Barnum, who owned the
Museum property lease, and on which, by agreement of the lessees, she realized
something like $19,000 a year. The chattel mortgage was, of course, turned over
to the New York assignees with the other property.
Barnum's widespread
reputation for shrewdness was, in his present difficulties, destined to be the
cause of considerable annoyance to him. Certain outside creditors who had
bought clock notes at a tremendous discount, believing that Barnum's means were
still ample, made up their minds that they must be paid at once without waiting
for the sale of the property by assignees.
They, therefore, took
what is known as ``supplementary proceedings,'' by which is meant an
examination before a judge, compelling the debtor to disclose, under oath,
everything in regard to his property, his present means of living, and so on.
``Putting Barnum
through a course of sprouts,'' as they expressed it, came to be a very frequent
occurrence. One creditor after another hauled him up, and the attorneys would
ask the same questions which had already been answered a dozen times.
This persistent and
unnecessary annoyance created a great deal of sympathy for the man, the papers
took his part, and even the judges before whom he appeared, personally sided
with him, although they were obliged to administer the law. After a while, the
judges ruled that he need not answer any questions propounded by an attorney,
if he had already answered the same question in any previous examination.
In fact, one of the
judges lost all patience on one occasion, and said sharply to the examining
attorney:
``This, sir, has become
simply a case of persecution. Mr. Barnum has many times answered every question
that can properly be put to him, to elicit the desired information; and I think
it is time to stop these examinations. I advise him not to answer one
interrogatory which he has replied to under any previous inquiries.
One consequential
little lawyer commenced his examination in behalf of a note-shaver, who held a
thousand dollar note which he had bought for seven hundred. After the oath had
been administered, he arranged his pen, ink, and paper, and in a loud tone of
voice asked:
``What is your name,
sir?''
The answer was given,
and the next question delivered in a louder, more peremptory tone was:
``What is your
business?''
``Attending bar,''
answered Barnum.
``Attending bar!''
exclaimed the lawyer; ``attending bar! Why, I thought you were a teetotaler.''
``So I am,'' declared
the witness.
``And yet, sir, you
have the audacity to assert that you peddle rum all day, and drink none
yourself?''
``That is not a
relevant question,'' said Barnum.
``I will appeal to his
Honor the Judge if you don't answer it instantly,'' said the lawyer, gleefully.
``Very well; I do
attend bar, and yet never drink intoxicating liquors.''
``Where do you attend
bar, and for whom?'' pursued the lawyer.
``I attend the bar of
this court nearly every day, for the benefit of two-penny lawyers and their
greedy clients,'' replied the disgusted Barnum.
On another occasion a
young lawyer who had been pushing his inquiries to a great length, said in a
half-laughing tone of apology:
``You see, Mr. Barnum,
I am searching after the small thing; I am willing to take even the crumbs that
fall from the rich man's table.''
``Which are you, then,
Lazarus or one of the dogs?'' asked Barnum, wearily.
``I guess a blood-hound
would not smell out much on this trial,'' returned the lawyer, good-naturedly,
adding that he had no more questions to ask.
On account of Mrs.
Barnum's continued ill-health, the family spent the summer in a farm-house at
Westhampton, Long Island. The farm lay close to the ocean, and the place was
very cool and delightful. The respite from active life, and the annoyance
attendant to his financial troubles was of the greatest benefit to Mr. Barnum,
who spent the time shooting, fishing, and driving.
One morning they
discovered that the waves had thrown up on the beach a young black whale,
nearly twelve feet long. The animal was dead, but still hard and fresh, and
Barnum bought it for a few dollars from the man who claimed it by right of
discovery. He sent it at once to the Museum, where it was exhibited in a huge
refrigerator for a few days, where crowds came to see it. The managers very
properly gave Barnum a share of the profits, which amounted to a sum sufficient
to pay the board-bill of the family for the entire season.
``Well,'' said the
amazed landlord, when he heard of it, ``you do beat all for luck. Here you come
and board for four months with your family, and when the time is nearly up and
you're getting ready to leave, out rolls a big black whale on our beach, a
thing never heard of before in this vicinity, and you take that whale and pay
your board-bill with it!''
Shortly after his
return to New York an unforeseen event occurred which Barnum realized was
likely to extricate him from his difficulties.
The new city which had
led him into ruin now promised to be his redemption.
The now gigantic
Wheeler & Wilson Sewing-Machine Company was then doing a comparatively
small yet rapidly growing business at Watertown, Connecticut. The Terroy &
Barnum clock factory was standing idle, almost worthless, in East Bridgeport,
and Wheeler & Wilson saw in the empty building, the situation, the ease of
communication with New York, and other advantages, precisely what they wanted,
provided they could procure the premises at a rate which would compensate them
for the expense and trouble of removing their establishment from Watertown. The
clock factory was sold for a trifle and the wheeler & Wilson Company moved
into it and speedily enlarged it.
This important
occurrence gave Barnum great hope for the increased value of the land belonging
to his estate. And moreover Mr. Wheeler offered him a loan of $5,000 without
security, which sum Barnum accepted, and devoted it, together with Mrs.
Barnum's money, to purchasing the East Bridgeport property at the assignees'
sale and also taking up such clock notes as could be purchased at a reasonable
percentage. Though this new plan did eventually result in putting more money in
his procket than the Jerome complication had taken out, yet the process was a
slow one. But Barnum concluded to let it work itself out, and meanwhile, with
the idea of doing something to help out the accumulation and even saving
something to add to the amount, he made up his mind to go to Europe again.
He set sail in 1857,
taking with him Tom Thumb and little Cordelia Howard, who had attained
celebrity for her artistic rendering of juvenile characters,
HIS SUCCESSFUL
PUPIL--MAKING MANY FRIENDS IN LONDON--ACQUAINTANCE WITH THACKERAY--A COMEDY OF
ERRORS IN A GERMAN CUSTOM HOUSE--ARISTOCRATIC PATRONAGE AT FASHIONABLE
RESORTS--BARNUM'S IMPRESSIONS OF HOLLAND AND THE DUTCH.
Years ago Barnum had
known Albert Smith in London as a dentist, literary ``hack,'' occasional writer
for Punch and various magazines, etc., not achieving notable success in any of
these undertakings. He now found him the most eminent and successful showman in
the city, occupying Barnum's old quarters in Egyptian Hall. The chief
attraction of his show was a panorama of Mont Blanc, accompanying which he gave
a lecture, descriptive of the mountain and relating his own experiences in
climbing it. When Barnum called upon him he found him just as unassuming and
cordial as ever; he was forthwith entered on the free list at all of Smith's
entertainments, and the two often dined together at the Garrick Club.
The first time Barnum
attended Smith's exhibition, the latter gave him a sly wink from the stage at
the moment of his describing a scene in the golden chamber of St. Ursula's
church in Cologne, where the old sexton narrating the story of the ashes and
bones to the eleven thousand innocent virgins, who, according to tradition,
were sacrificed on a certain occasion. One of the characters whom he pretended
to have met several times on his trip to Mont Blanc, was a Yankee, whom he
named ``Phineas Cutecraft.'' The wink came at the time he introduced Phineas in
the Cologne church, and made him say at the end of the sexton's story about the
virgins' bones:
``Old fellow, what will
you take for that hull lot of bones? I want them for my museum in America!''
When the question had
been interpreted to the old German, he exclaimed in horror, according to Albert
Smith:
``Mine Gott! it is
impossible! We will never sell the virgins' bones!''
``Never mind,'' replied
Phineas Cutecraft, ``I'll send another lot of bones to my museum, swear mine
are the real bones of the Virgins of Cologne, and burst up your show!''
This always excited the
heartiest laughter; but Mr. Smith knew very well that Barnum would at once
recognize it as a pharaphrase of the scene wherein they, too, had figured in
1844, at the porter's lodge of Warwick Castle. ``In the course of the
entertainment,'' says Barnum, ``I found he had woven in numerous anecdotes I
had told him at that time, and many incidents of our excursion were also
travestied and made to contribute to the interest of his description of the
ascent of Mont Blanc.''
When they dined
together at the club that day, Smith introduced Barnum to several of his
acquaintances as his teacher in the show business. He also remarked to Barnum
that he must have recognized as old friends many of the incidents and jokes in
the lecture. Barnum replied that he did. ``Well,'' said Smith, ``of course you
as a showman, know very well that, to win popular success. we have to
appropriate and adapt to our uses everything of the sort that we can get hold
of.''
By thus engrafting his
various experiences upon this Mont Blanc entertainment, Albert Smith succeeded
in serving up a salmagundi feast which was relished alike by royal and less
distinguished palates.
When William Makepeace
Thackeray first visited this country, he brought a letter of introduction to
Barnum, from Albert Smith, and called on the showman at his New York museum. He
spent an hour or more there, asking much advice of Barnum in regard to the
management of the course of lectures on ``The English Humorists of the
Eighteenth Century,'' which he proposed to deliver, as he did afterwards, with
very great success, in the principal cities of the Union. Barnum gave him the
best advice he could as to management, and the cities he ought to visit, for
which he was very grateful, and he called on Barnum whenever he was in New
York. Barnum also saw him repeatedly when he came to America the second time
with his lectures on ``The Four Georges,'' which, it will be remembered, he
delivered in the United States in the season of 1855-56, before he read them to
audiences in Great Britain. Barnum's relations with this great novelist were
cordial and intimate; and now, when he called upon him, in 1857, at his own
house, Thackeray grasped him heartily by the hand, and said:
``Mr. Barnum, I admire
you more than ever I have read the accounts in the papers of the examinations
you underwent in New York courts; and the positive pluck you exhibit under your
pecuniary embarrassments is worthy of all praise. You would never have received
credit for the philosophy you manifest if these financial misfortunes had not
overtaken you.''
Barnum thanked him for
his compliment, and he continued:
``But tell me, Barnum,
are you really in need of present assistance? For if you are you must be
helped.''
``Not in the least,''
the showman replied, laughing ``I need more money in order to get out of
bankruptcy, and I intend to earn it; but so far as daily bread is concerned, I
am quite at ease, for my wife is worth £30,000 or £40,000.''
``Is it possible!'' he
exclaimed, with evident delight; ``well, now, you have lost all my sympathy;
why, that is more than I ever expect to be worth; I shall be sorry for you no
more.''
During his stay in
London, Barnum met Thackeray several times, and on one occasion dined with him.
He repeatedly expressed his obligations to Barnum for the advice and assistance
he had given him on the occasion of his first lecturing visit to the United
States.
Soon after Barnum
arrived in London he was visited by Mr. Otto Goldschmidt, who had married Jenny
Lind. They were then living in Dresden, but Madame Goldschmidt had insisted on
his hurrying over to England to see her old manager, and ascertain whether he
really was in want. Barnum assured him that he was getting on comfortably,
though he had to exercise economy, and that his family would presently come
over and live with him in London. Goldschmidt urged him to come to Dresden to
live. ``It is much cheaper living there,'' he said, ``and my wife will be so
glad to find a suitable house for you.'' But Barnum declined the offer. His
business prospects would be better in London than in Dresden.
Barnum's old friends,
Julius Benedict and Signor Belletti, also called on him frequently, and made
him feel much at home. Among others whom he met in London, some of them quite
frequently at dinners, were Mr. George Augustus Sala, Mr. Edmund Yates, Mr.
Horace Mayhew, Mr. Alfred Bunn, Mr Lumley, of Her Majesty's Theatre; Mr.
Buckstone; of the Haymarket; Mr. Charles Kean, our princely countryman; Mr.
George Peabody, Mr. J. M. Morris, the manager, Mr. Bates, of Baring Brothers
& Co.; Mr. Oxenford, dramatic critic of the London Times, Dr. Ballard, the
American dentist, and many other eminent persons.
He had numerous offers
from professional friends on both sides of the Atlantic, who supposed him to be
in need of employment. Mr. Barney Williams, who had not then acted in England,
proposed, in the kindest manner, to make him his agent for a tour through Great
Britain, and to give him one-third of the profits which he and Mrs. Williams
might make by their acting. Mr. Pettengill, of New York, the newspaper
advertising agent, offered him the fine salary of $10,000 a year to transact
business for him in Great Britain. He wrote: ``When you failed in consequence
of the Jerome clock notes, I felt that your creditors were dealing hard with
you; that they should have let you up and give you a chance, and they would
have fared better, and I wish I was a creditor, so as to show what I would
do.'' These offers, both from Mr. Williams and Mr. Pettengill, Barnum felt
obliged to decline.
Mr. Lumley, manager of
Her Majesty's Theatre, used to send him an order for a private box for every
opera night, and Barnum frequently availed himself of his courtesy.
Meanwhile the showman
was by no means idle. Cordelia Howard as ``Little Eva,'' with her mother as the
inimitable ``Topsy,'' were highly successful in London and other large cities,
while General Tom Thumb, returning after so long an absence, drew crowded houses
wherever he went. These were strong spokes in the wheel that was moving slowly
but surely in the effort to get Barnum out of debt, and, if possible, to save
some portion of his real estate. Of course, it was not generally known that he
had any interest whatever in either of these exhibitions; if it had been,
possibly some of the clock creditors would have annoyed him; but he busied
himself in these and in other ways, working industriously and making much
money, which he constantly remitted to his trusty agent at home.
Barnum spent some weeks
in London and then went to Germany. He was accompanied by Tom Thumb, and they
went by the way of Paris, Strasburg, and Baden-Baden. At the frontier they had
a terrible time with the thick-headed customs-inspector. This was at Kehl, near
Strasburg. ``I knew,'' said Barnum in telling the story, ``that I had no
baggage which was rightfully subject to duty, as I had nothing but my necessary
clothing, and the package of placards and lithographs, illustrating the General's
exhibitions. As the official was examining my trunks, I assured him in French,
that I had nothing subject to duty; but he made no reply and deliberately
handled every article in my luggage. He then cut the strings to the large
packages of show-bills. I asked him in French, whether he understood that
language. He gave a grunt, which was the only audible sound I could get out of
him, and then laid my show-bills and lithographs on his scales as if to weigh
them. I was much excited. An English gentleman, who spoke German, kindly
offered to act as my interpreter.
`` `Please to tell
him,' said I, `that those bills and lithographs are not articles of commerce;
that they are simply advertisements.'
``My English friend did
as I requested; but it was of no use; the custom-house officer kept piling them
upon his scales. I grew more excited.
`` `Please tell him I
give them away,' I said. The translation of my assertion into German did not
help me; a double grunt from the functionary, was the only response. Tom Thumb,
meanwhile, jumped about like a little monkey, for he was fairly delighted at my
worry and perplexity. Finally, I said to my new found English friend: `Be good
enough to tell the officer to keep the bills if he wants them, and that I will
not pay duty on them, any how.'
``He was duly informed
of my determination, but he was immovable. He lighted his huge Dutch pipe, got
the exact weight, and, marking it down, handed it to a clerk, who copied it on
his book, and solemnly passed it over to another clerk, who copied it on still
another book; a third clerk then took it, and copied it on to a printed bill,
the size of a half letter sheet, which was duly stamped in red ink with several
official devices. By this time I was in a profuse perspiration; and, as the
document passed from clerk to clerk, I told them they need not trouble
themselves to make out a bill, for I would not pay it; they would get no duty
and they might keep the property.
``To be sure, I could
not spare the placards for any length of time, for they were exceedingly
valuable to me as advertisements, and I could not easily have duplicated them
in Germany; but I was determined that I would not pay duties on articles which
were not merchandise. Every transfer, therefore, of the bill to a new clerk,
gave me a fresh twinge, for I imagined that every clerk added more charges, and
that every charge was a tighter turn to the vise which held my fingers.
Finally, the last clerk defiantly thrust in my face the terrible official
document, on which were scrawled certain cabalistic characters, signifying the
amount of money I should be forced to pay to the German government before I
could have my property. I would not touch it but resolved I would really leave
my packages until I could communicate with one of our consuls in Germany, and I
said as much to the English gentleman who had kindly interpreted for me.
``He took the bill,
and, examining it, burst into a loud laugh, `Why, it is but fifteen kreutzers!'
he said.
`` `How much is that?'
I asked, feeling for the golden sovereigns in my pocket.
`` `Sixpence!' was the
reply.
``I was astonished and
delighted, and, as I handed out the money, I begged him to tell the officials
that the custom-house charge would not pay the cost of the paper on which it
was written. But this was a very fair illustration of sundry red-tape dealings
in other countries as well as in Germany.''
Baden-Baden was found
to be an uncommonly pleasant place, the neatest and cleanest little city he had
ever seen, Barnum thought. As soon as they were fairly settled there, Tom Thumb
began driving out on the streets in his tiny carriage, with his ponies and
liveried coachmen and footmen. Public curiosity was greatly excited. The place
was thronged with visitors, it being one of the most popular resorts in Europe.
There were kings and queens, and minor royalties and members of the nobility
without number. All these soon forgot their other amusements and entertainments
in their interest in the little General. They crowded his rooms at his
reception every day, and Barnum, seeing the quality of his patrons, put the
entrance fee higher than it ever was at any other place. Their stay at this
resort was exceedingly profitable.
Thence they proceded to
the other German watering places, such as Ems, Weisbaden and Hamburg. They saw
that it paid to strike for high game. No matter how high their fee, the
crowned, titled, rich, aristocratic throng came to their show by thousands.
Among them was the King of Holland, who was particularly interested in Tom
Thumb. So profitable was the tour, that Barnum was able to send many thousands
of dollars to his agents in America, to buy back his real estate and settle up
the remains of the disastrous clock business.
Other German cities
visited were Frankfort-on-the-Main, Mayence and Cologne. At the latter place,
they remained for some time, seeing as well as giving shows. Then they went on
to Rotterdam and Amsterdam.
The shrewd and
enterprising Yankee was much impressed by the thrift and industry of Holland. ``It
gave me,'' he afterwads said, ``more genuine satisfaction than any other
foreign country I have ever visited, if I except Great Britain. Redeemed as a
large portion of the whole surface of the land has been from the bottom of the
sea, by the wonderful dykes, which are monuments of the industry of whole
generations of human beavers, Holland seems to me the most curious, as well as
interesting country in the world. The people, too, with their quaint costumes,
their extraordinary cleanliness, their thrift, industry and frugality, pleased
me very much. It is the universal testimony of all travellers, that the
Hollanders are the neatest and most economical people among all nations. So far
as cleanliness is concerned, in Holland it is evidently not next to, but far
ahead of godliness. It is rare, indeed, to meet a ragged, dirty, or drunken
person. The people are very temperate and economical in their habits; and even
the very rich--and there is a vast amount of wealth in the country--live with
great frugality, though all of the people live well.
``As for the scenery, I
cannot say much for it, since it is only diversified by thousands of windmills,
which are made to do all kinds of work, from grinding grain to pumping water
from the inside of the dykes back to the sea again. As I exhibited the General
only in Rotterdam and Amsterdam, and to no great profit in either city, we
spent most of our time in rambling about to see what was to be seen. In the
country villages it seemed as if every house was scrubbed twice and whitewashed
once every day in the week, excepting Sunday. Some places were almost painfully
pure, and I was in one village where horses and cattle were not allowed to go
through the streets and no one was permitted to wear their boots or shoes in the
houses. There is a general and constant exercise of brooms, pails,
floor-brushes and mops all over Holland, and in some places, even, this kind of
thing is carried so far, I am told, that the only trees set out are
scrub-oaks.''
Barnum thought that the
reason why his exhibitions were not better patronized here was that the people
were too frugal to spend much money for mere amusements. ``But they and their
habits and ways afforded us so much amusement, that we were quite willing they
should give our entertainment the `go by,' as they generally did. We were in
Amsterdam at the season of `Kremis,' or the annual fair, which is held in all
the principal towns, and where shows of all descriptions are open, at prices
for admission ranging from one to five pennies, and are attended by nearly the
whole population. For the people generally, this one great holiday seems
all-sufficient for the whole year. I went through scores of booths, where
curiosities and monstrosities of all kinds were exhibited, and was able to make
some purchases and engagements for the American Museum. Among these was the
Albino family, consisting of a man, his wife, and son, who were by far the most
interesting and attractive specimens of their class I had ever seen.
``We visited the Hague,
the capital and the finest city in Holland. It is handsomely and regularly laid
out, and contains a beautiful theatre, a public picture gallery, which contains
some of the best works of Vandyke, Paul Potter, and other Dutch masters, while
the museum is especially rich in rarities from China and Japan. When we arrived
at the Hague, Mr. August Belmont, who had been the United States Minister at
that court, had just gone home, but I heard many encomiums passed upon him and
his family, and I was told some pretty good stories of his familiarity with the
king, and of the `jolly times' these two personages frequently enjoyed
together. I did not miss visiting the great government museum, as I wished
particularly to see the rich collection of Japan ware and arms, made during the
many years when the Dutch carried on almost exclusively the entire foreign
trade with the Japanese. I spent several days in minutely examining these
curious manufactures of a people who were then almost as little known to
nations generally as are the inhabitants of the planet Jupiter,''
On the first day of his
visits to this museum, Barnum stood for an hour before a large case containing
a most unique and extraordinary collection of fabulous animals, made from paper
and other materials, and looking as natural and genuine as the stuffed skins of
any animals in the American Museum. There were serpents two yards long, with a
head and a pair of feet at each end; frogs as large as a man, with human hands
and feet; turtles with three heads; monkeys with two heads and six legs; scores
of equally curious monstrosities; and at least two dozen mermaids, of all sorts
and sizes. Looking at these ``sirens'' he easily divined from whence the Feejee
mermaid originated.
After a delightful
visit in Holland, he went back to England; and proceeding to Manchester, opened
his exhibition. For several days the hall was crowded to overflowing at each of
the three, and sometimes four, entertainments they gave every day. By this
time, his wife and two youngest daughters had come over to London, and he hired
furnished lodgings in the suburbs where they could live within the strictest
limits of economy. It was necessary now for him to return for a few weeks to
America, to assist personally in forwarding a settlement of the clock
difficulties. So leaving the little General in the hands of trusty and
competent agents to carry on the exhibitions in his absence, he set his face
once more towards home and the west, and took steamer at Liverpool for New
York.
JOLLY VOYAGE--MOCK
TRIALS ON SHIPBOARD--BARNUM ON TRIAL FOR HIS LIFE--DISCOMFITED WITNESSES AND A
TRIUMPHANT PRISONER--FAIR WEATHER FRIENDS--THE BURNING OF IRANISTAN
Barnum made in his life
many voyages across the Atlantic, but none, perhaps, pleasanter than this. On
every such trip he got under rest and relief from his multitudinous business
cares and arduous labors; and he always contrived to organize plenty of
merry-making among his fellow-passengers. On this occasion he felt in uncommonly
good spirits because he was so rapidly retrieving his well-nigh fallen
fortunes. The feature of the voyage was a series of mock trials, in which a
judge was selected, jurymen drawn, prisoners arraigned, counsel employed, and
all the formalities of a court established. ``I have the vanity to think,''
said he, afterwards, in telling in his own inimitable way the story of this
voyage, ``that if my good fortune had directed me to that profession, I should
have made a very fair lawyer for I have always had a great fondness for debate
and especially for the cross-examination of witnesses, unless that witness was
P. T. Barnum in examination under supplementary proceedings at the instance of
some note shaver, who had bought a clock note at a discount of thirty-six per
cent. In this mock court, I was unanimously chosen as prosecuting attorney,
and, as the court was established expressly to convict, I had no difficulty in
carrying the jury and securing the punishment of the prisoner. A small fine was
generally imposed, and the fund thus collected was given to a poor sailor boy
who had fallen from the mast and broken his leg.''
``After several of
these trials had been held, a dozen or more of the passengers secretly put
their heads together and resolved to place the `showman' on trial for his life.
An indictment, covering twenty pages, was drawn up by several legal gentlemen
among the passengers, charging him with being the Prince of Humbugs, and
enumerating a dozen special counts, containing charges of the most absurd and
ridiculous description. Witnesses were then brought together, and privately
instructed what to say and do. Two or three days were devoted to arranging this
mighty prosecution, `When everything was ready, I was arrested, and the
formidable indictment read to me. I saw at a glance that time and talent had
been brought into requisition, and that my trial was to be more elaborate than
any that had preceded it. I asked for half an hour to prepare for my defense,
which was granted. Meanwhile, seats were arranged to accommodate the court and
spectators, and extra settees were placed for the ladies on the upper deck,
where they could look down, see and hear all that transpired. Curiosity was on
tip-toe, for it was evident that this was to be a long, exciting and laughable
trial. At the end of half an hour the judge was on the bench the jury had taken
their places; the witnesses were ready; the counsel for the prosecution, four
in number, with pens, ink, and paper in profusion, were seated, and everything
seemed ready. I was brought in by a special constable, the indictment read, and
I was asked to plead guilty, or not guilty. I rose and In a most solemn manner,
stated that I could not conscientiously plead guilty or not guilty; that I had,
in fact, committed many of the acts charged in the indictment, but these acts,
I was ready to show, were not criminal, but on the contrary, worthy of praise.
My plea was received and the first witness called.
``He testified to
having visited the prisoner's museum, and of being humbugged by the Feejee
mermaid; the nurse of Washington; and by other curiosities, natural and
unnatural. The questions and answers having been all arranged in advance,
everything worked smoothly. Acting as my own counsel, I cross-examined the
witness by simply asking whether he saw anything else in the museum besides
what he had mentioned.
`` `Oh! yes, I saw
thousands of other things.'
`` `Were they curious?'
`` `Certainly; many of
them very astonishing.'
`` `Did you ever
witness a dramatic representation in the museum?'
`` `Yes, sir, a very
good one.'
`` `What did you pay
for all this?'
`` `Twenty-five cents.'
`` `That will do, sir;
you can step down.
``A second, third and
fourth witness were called, and the examination was similar to the foregoing.
Another witness then appeared to testify in regard to another count in the
indictment. He stated that for several weeks he was the guest of the prisoner,
at his country residence Iranistan and he gave a most amusing description of
the various schemes and contrivances which were there originated for the
purpose of being carried out at some future day in the museum.
`` `How did you live
there?' asked one of the counsel for the prosecution.
`` `Very well, indeed,
in the daytime,' was the reply; `plenty of the best to eat and drink except
liquors. In bed, however, it was impossible to sleep. I rose the first night,
struck a light, and on examination found myself covered with myriads of tattle
bugs, so small as to be almost imperceptible. By using my microscope I
discovered them to be infantile bedbugs. After the first night I was obliged to
sleep in the coach-house in order to escape this annoyance.
``Of course this
elicited much mirth. The first question put on the cross-examination was this:
`` `Are you a
naturalist, sir?'
``The witness
hesitated. In all the drilling that had taken place before the trial, neither
the counsel nor witnesses had thought of what questions might come up in the
cross-examination, and now, not seeing the drift of the question, the witness
seemed a little bewildered, and the counsel for the prosecution looked puzzled.
``The question was
repeated with some emphasis.
`` `No, sir,' replied
the witness, hesitatingly, `I am not a naturalist.'
`` `Then, sir, not
being a naturalist, dare you affirm that those microscopic insects were not
humbugs instead of bedbugs'--(here the prisoner was interrupted by a universal
shout of laughter, in which the solemn judge himself joined)--land if they were
humbugs, I suppose that even the learned counsel opposed to me will not claim
that they were out of place.
`` `They may have been
humbugs,' replied the witness.
`` `That will do, sir;
you may go,' said I; and at the same time, turning to the array of counsel, I
remarked, with a smile, `You had better have a naturalist for your next
witness, gentlemen.'
`` `Don't be alarmed,
sir, we have got one, and we will now introduce him,' replied the counsel.
``The next witness
testified that he was a planter from Georgia, that some years since the
prisoner visited his plantation with a show, and that while there he discovered
an old worthless donkey belonging to the planter, and bought him for five
dollars. The next year the witness visited Iranistan, the country seat of the
prisoner, and, while walking about the grounds, his old donkey, recognizing his
former master, brayed; `whereupon,' continued the witness, `I walked up to the
animal and found that two men were engaged in sticking wool upon him, and this
animal was afterwards exhibited by the prisoner as the woolly horse.'
``The whole
court--spectators, and even the `prisoner' himself--were convulsed with
laughter at the gravity with which the planter gave his very ludicrous
testimony.
`` `What evidence have
you,' I inquired, `that this was the same donkey which you sold to me?'
`` `The fact that the
animal recognized me, as was evident from his braying as soon as he saw me.
`` `Are you a
naturalist, sir?'
`` `Yes, I am,' replied
the planter, with firm emphasis, as much as to say, you can't catch me as you
did the other witness.
`` `Oh! you are a
naturalist, are you? Then, sir, I ask you, as a naturalist, do you not know it
to be a fact in natural history that one jackass always brays as soon as he
sees another?'
``This question was
received with shouts of laughter, in the midst of which the nonplussed witness
backed out of court, and all the efforts of special constables, and even the
high sheriff himself, were unavailing in getting him again on the witness
stand.
``This trial lasted two
days, to the great delight of all on board. After my success with the
`naturalist,' not one-half of the witnesses would appear against me. In my
final argument I sifted the testimony, analyzed its bearings, ruffled the
learned counsel, disconcerted the witnesses, flattered the judge and jury, and
when the judge had delivered his charge, the jury acquitted me without leaving
their seats. The judge received the verdict, and then announced that he should
fine the naturalist for the mistake he made, as to the cause of the donkey's
braying, and he should also fine the several witnesses, who, through fear of
the cross-fire, had refused to testify.''
The trial afforded a
pleasant topic of conversation for the rest of the voyage; and the morning
before arriving in port, a vote of thanks was passed to Barnum, in
consideration of the amusement he had intentionally and unintentionally
furnished to the passengers during the voyage.
The treatment to which
Barnum was subjected on his arrival in New York, was in strange and
discreditable contrast to that which he had enjoyed abroad. He sometimes spoke
of it in later life, though without any bitterness. He was too much of a
philosopher to take it to heart. ``After my arrival,'' he would say, ``often,
in passing up and down Broadway, I saw old and prosperous friends coming, but
before I came anywhere near them, if they espied me, they would dodge into a
store, or across the street, or opportunely meet some one with whom they had
pressing business, or they would be very much interested in something that was
going on over the way, or on top of the City Hall. I was delighted at this, for
it gave me at once a new sensation and a new experience. `Ah, ha!' I said to
myself, `my butterfly friends, I know you now; and, what is more to the point,
if ever I get out of this bewilderment of broken clock-wheels, I shall not
forget you;' and I heartily thanked the old clock concern for giving me the
opportunity to learn this sad but most needful lesson. I had a very few of the
same sort of experiences in Bridgeport, and they proved valuable to me.''
One of Barnum's
assignees was his neighbor and quondam ``gamekeeper,'' Mr. Johnson, and he it
was who had written to Barnum to return to America, to facilitate the
settlement of his affairs. He now told him that there was no probability of
disposing of Iranistan at present, and that therefore he might as well move
back into his old home. That was August. In September, Barnum's family followed
him to America, and they decided to take Mr. Johnson's advice and re-occupy
Iranistan. They went to Bridgeport, to superintend arrangements, and there
Barnum's second daughter, Helen, was married to Mr. S. W. Hurd, on October 20,
1857.
``Meanwhile, Iranistan,
which had been closed and unoccupied for more than two years, was once more
opened to the carpenters and painters whom Mr. Johnson sent there to put the
house in order. He agreed with Barnum that it was best to keep the property as
long as possible, and in the interval, till a purchaser for the estate
appeared, or till it was forced to auction, to take up the clock notes,
whenever they were offered. The workmen who were employed in the house were
specially instructed not to smoke there, but nevertheless, it was subsequently
discovered that some of the men were in the habit occasionally of going into
the main dome to eat their dinners which they brought with them, and that they
stayed there awhile after dinner to smoke their pipes. In all probability, one
of these lighted pipes was left on the cushion which covered the circular seat
in the dome and ignited the tow with which the cushion was stuffed. It may have
been days and even weeks before this smouldering tow fire burst into flame.
Barnum was staying at
the Astor House, in New York, when, on the morning of December 18, 1857, he
received a telegram from his brother, Philo F. Barnum, dated at Bridgeport, and
informing him that Iranistan was burned to the ground that morning. The alarm
was given at eleven o'clock on the night of the 17th, and the fire burned till
one o'clock on the morning of the 18th.
This was, of course, a
considerable loss to Barnum's estate, for the house had cost about $150,000. It
was also generally regarded as a public calamity. This house had been the only
building in its peculiar style of architecture of any pretension in America,
and many persons had visited Bridgeport every year expressly to see it. The
insurance on the mansion had usually been about $62,000, but Barnum had let
some of the policies expire without renewing them, so that at the time of the
fire there was only $28,000 insurance on the property. Most of the furniture
and pictures were saved, generally in a damaged state.
Subsequently, the
assignees sold the grounds and outhouses of Iranistan to Elias Howe, Jr., the
inventor of the sewing-machine. The property brought $50,000, which, with the
$28,000 insurance went into Barnum's assets to satisfy clock creditors. It was
Mr. Howe's intention to erect a splendid mansion on the estate, but his
untimely and lamented death prevented the fulfilment of the plan.
THE LECTURE
FIELD--SUCCESS--CAMBRIDGE--OXFORD--AN UNIQUE ENTERTAINMENT--BARNUM EQUAL TO THE
OCCASION--INVITED TO STAY A WEEK.
Seeing the necessity of
making more money to assist in extricating his affairs from financial disorder,
Barnum went back to England, taking with him Tom Thumb, whom he exhibited in
all the principal places of England, Scotland and Wales; this was early in
1858.
The tour was a
profitable one, and the money, as fast as it came in, was remitted to his
agents and assignees in America.
At the suggestion of
some of his American friends In London, Barnum next appeared on the lecture
platform. The subject chosen was ``The Art of Money Getting,'' although Barnum
told his friends that in the light of recent events he felt more competent to
speak on the art of money losing. But they assured him that his name having
been associated with the Jenny Lind concerts and other great money-making
enterprises, the lecture would undoubtedly prove both attractive and profitable.
The lecture was widely
advertised, of course, and at the appointed time the great St. James' Hall,
Regent Street, Piccadilly, was completely filled. It was the evening of
December 29, 1858. We subjoin extracts from the lecture, which was closely
listened to and well received by many more audiences than the one which heard
it first at St. James' Hall.
Those who really desire
to attain an independence, have only to set their minds upon it, and adopt the
proper means, as they do in regard to any other object which they wish to
accomplish, and the thing is easily done. But however easy it may be found to
make money, I have no doubt many of my hearers will agree it is the most
difficult thing in the world to keep it. The road to wealth is, as Dr. Franklin
truly says, ``as plain as the road to mill.'' It consists simply in expending
less than we earn; that seems to be a very simple problem. Mr. Micawber, one of
those happy creations of the genial Dickens, puts the case in a strong light
when he says that to have an income of twenty pounds per annum, and spend
twenty pounds and sixpence, is to be the most miserable of men; whereas, to
have an income of only twenty pounds, and spend but nineteen pounds and
sixpence, is to be the happiest of mortals. Many of my hearers may say, ``we
understand this; this is economy, and we know economy is wealth; we know we
can't eat our cake and keep it also.'' Yet I beg to say that perhaps more cases
of failure arise from mistakes on this point than almost any other. The fact is,
many people think they understand economy when they really do not.
True economy is
misapprehended, and people go through life without properly comprehending what
that principle is. One says, ``I have an income of so much, and here is my
neighbor who has the same; yet every year he gets something ahead and I fall
short; why is it? I know all about economy.'' He thinks he does, but he does
not. There are many who think that economy consists in saving cheese-parings
and candle-ends, in cutting off twopence from the laundress' bill and doing all
sorts of little mean, dirty things. Economy is not meanness. The misfortune is,
also, that this class of persons let their economy apply in only one direction.
They fancy they are so wonderfully economical in saving a half-penny where they
ought to spend twopence, that they think they can afford to squander in other
directions. A few years ago, before kerosene oil was discovered or thought of,
one might stop over night at almost any farmer's house in the agricultural districts
and get a very good supper, but after supper he might attempt to read in the
sitting-room, and would find it impossible with the inefficient light of one
candle. The hostess, seeing his dilemma, would say: ``It is rather difficult to
read here evenings; the proverb says `you must have a ship at sea in order to
be able to burn two candles at once;' we never have an extra candle except on
extra occasions.'' These extra occasions occur, perhaps, twice a year. In this
way the good woman saves five, six, or ten dollars in that time; but the
information which might be derived from having the extra light would, of
course, far outweigh a ton of candles.
But the trouble does
not end here. Feeling that she is so economical in tallow candles, she thinks
she can afford to go frequently to the village and spend twenty or thirty
dollars for ribbons and furbelows, many of which are not necessary. This false
economy may frequently be seen in men of business, and in those instances it
often runs to writing-paper. You find good business men who save all the old
envelopes and scraps, and would not tear a new sheet of paper, if they could
avoid it, for the world. This is all very well; they may in this way save five
or ten dollars a year, but being so economical (only in note-paper), they think
they can afford to waste time; to have expensive parties, and to drive their
carriages.
True economy consists
in always making the income exceed the out-go. Wear the old clothes a little
longer if necessary; dispense with the new pair of gloves; mend the old dress;
live on plainer food if need be; so that, under all circumstances, unless some
unforeseen accident occurs, there will be a margin in favor of the income. A
penny here, and a dollar there, placed at interest, goes on accumulating, and
in this way the desired result is attained. It requires some training, perhaps,
to accomplish this economy, but when once used to it, you will find there is
more satisfaction in rational saving than in irrational spending. Here is a
recipe which I recommend; I have found it to work an excellent cure for
extravagance, and especially for mistaken economy: When you find that you have
no surplus at the end of the year, and yet have a good income, I advise you to
take a few sheets of paper and form them into a book and mark down every item
of expenditure. Post it every day or week in two columns, one headed
``necessaries'' or even ``comforts,'' and the other headed ``luxuries,'' and
you will find that the latter column will be double, treble, and frequently ten
times greater than the former. The real comforts of life cost but a small
portion of what most of us can earn.
The foundation of
success in life is good health; that is the substratum of fortune; it is also
the basis of happiness. A person cannot accumulate a fortune very well when he
is sick. He has no ambition; no incentive; no force. Of course, there are those
who have bad health and cannot help it; you cannot expect that such persons can
accumulate wealth; but there are a great many in poor health who need not be
so.
If, then, sound health
is the foundation of success and happiness in life, how important it is that we
should study the laws of health, which is but another expression for the laws
of nature! The closer we keep to the laws of nature the nearer we are to good
health, and yet how many persons there are who pay no attention to natural
laws, but absolutely transgress them, even against their own natural
inclination. We ought to know that the ``sin of ignorance'' is never winked at
in regard to the violation of nature's laws; their infraction always brings the
penalty. A child may thrust its finger into the flames without knowing it will
burn, and so suffers; repentance, even, will not stop the smart. Many of our
ancestors knew very little about the principle of ventilation. They did not
know much about oxygen, whatever other ``gin'' they might have been acquainted
with; and consequently, they built their houses with little seven-by-nine feet
bedrooms, and these good old pious Puritans would lock themselves up in one of
these cells, say their prayers and go to bed. In the morning they would
devoutly return thanks for the ``preservation of their lives'' during the
night, and nobody had better reason to be thankful. Probably some big crack in
the window, or in the door, let in a little fresh air, and thus saved them.
Many persons knowingly
violate the laws of nature against their better impulses, for the sake of
fashion. For instance, there is one thing that nothing living except a vile
worm ever naturally loved, and that is tobacco; yet how many persons there are
who deliberately train an unnatural appetite, and overcome this implanted
aversion for tobacco, to such a degree that they get to love it. They have got
hold of a poisonous, filthy weed, or rather that takes a firm hold of them.
Here are married men who run about spitting tobacco-juice on the carpet and
floors, and sometimes even upon their wives besides. They do not kick their
wives out-of-doors like drunken men, but their wives, I have no doubt, often
wish they were outside of the house. Another perilous feature is that this
artificial appetite, like jealousy, ``grows by what it feeds on;'' when you
love that which is unnatural, a stronger appetite is created for the hurtful
thing than the natural desire for what is harmless. There is an old proverb
which says that ``habit is second nature,'' but an artificial habit is stronger
than nature. Take, for instance, an old tobacco-chewer; his love for the
``quid'' is stronger than his love for any particular kind of food. He can give
up roast beef easier than give up the weed.
These remarks apply
with tenfold force to the use of intoxicating drinks. To make money, requires a
clear brain. A man has got to see that two and two make four; he must lay all
his plans with reflection and forethought, and closely examine all the details
and the ins and outs of business. As no man can succeed in business unless he
has a brain to enable him to lay his plans, and reason to guide him in their
execution, so, no matter how bountifully a man may be blessed with
intelligence, if the brain is muddled, and his judgment warped by intoxicating
drinks, it is impossible for him to carry on business successfully. How many
good opportunities have passed, never to return, while a man was sipping a
``social glass'' with his friend! How many foolish bargains have been made
under the influence of the ``nervine,'' which temporarily makes its victim
think he is rich. How many important chances have been put off until to-morrow,
and then forever, because the wine-cup has thrown the system into a state of
lassitude, neutralizing the energies so essential to success in business.
Verily, ``wine is a mocker.'' The use of intoxicating drinks as a beverage is
as much an infatuation as is the smoking of opium by the Chinese, and the
former is quite as destructive to the success of the business man as the
latter. It is an unmitigated evil, utterly indefensible in the light of
philosophy, religion or good sense. It is the parent of nearly every other evil
in our country.
The safest plan, and
the one most sure of success for the young man starting in life, is to select
the vocation which is most congenial to his tastes. Parents and guardians are
often quite too negligent in regard to this. It is very common for a father to
say, for example: ``I have five boys. I will make Billy a clergyman; John a
lawyer; Tom a doctor, and Dick a farmer.'' He then goes into town and looks
about to see what he will do with Sammy. He returns home, and says: ``Sammy, I
see watchmaking is a nice, genteel business; I think I will make you a
goldsmith.'' He does this, regardless of Sam's natural inclinations or genius.
We are all, no doubt,
born for a wise purpose. There is as much diversity in our brains as in our
countenances. Some are born natural mechanics, while some have great aversion
to machinery. Let a dozen boys of ten years get together, and you will soon
observe two or three are ``whittling'' out some ingenious device; working with
locks or complicated machinery. When they were but five years old their father
could find no toy to please them like a puzzle. They are natural mechanics; but
the other eight or nine boys have different aptitudes I belong to the latter
class; I never had the slightest love for mechanism; on the contrary, I have a
sort of abhorrence for complicated machinery. I never had ingenuity enough to
whittle a cider-tap so it would not leak. I never could make a pen that I could
write with, or understand the principle of a steam-engine. If a man was to take
such a boy as I was, and attempt to make a watchmaker of him, the boy might,
after an apprenticeship of five or seven years be able to take apart and put
together a watch; but all through life he would be working uphill and seizing
every excuse for leaving his work and idling away his time. Watchmaking is
repulsive to him.
Unless a man enters
upon the vocation intended for him by nature, and best suited to his peculiar
genius, he cannot succeed. I am glad to believe that the majority of persons do
find their right vocation. Yet we see many who have mistaken their calling from
the blacksmith up (or down) to the clergyman. You will see, for instance, that
extraordinary linguist, the ``learned blacksmith,'' who ought to have been a
teacher of languages; and you may have seen lawyers, doctors and clergymen who
were better fitted by nature for the anvil or the lapstone.
Avoid debt. Young men
starting in life should avoid running into debt. There is scarcely anything
that drags a person down like debt. It is a slavish position to get in, yet we
find many a young man, hardly out of his ``teens,'' running in debt. He meets a
chum, and says, ``Look at this: I have got trusted for a new suit of clothes.''
He seems to look upon the clothes as so much given to him; well, it frequently
is so, but, if he succeeds in paying and then gets trusted again, he is
adopting a habit which will keep him in poverty through life. Debt robs a man
of his self-respect, and makes him almost despise himself. Grunting and
groaning and working for what he has eaten up or worn out, and now when he is
called upon to pay up he has nothing to show for his money; this is properly
termed ``working for a dead horse.'' I do not speak of merchants buying and selling
on credit, or of those who buy on credit in order to turn the purchase to a
profit. The old Quaker said to his farmer son, ``John, never get trusted; but
if thee gets trusted for anything, let it be for `manure,' because that will
help thee pay it back again.''
Mr. Beecher advised
young men to get in debt if they could to a small amount in the purchase of
land in the country districts. ``If a young man,'' he says, ``will only get in
debt for some land and then get married, these two things will keep him
straight, or nothing will.'' This may be safe to a limited extent, but getting
in debt for what you eat and drink and wear is to be avoided. Some families
have a foolish habit of getting credit at ``the stores,'' and thus frequently
purchase many things which might have been dispensed with.
It is all very well to
say, ``I have got trusted for sixty days, and if I don't have the money the
creditor will think nothing about it.'' There is no class of people in the
world who have such good memories as creditors. When the sixty days run out you
will have to pay. If you do not pay, you will break your promise, and probably
resort to a falsehood. You may make some excuse or get in debt elsewhere to pay
it, but that only involves you the deeper.
A good-looking, lazy
young fellow, was the apprentice boy, Horatio. His employer said, ``Horatio,
did you ever see a snail?'' ``I--think--I--have,'' he drawled out. ``You must
have met him, then, for I am sure you never overtook one,'' said the ``boss.''
Your creditor will meet you or overtake you and say, ``Now, my young friend,
you agreed to pay me; you have not done it, you must give me your note.'' You
give the note on interest and it commences working against you; ``it is a dead
horse.'' The creditor goes to bed at night and wakes up in the morning better
off than when he retired to bed, because his interest has increased during the
night, but you grow poorer while you are sleeping, for the interest is
accumulating against you.
Among the maxims of the
elder Rothschild was one, an apparent paradox: ``Be cautious and bold.'' This
seems to be a contradiction in terms, but it is not, and there is great wisdom
in the maxim. It is, in fact, a condensed statement of what I have already
said. It is to say, ``you must exercise your caution in laying your plans, but
be bold in carrying them out.'' A man who is all caution will never dare to
take hold and be successful; and a man who is all boldness is merely reckless,
and must eventually fail. A man may go on ``'change'' and make fifty or one
hundred thousand dollars in speculating in stocks at a single operation. But if
he has simple boldness without caution, it is mere chance, and what he gains
to-day he will lose to-morrow. You must have both the caution and the boldness
to insure success.
The Rothschilds have
another maxim: ``Never have anything to do with an unlucky man or place.'' That
is to say, never have anything to do with a man or place which never succeeds,
because, although a man may appear to be honest and intelligent, yet if he tries
this or that thing and always fails, it is on account of some fault or
infirmity that you may not be able to discover, but nevertheless which must
exist.
There is no such thing
in the world as luck. There never was a man who could go out in the morning and
find a purse full of gold in the street to-day, and another to-morrow, and so
on, day after day. He may do so once in his life; but so far as mere luck is
concerned, he is as liable to lose it as to find it. ``Like causes produce like
effects.'' If a man adopts the proper methods to be successful, ``luck'' will
not prevent him. If he does not succeed, there are reasons for it, although,
perhaps, he may not be able to see them.
We all depend, more or
less, upon the public for our support. We all trade with the public--lawyers,
doctors, shoemakers, artists, blacksmiths, showmen, opera singers, railroad
presidents, and college professors. Those who deal with the public must be
careful that their goods are valuable; that they are genuine, and will give
satisfaction. When you get an article which you know is going to please your
customers, and that when they have tried it they will feel they have got their
money's worth, then let the fact be known that you have got it. Be careful to
advertise it in some shape or other, because it is evident that if a man has
ever so good an article for sale, and nobody knows it, it will bring him no
return. In a country like this, where nearly everybody reads, and where
newspapers are issued and circulated in editions of five thousand to two
hundred thousand, it would be very unwise if this channel was not taken
advantage of to reach the public in advertising. A newspaper goes into the
family, and is read by wife and children, as well as the head of the house;
hence hundreds and thousands of people may read your advertisement, while you
are attending to your routine business. Many, perhaps, read it while you are
asleep. The whole philosophy of life is, first ``sow,'' then ``reap.'' That is
the way the farmer does; he plants his potatoes and corn, and sows his grain,
and then goes about something else, and the time comes when he reaps. But he
never reaps first and sows afterwards. This principle applies to all kinds of
business, and to nothing more eminently than to advertising. If a man has a
genuine article, there is no way in which he can reap more advantageously than
by ``sowing'' to the public in this way. He must, of course, have a really good
article, and one which will please his customers; anything spurious will not succeed
permanently, because the public is wiser than many imagine. Men and women are
selfish, and we all prefer purchasing where we can get the most for our money;
and we try to find out where we can most surely do so.
You may advertise a
spurious article, and induce many people to call and buy it once, but they will
denounce you as an impostor and swindler, and your business will gradually die
out and leave you poor. This is right. Few people can safely depend upon chance
custom. You all need to have your customers return and purchase again. A man
said to me, ``I have tried advertising and did not succeed; yet I have a good
article.''
I replied, ``My friend,
there may be exceptions to a general rule. But how do you advertise?''
``I put it in a weekly newspaper
three times, and paid a dollar and a half for it.'' I replied: ``Sir,
advertising is like learning--`a little is a dangerous thing!' ''
A French writer says
that ``The reader of a newspaper does not see the first insertion of an
ordinary advertisement; the second insertion he sees, but does not read; the
third insertion he reads; the fourth insertion, he looks at the price; the
fifth insertion, he speaks of it to his wife; the sixth insertion, he is ready
to purchase, and the seventh insertion, he purchases.'' Your object in
advertising is to make the public understand what you have got to sell, and if
you have not the pluck to keep advertising, until you have imparted that
information, all the money you have spent is lost.
Work at it, if necessary,
early and late, in season and out of season, not leaving a stone unturned, and
never deferring for a single hour that which can be done just as well now. The
old proverb is full of truth and meaning: ``Whatever is worth doing at all, is
worth doing well.'' Many a man acquires a fortune by doing his business
thoroughly, while his neighbor remains poor for life, because he only half does
it. Ambition, energy, industry, perseverance, are indispensable requisites for
success in business.
Fortune always favors
the brave, and never helps a man who does not help himself. It won't do to
spend your time like Mr. Micawber, in waiting for something to ``turn up.'' To
such men one of two things usually ``turns up:'' the poor-house or the jail;
for idleness breeds bad habits, and clothes a man in rags. The poor spendthrift
vagabond said to a rich man:
``I have discovered
there is money enough in the world for all of us, if it was equally divided;
this must be done, and we shall all be happy together.''
``But,'' was the
response, ``if everybody was like you, it would be spent in two months, and
what would you do then?''
``Oh! divide again;
keep dividing, of course!''
I was recently reading
in a London paper an account of a like philosophic pauper, who was kicked out
of a cheap boarding-house because he could not pay his bill, but he had a roll
of papers sticking out of his coat pocket, which, upon examination, proved to
be his plan for paying off the national debt of England without the aid of a
penny. People have got to do as Cromwell said: ``Not only trust in Providence,
but keep the powder dry.'' Do your part of the work, or you cannot succeed.
Mahomet, one night, while encamping in the desert, overheard one of his
fatigued followers remark: ``I will loose my camel, and trust it to God.''
``No, no, not so,'' said the prophet; ``tie thy camel, and trust it to God.''
Do all you can for yourselves, and then trust to Providence, or luck, or
whatever you please to call it, for the rest.
Some men have a foolish
habit of telling their business secrets. If they make money they like to tell
their neighbors how it was done. Nothing is gained by this, and ofttimes much
is lost. Say nothing about your profits, your hopes, your expectations, your
intentions. And this should apply to letters as well as to conversation. Goethe
makes Mephistophiles say: ``Never write a letter nor destroy one.'' Business
men must write letters, but they should be careful what they put in them. If
you are losing, money, be specially cautious and not tell of it or you will
lose your reputation.
Preserve your
integrity. It is more precious than, diamonds or rubies. The old miser said to
his sons: ``Get money; get it honestly, if you can, but get money.'' This
advice was not only atrociously wicked, but it was the very essence of
stupidity. It was as much as to say, ``if you find it difficult to obtain money
honestly, you can easily get it dishonestly. Get it in that way.'' Poor fool!
Not to know that the most difficult thing in life is to make money dishonestly!
not to know that our prisons are full of men who attempted to follow this
advice; not to understand that no man can be dishonest without soon being found
out, and that when his lack of principle is discovered, nearly every avenue to
success is closed against him forever. The public very properly shun all whose
integrity is doubted. No matter how polite and pleasant and accommodating a man
may be, none of us dare to deal with him if we suspect ``false weights and
measures.'' Strict honesty not only lies at the foundation of all success in
life (financially), but in every other respect. Uncompromising integrity of
character is invaluable. It secures to its possessor a peace and joy which
cannot be attained without it--which no amount of money, or houses and lands,
can purchase. A man who is known to be strictly honest, may be ever so poor,
but he has the purses of all the community at his disposal--for all know that
if he promises to return what he borrows, he will never disappoint them. As a
mere matter of selfishness, therefore, if a man had no higher motive for being
honest, all will find that the maxim of Dr. Franklin can never fail to be
true-- that ``honesty is the best policy.''
I hold that no man
ought ever to indorse a note or become security for any man, be it his father
or brother, to a greater extent than he can afford to lose and care nothing
about, without taking good security. Here is a man that is worth twenty
thousand dollars; he is doing a thriving manufacturing or mercantile trade; you
are retired and living on your money; he comes to you and says:
``You are aware that I
am worth twenty thousand dollars, and don't owe a dollar: if I had five
thousand dollars in cash, I could purchase a particular lot of goods and double
my money in a couple of months; will you indorse my note for that amount?''
You reflect that he is
worth twenty thousand dollars, and you incur no risk by indorsing his note; you
like to accommodate him, and you lend your name without taking the precaution
of getting security. Shortly after, he shows you the note with your indorsement
cancelled, and tells you, probably truly, ``that he made the profit that he
expected by the operation;'' you reflect that you have done a good action, and
the thought makes you feel happy. By and by the same thing occurs again and you
do it again; you have already fixed the impression in your mind that it is
perfectly safe to indorse his notes without security.
But the trouble is,
this man is getting money too easily. He has only to take your note to the
bank, get it discounted, and take the cash. He gets money for the time being
without effort; without inconvenience to himself. Now mark the result. He sees
a chance for speculation outside of his business. A temporary investment of
only $10,000 is required. It is sure to come back before a note at the bank
would be due. He places a note for that amount before you. You sign it almost
mechanically. Being firmly convinced that your friend is responsible and
trustworthy, you indorse his notes as a ``matter of course.''
Unfortunately the
speculation does not come to a head quite so soon as was expected, and another
$10,000 note must be discounted to take up the last one when due. Before this
note matures the speculation has proved an utter failure and all the money is
lost. Does the loser tell his friend, the indorser, that he has lost half of
his fortune? Not at all. He don't even mention that he has speculated at all.
But he has got excited; the spirit of speculation has seized him; he sees
others making large sums in this way (we seldom hear of the loser), and, like
other speculators, he ``looks for his money where he loses it.'' He tries
again. Indorsing notes has become chronic with you, and at every loss he gets
your signature for whatever amount he wants. Finally you discover your friend
has lost all of his property and all of yours. You are overwhelmed with
astonishment and grief, and you say ``it is a hard thing; my friend here has
ruined me,'' but, you should add, ``I have also ruined him.'' If you had said
in the first place, ``I will accommodate you, but I never indorse without
taking ample security,'' he could not have gone beyond the length of his
tether, and he would never have been tempted away from his legitimate business.
It is a very dangerous thing, therefore, at any time, to let people get
possession of money too easily; it tempts them to hazardous speculations, if
nothing more. Solomon truly said, ``He that hateth suretiship is sure.''
We sometimes see men
who have obtained fortunes suddenly become poor. In many cases this arises from
intemperance, and often from gaming and other bad habits. Frequently it occurs
because a man has been engaged in ``outside operations'' of some sort. When he
gets rich in his legitimate business, he is told of a grand speculation where
he can make a score of thousands. He is constantly flattered by his friends,
who tell him that he is born lucky, that everything he touches turns into gold.
Now if he forgets that his economical habits, his rectitude of conduct and a
personal attention to a business which he understood, caused his success in
life, he will listen to the siren voices. He says:
``I will put in twenty
thousand dollars. I have been lucky, and my good luck will soon bring me back
sixty thousand dollars.''
A few days elapse, and
it is discovered he must put in ten thousand dollars more; soon after he is
told ``it is all right,'' but certain matters not foreseen require an advance
of twenty thousand dollars more, which will bring him a rich harvest; but
before the time comes around to realize the bubble bursts, he loses all he is
possessed of, and then he learns what he ought to have known at the first, that
however successful a man may be in his own business, if he turns from that and
engages in a business which he don't understand, he is like Samson when shorn
of his locks--his strength has departed, and he becomes like other men.
If a man has plenty of
money, he ought to invest something in everything that appears to promise
success, and that will probably benefit mankind; but let the sums thus invested
be moderate in amount, and never let a man foolishly jeopardize a fortune that
he has earned in a legitimate way by investing it in things in which he has had
no experience.
When a man is in the
right path he must persevere. I speak of this because there are some persons
who are ``born tired;'' naturally lazy and possessing no self-reliance and no
perseverance. But they can cultivate these qualities, as Davy Crockett said:
``This thing remember, when I am dead,
Be sure you are right, then go ahead.''
It is this go-aheaditiveness,
this determination not to let the ``horrors'' or the ``blues'' take possession
of you, so as to make you relax your energies in the struggle for independence,
which you must cultivate.
How many have almost
reached the goal of their ambition, but, losing faith in themselves, have
relaxed their energies, and the golden prize has been lost forever.
It is, no doubt, often
true, as Shakespeare says:
``There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.''
If you hesitate, some bolder
hand will stretch out before you and get the prize. Remember the proverb of
Solomon: ``He becometh poor that dealeth with a slack hand; but the hand of the
diligent maketh rich.''
Perseverance is
sometimes but another word for self-reliance. Many persons naturally look on
the dark side of life, and borrow trouble. They are born so. Then they ask for
advice, and they will be governed by one wind and blown by another, and cannot
rely upon themselves. Until you can get so that you can rely upon yourself, you
need not expect to succeed. I have known men, personally, who have met with
pecuniary reverses, and absolutely committed suicide, because they thought they
could never overcome their misfortune. But I have known others who have met
more serious financial difficulties, and have bridged them over by simple
perseverance, aided by a firm belief that they were doing justly, and that Providence
would ``overcome evil with good.''
Learn something useful.
Every man should make his son or daughter learn some trade or profession, so
that in these days of changing fortunes--of being rich to-day and poor
to-morrow--they may have something tangible to fall back upon. This provision
might save many persons from misery, who by some unexpected turn of fortune
have lost all their means.
Let hope predominate,
but be not too visionary. Many persons are always kept poor because they are
too visionary. Every project looks to them like certain success, and therefore
they keep changing from one business to another, always in hot water, always
``under the harrow.'' The plan of ``counting the chickens before they are
hatched'' is an error of ancient date, but it does not seem to improve by age.
Do not scatter your
powers. Engage in one kind of business only, and stick to it faithfully until
you succeed, or until your experience shows that you should abandon it. A
constant hammering on one nail will generally drive it home at last, so that it
can be clinched. When a man's undivided attention is centred on one object, his
mind will constantly be suggesting improvements of value, which would escape
him if his brain was occupied by a dozen different subjects at once. Many a
fortune has slipped through a man's fingers because he was engaged in too many
occupations at a time. There is good sense in the old caution against having
too many irons in the fire at once.
Be systematic. Men
should be systematic in their business. A person who does business by rule,
having a time and place for everything, doing his work promptly, will
accomplish twice as much and with half the trouble of him who does it
carelessly and slipshod. By introducing system into all your transactions,
doing one thing at a time, always meeting appointments with punctuality, you
will find leisure for pastime and recreation; whereas the man who only half
does one thing, and then turns to something else, and half does that, will have
his business at loose ends, and will never know when his day's work is done,
for it never will be done. Of course, there is a limit to all these rules. We
must try to preserve the happy medium, for there is such a thing as being too
systematic. There are men and women, for instance, who put away things so
carefully that they can never find them again. It is too much like the
``red-tape'' formality at Washington, and Mr. Dickens' ``Circumlocution
Office,''--all theory and no result.
To get rich is not
always equivalent to being successful. ``there are many rich poor men,'' while
there are many others, honest and devout men and women, who have never
possessed so much money as some rich persons squander in a week, but who are
nevertheless really richer and happier than any man can ever be while he is a
transgressor of the higher laws of his being.
The inordinate love of
money, no doubt, may be and is ``the root of all evil,'' but money itself, when
properly used, is not only a ``handy thing to have in the house,'' but affords
the gratification of blessing our race by enabling its possessor to enlarge the
scope of human happiness and human influence. The desire for wealth is nearly
universal, and none can say it is not laudable, provided the possessor of it
accepts its responsibilities, and uses it as a friend to humanity.
The history of
money-getting, which is commerce, is a history of civilization, and wherever
trade has flourished most, there, too, have art and science produced the
noblest fruits. In fact, as a general thing, money-getters are the benefactors
of our race. To them in a great measure, are we indebted for our institutions
of learning and of art, our academies, colleges and churches. It is no argument
against the desire for, or the possession of, wealth, to say that there are
sometimes misers who hoard money only for the sake of hoarding, and who have no
higher aspiration than to grasp everything which comes within their reach. As
we have sometimes hypocrites in religion, and demagogues in politics, so there
are occasionally misers among money-getters. These, however, are only
exceptions to the general rule. But when, in this country, we find such a
nuisance and stumbling block as a miser, we remember with gratitude that in
America we have no laws of primogeniture, and that in the due course of nature
the time will come when the hoarded dust will be scattered for the benefit of
mankind. To all men and women, therefore, do I conscientiously say, make money
honestly, and not otherwise, for Shakespeare has truly said, ``He that wants
money, means and content, is without three good friends.''
Money is in some
respects like fire; it is a very excellent servant but a terrible master. When
you have it mastering you; when interest is constantly piling up against you,
it will keep you down in the worst kind of slavery. But let money work for you,
and you have the most devoted servant in the world. It is no ``eye-servant.''
There is nothing animate or inanimate that will work so faithfully as money
when placed at interest, well secured. It works night and day, and in wet or
dry weather.
Do not let it work
against you; if you do, there is no chance for success in life so far as money
is concerned. John Randolph, the eccentric Virginian, once exclaimed in
Congress, ``Mr. Speaker, I have discovered the philosopher's stone: pay as you
go.'' This is, indeed, nearer to the philosopher's stone than any alchemist has
ever yet arrived.
Barnum and the
newspapers had always been on the best of terms, and in nearly every instance
the press praised the lecture in most unqualified terms. The following extract
from the London Times is a fair sample of many notices which he received:
``We are bound to admit
that Mr. Barnum is one of the most entertaining lecturers that ever addressed
an audience on a theme universally intelligible. The appearance of Mr. Barnum,
it should be added, has nothing of the `charlatan' about it, but is that of the
thoroughly respectable man of business; and he has at command a fund of dry
humor that convulses everybody with laughter, while he himself remains
perfectly serious. A sonorous voice and an admirably clear delivery complete
his qualifications as a lecturer, in which capacity he is no `humbug,' either
in a higher or lower sense of the word.''
During the year 1859 he
delivered this lecture nearly one hundred times in London and in different
parts of England, always with great success.
Remembering his
experiences with Tom Thumb at Oxford and Cambridge, and knowing the fondness of
the college men for joking, Barnum made up his mind to endure any amount of
friendly chaff when he visited their cities.
He commenced at
Cambridge, where he was greeted with a crowded house, composed largely of
under-graduates. Soon after he began to speak, one of the young men called out:
``Where is Joice Heth?'' to which Barnum replied: ``Young gentleman, please to
restrain yourself till the close of the lecture, when I shall take great
pleasure in affording you all the information I possess concerning your
deceased relative.''
This turned the laugh
against the youthful inquirer, and kept the students quiet for a few moments.
Questions of a similar character were occasionally propounded and as promptly
answered, and on the whole the lecture was interrupted less than Barnum had
anticipated, while the receipts were over one hundred pounds sterling.
At Oxford the hall was
filled to suffocation half an hour before the time announced for the lecture to
begin, and the sale of tickets was stopped.
Barnum therefore
stepped upon the platform, and said: ``Ladies and gentlemen: as every seat is
now occupied and the ticket-office is closed, I propose to begin my lecture now
and not keep you waiting till the advertised hour.''
``Good for you, old
Barnum,''--``Time is money,'' --``Nothing like economy,'' yelled the audience.
Holding up his hand for silence, Barnum proceeded:
``Young gentlemen, I
have a word or two to say, in order that we may have a thorough understanding
between ourselves at the outset. I see symptoms of a pretty jolly time here
this evening, and you have paid me liberally for the single hour of my time,
which is at your service. I am an old traveller and an old showman, and I like
to please my patrons. Now, it is quite immaterial to me; you may furnish the
entertainment for the hour, or I will endeavor to do so, or we will take
portions of the time by turns --you supplying a part of the amusement and I a
part--as we say sometimes in America, `you pays your money, and you takes your
choice.' ''
This frankness pleased
the students, who agreed to this unique proposition unhesitatingly.
The lecture proceeded
for fifteen minutes, when a voice called out: ``Come, old chap! you must be
tired by this time. Hold up now till we sing Yankee Doodle.'' Whereupon they
all joined in that honorable song with lusty good-will, Barnum meanwhile
sitting down comfortably, to show them that he was quite satisfied with their
manner of passing the time. When the song was concluded, the leader of the
party said: ``Now, Mr. Barnum, you may go ahead again.''
The lecture went on, or
rather a lecture, for Barnum began to adapt his remarks to the occasion. Every
few minutes would come some interruption, which was always as much enjoyed by
Barnum as by the audience. When the entertainment concluded, the young men
crowded to the platform to shake hands with the speaker, declaring that they
had had a ``jolly good time,'' while the leader said: ``Stay with us a week,
Barnum, and we'll dine you, wine you, and give you full houses every night.''
Barnum would have
accepted the invitation had he not been announced to lecture in London the next
evening, and he told the students so. They asked him all sorts of questions
about America, the Museum and other shows, and expressed the hope that he would
come out of his troubles all right.
At least a score of
them invited him to breakfast with them the next morning, but he declined,
until one young gentleman insisted on personal grounds. ``My dear sir,'' said
he, ``you must breakfast with me. I have almost split my throat here to-night,
and it is only fair for you to repay me by coming to see me in the morning.''
This appeal was irresistible, and Barnum agreed to come.
The boys were pleased
with his nerve and good nature, but they confided to him that they liked better
to get people angry. A few weeks before Howard Paul had left them in disgust,
because they insisted on smoking when his wife was on the stage. They added
that the entertainment was excellent, and Howard Paul might have made a
thousand pounds if he had kept his temper.
Some time later Barnum
was offered £1,200, or $6,000, for the copyright of his lecture; the offer was,
however, refused.
A NEW FRIEND--DINNER TO
TOM THUMB AND COMMODORE NUTT-- MEASURING THE GIANT--THE TWO ENGINES.
The morning after the
lecture in Manchester a gentleman named John Fish called at the hotel where
Barnum was staying. He said that he had attended the lecture the evening
before, and added that he was pretty well acquainted with the lecturer, having
read his autobiography. He went on to say that he was joint proprietor with
another gentleman in a cotton-mill near Manchester, ``although,'' he said, ``a
few years ago I was working as a journeyman, and probably should have been at
this time had I not read your book.''
Observing Mr. Barnum's
surprise, he continued:
``The fact is, Mr.
Barnum, upon reading your autobiography, I thought I perceived you tried to
make yourself out worse than you really were; for I discovered a pleasant
spirit and a good heart under the rougher exterior in which you chose to
present yourself to the public; but,'' he added, ``after reading your life, I
found myself in possession of renewed strength, and awakened energies and
aspirations, and I said to myself, `Why can't I go ahead and make money, as
Barnum did? He commenced without money and succeeded; why may not I?' In this
train of thought,'' he continued, ``I went to a newspaper office and advertised
for a partner with money to join me in establishing a cotton-mill. I had no
applications, and, remembering your experiences when you had money and wanted a
partner, I spent half a crown in a similar experiment. I advertised for a
partner to join a man who had plenty of capital. Then I had lots of applicants
ready to introduce me into all sorts of occupations, from that of a banker to
that of a horsejockey or gambler, if I would only furnish the money to start
with. After a while, I advertised again for a partner, and obtained one with
money. We have a good mill. I devote myself closely to business, and have been
very successful. I know every line in your book; so, indeed, do several members
of my family; and I have conducted my business on the principles laid down in
your published `Rules for Money-making.' I find them correct principles; and,
sir, I have sought this interview in order to thank you for publishing your
autobiography, and to tell you that to that act of yours I attribute my present
position in life.''
``Your statement is
certainly flattering,'' said Mr. Barnum, ``and I am glad if I have been able in
any manner, through my experiences, to aid you in starting in life. But I
presume your genius would have found vent in time if I had not written the
book.''
``No, indeed, it would not,''
he replied, in an earnest tone; ``I am sure I should have worked as a mill-hand
all my life if it had not been for you. Oh, I have made no secret of it,'' he
continued; ``the commercial men with whom I deal know all about it; indeed,
they call me `Barnum' on 'change here in Manchester.''
On one occasion, when
General Tom Thumb exhibited in Bury, Mr. Fish closed his mill, and gave each of
his employees a ticket to the exhibition; out of respect, as he said, to
Barnum. On a subsequent occasion, when the little General visited England the
last time, Mr. Fish invited him, his wife, Commodore Nutt, Minnie Warren, and
the managers of ``the show,'' to a splendid and sumptuous dinner at his house,
which the distinguished little party enjoyed exceedingly.
Soon after his return
to America, Barnum read an account of a French giant then exhibiting in Paris,
and said to be over eight feet in height. As this was considerably taller than
anything that the showman had ever beheld, he wrote to his friend Fish, who had
expressed a wish to do him any service in his power, and requested him to go to
Paris, and, by actual measurement, find out the exact height of the giant. He
inclosed an offer, arranging the prices on a sliding scale, commencing at eight
feet, and descending to seven feet two inches, for if he were not taller than
that he was not to be desired.
Mr. Fish put a two-foot
rule in his pocket, and started for Paris, where, after several days' delay and
much trouble beside, he finally succeeded in gaining an interview. The giant
was shown Barnum's letter, and read the tempting offers made for his services,
provided he measured eight feet, or within six inches of that height.
``Oh, I measure over
eight feet,'' said he.
``Very likely,''
responded Mr. Fish, ``but you see my orders are to measure you.''
``There's no need of
that; you can see for yourself,'' stretching himself up a few inches by aid of
a peculiar knack which giants and dwarfs possess to increase or diminish their
apparent stature.
``No doubt you are
right,'' persisted Mr. Fish, ``but you see I must obey orders, and if I am not
permitted to measure you I shall not engage you.''
``Well,'' said the
giant, ``if you can't take my word for it, look at that door. You see my head
is more than two feet above the top (giving his neck a severe stretch); just
measure the door.''
But Mr. Fish refused.
The giant was now desperate, and, stretching himself up to his full height,
exclaimed: ``Well, be quick! Put your rule to my feet and measure me; but hurry
up, please!''
Mr. Fish regarded him
coolly. ``Look here!'' said he, ``this sort of thing won't do, you know. I
don't understand this contrivance around the soles of your boots, but it seems
to me you've got a set of springs there which aids your height when you desire
it. Now I will not stand any more nonsense. If I engage you at all, you must
first take off your boots, and lie flat upon your back in the middle of the
floor.''
The giant protested,
but Mr. Fish was firm, and at last he slowly took off his coat and lay down on
the floor. Mr. Fish applied his rule, and to his own astonishment and the
giant's indignation the latter proved to be barely seven feet one and one-half
inches. So he was not engaged at all.
Some time afterwards
Barnum wrote to his friend and asked his permission to put him into a new book
then in course of preparation. He wrote in return the following characteristic
letter:
Had I made a fortune of
£100,000 I should have been proud of a place in your Autobiography; but as I have
only been able to make (here he named a sum which in this country would be
considered almost a fortune), I feel I should be out of place in your pages; at
all events, if you mention me at all, draw it mildly, if you please.
The American war has
made sad havoc in our trade, and it is only by close attention to business that
I have lately been at all successful. I have built a place for one thousand
looms, and have, as you know, put in a pair of engines, which I have named
``Barnum'' and ``Charity.'' Each engine has its name engraved on two large
brass plates at either end of the cylinder, which has often caused much mirth
when I have explained the circumstances to visitors. I started and christened
``Charity'' on the 14th of January last, and she has saved me £12 per month in
coals ever since. The steam from the boiler goes first to ``Charity'' (she is
high pressure), and ``Barnum'' only gets the steam after she has done with it.
He has to work at low pressure (a condensing engine), and the result is a saving.
Barnum was extravagant when he took steam direct, but since I fixed Charity
betwixt him and the boiler, he can only get what she gives him. This reminds me
that you state in your ``Life'' you could always make money, but formerly did
not save it. Perhaps you never took care of it till Charity became Chancellor
of Exchequer. When I visited you at the Bull Hotel, in Blackburn, you pointed
to General Tom Thumb, and said: ``That is my piece of goods; I have sold it
hundreds of thousands of times, and have never yet delivered it!'' That was ten
years ago, in 1858. If I had been doing the same with my pieces of calico, I
must have been wealthy by this time; but I have been hammering at one (cotton)
nail several months, and, as it did not offer to clinch, I was almost tempted
to doubt one of your ``rules,'' and thought I would drive at some other nail;
but, on reflection, I knew I understood cotton better than anything else, and
so I back up your rule and stick to cotton, not doubting it will be all right
and successful.
Mr. Fish was one of the
large class of English manufacturers who suffered seriously from the effects of
the rebellion in the United States. As an Englishman, he could not have a
patriot's interest in the progress of that terrible struggle; but he made a
practical exhibition of sympathy for the suffering soldiers, in a pleasant and
characteristic manner.
At the great Sanitary
Fair in New York, during the war, Mr. Fish sent two monster ``Simuel cakes,''
covered with miniature forts, cannon, armies, and all the panoply of war, which
attracted great attention from every one present.
THE CLOCK DEBTS
PAID--THE MUSEUM ONCE MORE UNDER BARNUM'S MANAGEMENT--ENTHUSIASTIC
RECEPTION--HIS SPEECH--TWO POEMS.
In 1859, Barnum
returned to the United States. During his trip abroad he had secured many
novelties for the Museum, the Albino Family, Thiodon's Mechanical Theatre, and
others.
These afforded him a
liberal commission, and he had beside made considerable money from the Tom
Thumb exhibitions and his lectures.
All this, his wife's
income, as well as a large sum derived from the sale of some of her property,
was faithfully devoted to the one object of their lives-- paying off the clock
debts.
Mrs. Barnum and her
daughter, Pauline, had either boarded in Bridgeport or lived in a small house
in the suburbs during the entire four years of struggle. The land purchased by
Mrs. Barnum at the assignee's sale in East Bridgeport had increased in value meanwhile,
and they felt justified in borrowing on it, some of the single lots were sold,
and all this money went toward the discharge of the debts.
At last, in March,
1860, all the clock indebtedness was extinguished, except $20,000, which Barnum
bound himself to take up within a certain time, his friend James D. Johnson
guaranteeing his bond to that effect.
On the seventeenth day
of March, Messrs. Butler and Greenwood signed an agreement to sell and deliver
to Barnum on the following Saturday their entire good-will and interest in the
Museum collection. This fact was thoroughly circulated, and blazing posters,
placards, and advertisements announced that ``Barnum is on his feet again.'' It
was furthermore stated that the Museum would be closed for one week, opening
March 31st, under the management and proprietorship of its original owner. It
was also promised that Barnum would address the audience on the night of
closing.
The Museum, decked in
its holiday dress of flags and banners, was crowded to its utmost capacity when
Barnum made his appearance. His reception was an enthusiastic one, cheers and
shouts rent the air, and tears filled the showman's eyes as he thought of this
triumphant conclusion of his four years' struggle.
Recovering himself, he
bowed his acknowledgments for the reception, and addressed the audience as
follows:
``LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:
I should be more or less than human, if I could meet this unexpected and
overwhelming testimonial at your hands, without the deepest emotion. My own personal
connection with the Museum is now resumed, and I avail myself of the
circumstance to say why it is so. Never did I feel stronger in my worldly
prosperity than in September, 1855. Three months later I was so deeply
embarrassed that I felt certain of nothing, except the uncertainty of
everything. A combination of singular efforts and circumstances tempted me to
put faith in a certain clock manufacturing company, and I placed my signature
to papers which ultimately broke me down. After nearly five years of hard
struggle to keep my head above water, I have touched bottom at last, and here
to-night I am happy to announce that I have waded ashore. Every clock debt of
which I have any knowledge has been provided for. Perhaps, after the troubles
and turmoils I have experienced, I should feel no desire to re-engage in the
excitements of business; but a man like myself, less than fifty years of age,
and enjoying robust health, is scarcely old enough to be embalmed and put in a
glass case in the Museum as one of its million of curiosities. `It is better to
wear out than rust out.' Besides, if a man of active temperament is not busy,
he is apt to get into mischief. To avoid evil, therefore, and since business
activity is a necessity of my nature, here I am, once more, in the Museum, and
among those with whom I have been so long and so pleasantly identified. I am
confident of a cordial welcome, and hence feel some claim to your indulgence
while I briefly allude to the means of my present deliverance from utter financial
ruin. Need I say, in the first place, that I am somewhat indebted to the
forbearance of generous creditors. In the next place, permit me to speak of
sympathizing friends, whose volunteered loans and exertions vastly aided my
rescue. When my day of sorrow came, I first paid or secured every debt I owed
of a personal nature. This done, I felt bound in honor to give up all of my
property that remained toward liquidating my `clock debts.' I placed it in the
hands of trustees and receivers for the benefit of all the `clock' creditors.
But at the forced sale of my Connecticut real estate, there was a purchaser
behind the screen, of whom the world had little knowledge. In the day of my
prosperity I made over to my wife much valuable property, including the lease
of this Museum building--a lease then having about twenty-two years to run, and
enhanced in value to more than double its original worth. I sold the Museum
collection to Messrs. Greenwood & Butler, subject to my wife's separate
interest in the lease, and she has received more than $80,000 over and above
the sums paid to the owners of the building. Instead of selfishly applying this
amount to private purposes, my family lived with a due regard to economy, and
the savings (strictly belonging to my wife) were devoted to buying in portions
of my estate at the assignees' sales and to purchasing `clock notes' bearing my
indorsements. The Christian name of my wife is Charity. I may well acknowledge,
therefore, that I am not only a proper `subject of charity,' but that `without
Charity, I am nothing.'
``But, ladies and
gentlemen, while Charity thus labored in my behalf, Faith and Hope were not
idle. I have been anything but indolent during the last four years. Driven from
pillar to post, and annoyed beyond description by all sorts of legal claims and
writs, I was perusing protests and summonses by day, and dreaming of clocks run
down by night. My head was ever whizzing with dislocated cog-wheels and broken
main-springs; my whole mind (and my credit) was running upon tick, and
everything pressing on me like a dead weight.
``In this state of
affairs I felt that I was of no use on this side of the Atlantic, so, giving
the pendulum a swing, and seizing time by the forelock, I went to Europe. There
I furtively pulled the wires of several exhibitions, among which that of Tom
Thumb may be mentioned for example. I managed a variety of musical and
commercial speculations in Great Britain, Germany, and Holland. These
enterprises, together with the net profits of my public lectures, enabled me to
remit large sums to confidential agents for the purchase of my obligations. In
this manner, I quietly extinguished, little by little, every dollar of my clock
liabilities. I could not have achieved this difficult feat, however, without
the able assistance of enthusiastic friends--and among the chief of them let me
gratefully acknowledge the invaluable services of Mr. James D. Johnson, a
gentleman of wealth, in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Other gentlemen have been
generous with me. Some have loaned me large sums without security, and have
placed me under obligations which must ever command my honest gratitude ``but
Mr. Johnson has been a `friend in deed,' for he has been truly a `friend in
need.'
``You most not infer,
from what I have said, that I have completely recovered from the stunning blow
to which I was subjected four years ago. I have lost more in the way of tens of
thousands, yes, hundreds of thousands, than I care to remember. A valuable
portion of my real estate in Connecticut, however, has been preserved, and as I
feel all the ardor of twenty years ago, and the prospect here is so flattering,
my heart is animated with the hope of ultimately, by enterprise and activity,
obliterating unpleasant reminiscences, and retrieving the losses of the past.
Experience, too, has taught me not only that, even in the matter of money,
`enough is as good as a feast,' but that there are, in this world, some things
vastly better than the Almighty Dollar! Possibly I may contemplate, at times,
the painful day when I said `Othello's occupation's gone'; but I shall the more
frequently cherish the memory of this moment, when I am permitted to announce
that Richard's himself again.'
``Many people have
wondered that a man considered so acute as myself should have been deluded into
embarrassments like mine, and not a few have declared, in short meter, that
`Barnum was a fool.' I can only reply that I never made pretensions to the
sharpness of a pawnbroker, and I hope I shall never so entirely lose confidence
in human nature as to consider every man a scamp by instinct, or a rogue by
necessity. `It is better to be deceived sometimes, than to distrust always,'
says Lord Bacon, and I agree with him.
``Experience is said to
be a hard schoolmaster, but I should be sorry to feel that this great lesson in
adversity has not brought forth fruits of some value. I needed the discipline
this tribulation has given me, and I really feel, after all, that this, like
many other apparent evils, was only a blessing in disguise. Indeed, I may
mention that the very clock factory which I built in Bridgeport for the purpose
of bringing hundreds of workmen to that city, has been purchased and quadrupled
in size by the Wheeler & Wilson Sewing-Machine Company, and is now filled
with intelligent New England mechanics, whose families add two thousand to the
population, and who are doing a great work in building up and beautifying that
flourishing city. So that the same concern which prostrated me seems destined
as a most important agent toward my recuperation. I am certain that the popular
sympathy has been with me from the beginning; and this, together with a
consciousness of rectitude, is more than an offset to all the vicissitudes to
which I have been subjected.
``In conclusion, I beg
to assure you and the public that my chief pleasure, while health and strength
are spared me, will be to cater for your and their healthy amusement and
instruction. In future, such capabilities as I possess will be devoted to the
maintenance of this Museum as a popular place of family resort, in which all
that is novel and interesting shall be gathered from the four quarters of the
globe, and which ladies and children may visit at all times unattended, without
danger of encountering anything of an objectionable nature. The dramas
introduced in the Lecture Room will never contain a profane expression or a
vulgar allusion; on the contrary, their tendency will always be to encourage
virtue and frown upon vice.
``I have established
connections in Europe, which will enable me to produce here a succession of
interesting novelties otherwise inaccessible. Although I shall be personally
present much of the time, and hope to meet many of my old acquaintances, as
well as to form many new ones, I am sure you will be glad to learn that I have
re-secured the services of one of the late proprietors, and the active manager
of this Museum, Mr. John Greenwood, Jr. As he is a modest gentleman, who would
be the last to praise himself, allow me to add that he is one to whose
successful qualities as a caterer for the popular entertainments, the crowds
that have often filled this building may well bear testimony. But, more than
this, he is the unobtrusive one to whose integrity, diligence, and devotion I
owe much of my present position of self-congratulation. Mr. Greenwood will
hereafter act as assistant manager, while his late co-partner, Mr. Butler, has
engaged in another branch of business. Once more, thanking you all for your
kind welcome, I bid you, till the re-opening, `an affectionate adieu.' ''
The speech was received
with wild enthusiasm, and after the re-opening of the Museum the number of
visitors was at once almost doubled.
Among the many
newspaper congratulations he received, none gave Barnum more pleasure than a
poem from his old admirer on the Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.
Barnum, your hand! The struggle o'er,
You face the world and ask no favor;
You stand where you have stood before,
The old salt hasn't lost its savor.
You now can laugh with friends, at foes'
Ne'er heeding Mrs. Grundy's tattle;
You've dealt and taken sturdy blows,
Regardless of the rabble's prattle.
Not yours the heart to harbor ill
'Gainst those who've dealt in trivial jesting;
You pass them with the same good will
Erst shown when they their wit were testing.
You're the same Barnum that we knew,
You're good for years, still fit for labor,
Be as of old, be bold and true,
Honest as man, as friend, as neighbor.
At about this period,
the following poem was published in a Pottsville, Pa., paper, and copied by
many journals of the-day:
A HEALTH TO BARNUM. Companions!
fill your glasses round
And drink a health to one
Who has few coming after him,
To do as he has done;
Who made a fortune for himself,
Made fortunes, too, for many,
Yet wronged no bosom of a sigh,
No pocket of a penny.
Come! shout a gallant chorus,
And make the glasses ring,
Here's health and luck to Barnum!
The Exhibition King.
Who lured the Swedish Nightingale
To Western woods to come?
Who prosperous and happy made
The life of little Thumb?
Who oped Amusement's golden door
So cheaply to the crowd,
And taught Morality to smile
On all his stage allowed?
Come! shout a gallant chorus,
Until the glasses ring--
Here's health and luck to Barnum!
The Exhibition King.
And when the sad reverses came,
As come they may to all,
Who stood a Hero, bold and true,
Amid his fortune's fall?
Who to the utmost yielded up
What Honor could not keep,
Then took the field of life again
With courage calm and deep?
Come! shout a gallant chorus,
Until the glasses dance--
Here's health and luck to Barnum,
The Napoleon of Finance
Yet, no--our hero would not look
With smiles on such a cup;
Throw out the wine--with water clear,
Fill the pure crystal up
Then rise, and greet with deep respect,
The courage he has shown,
And drink to him who well deserves
A seat on Fortune's throne.
Here's health and luck to Barnum!
An Elba he has seen,
And never may his map of life
Display a St Helene?
It is of interest to observe
that the phrase ``Napoleon of Finance,'' which has in recent years been applied
to several Wall Street speculators, was first coined in honorable description
of Phineas T. Barnum, because of his honesty as well as his signal success.
BARNUM'S PARTNERSHIP
WITH THE FAMOUS BEAR HUNTER--FOOLING HIM WITH THE "GOLDEN
PIGEONS"--ADAMS EARNS $500 AT DESPERATE COST-- TRICKING BARNUM OUT OF A
FINE HUNTING SUIT-- PROSPERITY OF THE MUSEUM--VISIT OF THE PRINCE OF WALES.
The famous old American
Museum was now the centre of Barnum's interests, and he devoted himself to its
development with such energy as never before. His enterprise in securing new
curiosities, and his skill in presenting them to the public in the most
attractive light, surpassed all previous efforts. To his office, as to their
Mecca, flocked all the "freaks" of the land, and all who possessed
any objects of rare or marvelous nature. Foremost among these visitors was one
veteran frontiersman, who had attained --and well deserved-- much fame as a
fighter of the most savage wild beasts. His name was James C. Adams, but he was
universally known as "Grizzly Adams," from the fact that he had
captured a great many grizzly bears at the risk and cost of fearful encounters
and perils. He was brave, and with his bravery there was enough of the romantic
in his nature to make him a real hero. For many years a hunter and trapper in
the Rocky and Sierra Nevada Mountains, he acquired a recklessness, which, added
to his natural invincible courage, rendered him one of the most striking men of
the age, and he was emphatically a man of pluck. A month after Barnum had
re-purchased the Museum, Adams arrived in New York with his famous collection of
California animals, captured by himself, consisting of twenty or thirty immense
grizzly bears, at the head of which stood ``Old Samson,'' together with several
wolves, half a dozen different species of California bears, California lions,
tigers, buffalo, elk, and ``Old Neptune,'' the great sea-lion from the Pacific.
Old Adams had trained
all these monsters so that with him they were as docile as kittens, though many
of the most ferocious among them would attack a stranger without hesitation, if
he came within their grasp. In fact, the training of these animals was no
fool's play, as Old Adams learned to his cost, for the terrific blows which he
received from time to time, while teaching them ``docility,'' finally cost him
his life.
Adams called on Barnum
immediately on his arrival in New York. He was dressed in his hunter's suit of
buckskin, trimmed with the skins and bordered with the hanging tails of small
Rocky Mountain animals; his cap consisting of the skin of a wolf's head and
shoulders, from which depended several tails, and under which appeared his
stiff bushy, gray hair and his long, white, grizzly beard; in fact, Old Adams
was quite as much of a show as his beasts. They had come around Cape Horn on
the clipper ship ``Golden Fleece,'' and a sea voyage of three and a half months
had probably not added much to the beauty or neat appearance of the old
bear-hunter. During their conversation Grizzly Adams took off his cap, and
showed Barnum the top of his head. His skull was literally broken in. It had,
on various occasions, been struck by the fearful paws of his grizzly students;
and the last blow, from the bear called ``General Fremont,'' had laid open his
brain so that its workings were plainly visible. Barnum remarked that he
thought it was a dangerous wound and might possibly prove fatal.
``Yes,'' replied Adams,
``that will fix me out. It had nearly healed; but old Fremont opened it for me,
for the third or fourth time, before I left California, and he did his business
so thoroughly, I'm a used-up man. However, I reckon I may live six months or a
year yet.'' This was spoken as coolly as if he had been talking about the life
of a dog.
This extraordinary man
had come to see Barnum about the ``California Menagerie,'' of which he, Adams,
was the owner. Barnum had shortly before, however, purchased one-half interest
in it from a man who had claimed to be Adams's equal partner. This Adams disputed,
declaring that he had merely borrowed from the man some money on the security
of the show, that the man was not his partner, and that he had no right to sell
one-half or any portion of the menagerie. As a matter of fact, however, the man
did have a bill of sale for one-half of the show, and Adams was soon convinced
that Barnum's purchase was entirely legitimate. The result was that Barnum and
Adams formed a regular partnership, the former to attend to all business
affairs, the latter to exhibit the animals. The show was opened in a huge
canvas tent on Broadway, at the corner of Thirteenth Street.
On the morning of
opening, a band of music preceded a procession of animal cages down Broadway
and up the Bowery, old Adams, dressed in his hunting costume, heading the line,
with a platform wagon on which were placed three immense grizzly bears, two of
which he held by chains, while he was mounted on the back of the largest
grizzly, which stood in the centre and was not secured in any manner whatever.
This was the bear known as ``General Fremont,'' and so docile had he become
that Adams said he had used him as a pack-bear, to carry his cooking and
hunting apparatus through the mountains for six months, and had ridden him
hundreds of miles. But apparently docile as were many of these animals, there
was not one among them that would not occasionally give Adams a sly blow or a
sly bite when a good chance offered; hence old Adams was but a wreck of his
former self, and expressed pretty nearly the truth when he said:
``Mr. Barnum, I am not
the man I was five years ago. Then I felt able to stand the hug of any grizzly
living, and was always glad to encounter, single handed, any sort of an animal
that dared present himself. But I have been beaten to a jelly, torn almost limb
from limb, and nearly chawed up and spit out by these treacherous grizzly
bears. However, I am good for a few months yet, and by that time I hope we
shall gain enough to make my old woman comfortable, for I have been absent from
her some years.''
His wife came from
Massachusetts to New York and nursed him. Dr. Johns dressed his wounds every
day, and not only told Adams he could never recover, but assured his friends
that probably a very few weeks would lay him in his grave. But Adams was as firm
as adamant and as resolute as a lion. Among the thousands who saw him dressed
in his grotesque hunter's suit, and witnessed the seeming vigor with which he
``performed'' the savage monsters, beating and whipping them into apparently
the most perfect docility, probable not one suspected that this rough,
fierce-looking, powerful semi-savage, as he appeared to be, was suffering
intense pain from his broken skull and fevered system, and that nothing kept
him from stretching himself on his death-bed but his most indomitable and
extraordinary will.
Adams was an inveterate
story-teller, and often ``drew the long bow'' with daring hand. He loved to
astonish people with extraordinary tales, which were sheer inventions, but
which no one could disprove. He pretended, too, to have been everywhere and to
have seen everything. This weakness made him good game for Barnum, who
determined to expose his foibles to him at the first opportunity. The
opportunity soon came. One day, amid the innumerable caravan of cranks that
moved to the weird realm of Barnum's wonder-house, there appeared a fat, stolid
German, carrying in his hand a small basket, which he guarded with jealous
care.
``I have come,'' he
said, ``to see if you would not like some golden pigeons to buy?''
``Yes,'' Barnum
replied, ``I would like a flock of golden pigeons, if I could buy them for
their weight in silver; for there are no `golden pigeons' in existence, unless
they are made from the pure metal.''
``You shall some golden
pigeons alive see,'' he replied, at the same time entering the office, and
closing the door after him. He then removed the lid from the basket, and sure
enough, there were snugly ensconced a pair of beautiful, living ruff-necked
pigeons, as yellow as saffron, and as bright as a double-eagle fresh from the
Mint.
Barnum was somewhat
staggered at this sight, and quickly asked the man where those birds came from.
A dull, lazy smile crawled over the sober face of the German visitor, as he
replied in a slow, guttural tone of voice:
``What you think
yourself?''
Catching his meaning,
Barnum quickly replied:
``I think it is a
humbug.''
``Of course, I know you
will so say; because you `forstha' such things; so I shall not try to humbug
you; I have them myself colored.''
It then came out that
the man was a chemist, and that he had invented a process by which he could dye
the feathers of living birds any color he pleased, retaining at the same time
all the natural gloss of the plumage. Barnum at once closed a bargain with him
for the birds, for ten dollars, and then put them in his ``Happy Family'' at
the Museum. He marked them ``Golden Pigeons, from California,'' and then
gleefully awaited Adams' next visit, feeling sure that the old fellow would be
completely taken in.
Sure enough, next
morning Adams came along, saw the pigeons, looked at them earnestly for a few
minutes, and then went straight to the office.
``Mr. Barnum,'' said
he, ``you must let me have those California pigeons.''
``I can't spare them,''
said Barnum.
``But you must spare
them. All the birds and animals from California ought to be together. You own
half of my California menagerie, and you must lend me those pigeons.''
``Mr. Adams, they are
too rare and valuable a bird to be hawked about in that manner.''
``Oh, don't be a
fool,'' replied Adams. ``Rare bird, indeed! Why, they are just as common in
California as any other pigeon! I could have brought a hundred of them from San
Francisco, if I had thought of it.''
``But why did you not
think of it?'' with a suppressed smile.
``Because they are so
common there,'' said Adams. ``I did not think they would be any curiosity
here.''
Barnum was ready to
burst with laughter to see how readily Adams swallowed the bait, but,
maintaining the most rigid gravity, he replied:
``Oh! well, Mr. Adams,
if they are really so common in California, you had probably better take them,
and you may write over and have half a dozen pairs sent to me for the Museum.''
A few weeks later
Barnum, being in the California Menagerie, noticed that something ailed the
pigeons. They had a sadly-mottled appearance. Their feathers had grown out, and
they were half white. Adams had not yet noticed it, being too busy with his
bears. But Barnum called him at once to the pigeon cage.
``Look here, Adams,''
he said, ``I'm afraid you are going to lose your Golden Pigeons. They must be
very sick. Just see how pale they look! Good thing they're so common in
California, so you can easily get some more, eh?''
Adams looked at them a
moment in astonishment, then turning to Barnum, and seeing that he could not
suppress a smile, he indignantly exclaimed:
``Blast the Golden
Pigeons! You had better take them back to the Museum. You can't humbug me with
your painted pigeons!''
This was too much, and
Barnum laughed till he cried, to witness the mixed look of astonishment and
vexation which marked the grizzly features of old Adams.
After the exhibition on
Thirteenth Street and Broadway had been open six weeks, the doctor insisted
that Adams should sell out his share in the animals and settle up his worldly
affairs, for he assured him that he was growing weaker every day, and his
earthly existence must soon terminate. ``I shall live a good deal longer than
you doctors think for,'' replied Adams, doggedly; and then, seeming after all
to realize the truth of the doctor's assertion, he turned and said: ``Well, Mr.
Barnum, you must buy me out.''
A bargain was soon
concluded. Arrangements had been made to exhibit the bears in Connecticut and
Massachusetts during the summer, in connection with the Museum, and Adams
insisted that Barnum should engage him to travel for the season and manage the
bears. He offered to do it for $60 a week and expenses. Barnum replied that he would
gladly make such an arrangement, but he feared Adams was not strong enough to
stand it.
``You are growing
weaker every day,'' he said; ``and would better go to your home and rest.''
``What will you give me
extra if I will travel and exhibit the bears every day for ten weeks?'' added
old Adams, eagerly.
``Five hundred
dollars.''
``Done!'' exclaimed
Adams, ``I will do it, so draw up an agreement to that effect at once. But mind
you, draw it payable to my wife, for I may be too weak to attend to business
after the ten weeks are up, and if I perform my part of the contract, I want
her to get the $500 without any trouble.''
Barnum drew up a
contract to pay him $60 per week for his services, and if he continued to
exhibit the bears for ten consecutive weeks, to hand him, or his wife, $500
extra.
``You have lost your
$500!'' exclaimed Adams on taking the contract; ``for I am bound to live and
earn it.''
``I hope you may, with
all my heart, and a hundred years more if you desire it,'' replied Barnum.
``Call me a fool if I
don't earn the $500!'' exclaimed Adams, with a triumphant laugh.
The ``show'' started
off in a few days, and at the end of a fortnight Barnum met it at Hartford,
Connecticut.
``Well'' said he,
``Adams, you seem to stand it pretty well. I hope you and your wife are
comfortable?''
``Yes,'' he replied
with a laugh; ``and you may as well try to be comfortable, too, for your $500
is a goner.''
``All right,'' Barnum
replied, ``I hope you will grow better every day.''
But the case was
hopeless. Adams was dying. When Barnum met him three weeks later at New Bedford
his eyes were glassy and his hands trembling, but his courage and will were
strong as ever.
``This hot weather
tells on me,'' he said, ``but I'll last the ten weeks and more, and get your
$500.''
Barnum urged him to
quit work, to take half of the $500 and go home. But, no. He would not listen
to it. And he did actually serve through the whole ten weeks, and got the $500;
remarking, as he pocketed the cash,
``Barnum, it's too bad
you're a teetotaler, for I'd like to stand treat with you on this.''
When Adams set out on
this last tour, Barnum had a fine new hunting-suit made of beaver-skins. He had
procured it for Herr Driesbach, the animal tamer, whom he had engaged to take
Adams' place whenever the latter should give out. Adams had asked him to loan
him the suit, to wear occasionally when he had great audiences, as his own suit
was badly worn. Barnum did so; and at the end of the engagement, as he received
the $500, Adams said:
``Mr. Barnum, I suppose
you are going to give me this new hunting-dress.''
``Oh, no,'' Barnum
replied, ``I got that for your successor, who will exhibit the bears to-morrow,
besides, you have no possible use for it.''
``Now, don't be mean,
but lend me the dress, if you won't give it to me, for I want to wear it home
to my native village.''
Barnum could not refuse
the poor old man anything, and he therefore replied:
``Well, Adams, I will
lend you the dress, but you will send it back to me?''
``Yes, when I have done
with it,'' he replied, with an evident chuckle of triumph.
Barnum thought, ``he
will soon be done with it,'' and replied: ``That's all right.''
A new idea evidently
struck Adams, for, with a brightening look of satisfaction, he said:
``Now, Barnum, you have
made a good thing out of the California menagerie, and so have I; but you will
make a heap more. So if you won't give me this new hunter's dress, just draw a
little writing, and sign it, saying that I may wear it until I have done with
it.''
Barnum knew that in a
few days, at longest, he would be ``done'' with this world altogether, and, to
gratify him, he cheerfully drew and signed the paper.
``Come, old Yankee,
I've got you this time--see. if I hadn't!'' exclaimed Adams, with a broad grin,
as he took the paper.
Barnum smiled, and
said:
``All right, my dear
fellow; the longer you live the better I shall like it,''
They parted, and Adams
went to Charlton, Worcester County, Massachusetts, where his wife and daughter
lived. He took at once to his bed, and never rose from it again. The excitement
had passed away, and his vital energies could accomplish no more, The fifth day
after arriving home, the physician told him he could not live until the next
morning. He received the announcement in perfect calmness, and with the most
apparent indifference; then, turning to his wife, with a smile he requested her
to have him buried in the new hunting-suit. ``For,'' said he, ``Barnum agreed
to let me have it until I have done with it, and I was determined to fix his
flint this time. He shall never see that dress again.'' That dress was indeed
the shroud in which he was entombed.
After Adams' death,
Barnum incorporated the California Menagerie with the American Museum, for a
time, but afterward sold most of the animals. The Museum was now most
prosperous, and Barnum was making steady progress toward paying off the debts
that burdened him.
In the fall of 1860 the
Museum was visited by the Prince of Wales and his suite, in response to an
invitation from Barnum. Unfortunately, Barnum himself had gone to Bridgeport
that very morning, the invitation not having been accepted until about an hour
before the visit. Mr. Greenwood, the manager, when he heard that the Prince was
coming, caused the performance in the lecture-room to be commenced half an hour
before the usual time, so as to clear the floors of a portion of the crowd, in
order that he might have a better opportunity to examine the curiosities. When
the Prince arrived, there was a great crowd outside the Museum, and hundreds
more were soon added to the numbers assembled within the building. He was
received by Mr. Greenwood, and immediately conducted to the second story, where
the first object of interest pointed out was the ``What Is It?'' in which his
Royal Highness manifested much curiosity. In compliance with his wish, the
keeper went through the regular account of the animal. Here, also, the party were
shown the Albino family, concerning whom they made inquiries. The Siamese
twins, the sea-lions, and the seal were also pointed out, and some of the
animals were fed in the presence of the Prince at his own request. He was
conducted through the building, and his attention was called to many objects of
special interest. At the close of a short visit, the Prince asked for Mr.
Barnum, and regretted that he had not an opportunity of seeing him also. ``We
have,'' he said, ``missed the most interesting feature of the establishment.''
A few days later Barnum
called on the Prince in Boston and was cordially received. The Prince was much
interested and amused at Barnum's reminiscences of the visits to Buckingham
Palace with Tom Thumb. He told Barnum that he had been much pleased with the
Museum, and had left his autograph there as a memento of his visit.
AT HOME ONCE
MORE--GROWTH OF EAST BRIDGEPORT--BARNUM'S OFFER TO MEN WANTING HOMES OF THEIR
OWN--REMARKABLE PROGRESS OF THE PLACE--HOW THE STREETS WERE NAMED.
It was now about five
years since Barnum had had a settled home. The necessities of his business
combined with the adversities of fortune had kept him knocking about from
pillar to post. Sometimes they lived in boarding-houses, and sometimes they
kept house in temporary quarters. Mr. and Mrs. Barnum were now alone, two of
their daughters being married and the third being away at a boarding-school.
Mrs. Barnum's health was much impaired, and it was desirable that she should
have a comfortable and permanent home. Accordingly, in 1860, Barnum built a
pleasant house at Bridgeport, next to that of his daughter Caroline and not far
from the ruins of Iranistan.
His unfortunate
enterprise in the clock business had not discouraged him from further business
ventures. His pet city, East Bridgeport, was growing rapidly. An enormous
sewing-machine factory had been built, employing a thousand workmen. Other
large factories were springing up, many private residences were being erected,
and there was a great demand for houses of all kinds, but especially for small
cottages suitable for mechanics and other laboring men. The farm-land which
Barnum had purchased only a few years before was rapidly becoming a city.
It was characteristic
of Barnum to place himself in the forefront in this city-building movement, and
in the double rôle of speculator and public benefactor. The enterprise which he
undertook was calculated both to help those who were willing to help themselves
to obtain independent homes, and at the same time to pay a handsome profit to
Mr. Barnum. His scheme was described by himself as follows in the Bridgeport
Standard:
``NEW HOUSES IN EAST
BRIDGEPORT.
``EVERY MAN TO OWN THE
HOUSE HE LIVES IN.
``There is a demand at
the present moment for two hundred more dwelling-houses in East Bridgeport. It
is evident that if the money expended in rent can be paid towards the purchase
of a house and lot, the person so paying will in a few years own the house he
lives in, instead of always remaining a tenant. In view of this fact, I propose
to loan money at six per cent. to any number, not exceeding fifty, industrious,
temperate and respectable individuals, who desire to build their own houses.
``They may engage their
own builders, and build according to any reasonable plan (which I may approve),
or I will have it done for them at the lowest possible rate, without a farthing
profit to myself or agent, I putting the lot at a fair price and advancing
eighty per cent. of the entire cost; the other party to furnish twenty per
cent. in labor, material, or money, and they may pay me in small sums weekly,
monthly, or quarterly, any amount not less than three per cent. per quarter,
all of which is to apply on the money advanced until it is paid.
``It has been
ascertained that by purchasing building materials for cash, and in large
quantities, nice dwellings, painted, and furnished with green blinds, can be
erected at a cost of $1,500 or $1,800, for house, lot, fences, etc., all
complete, and if six or eight friends prefer to join in erecting a neat block
of houses with verandas in front, the average cost need not exceed about $1,300
per house and lot. If, however, some parties would prefer a single or double
house that would cost $2,500 to $3,000, I shall be glad to meet their views.
``P. T. BARNUM.
``February 16, 1864.''
On this the editor of
the paper commented as follows:
``AN ADVANTAGEOUS
OFFER.--We have read with great pleasure Mr. Barnum's advertisement, offering
assistance to any number of persons, not exceeding fifty, in the erection of
dwelling-houses. This plan combines all the advantages and none of the
objections of building associations. Any individual who can furnish in cash,
labor, or material, one-fifth only of the amount requisite for the erection of
a dwelling-house, can receive the other four-fifths from Mr. Barnum, rent his
house, and by merely paying what may be considered as only a fair rent, for a
few years, find himself at last the owner, and all further payments cease. In
the meantime, he can be making such inexpensive improvements in his property as
would greatly increase its market value, and besides have the advantage of any
rise in the value of real estate. It is not often that such a generous offer is
made to working men. It is a loan on what would be generally considered
inadequate security, at six per cent., at a time when a much better use of
money can be made by any capitalist. It is therefore generous. Mr. Barnum may
make money by the operation. Very well, perhaps he will, but if he does, it
will be by making others richer, not poorer; by helping those who need
assistance, not by hindering them, and we can only wish that every rich man
would follow such a noble example, and thus, without injury to themselves, give
a helping hand to those who need it. Success to the enterprise. We hope that
fifty men will be found before the week ends, each of whom desires in such a
manner to obtain a roof which he can call his own.''
A considerable number
of men immediately availed themselves of Barnum's offer, and succeeded after a
time in paying for their homes without much effort. There were many others,
however, who did not fully accept his proposals. They would not sign the
temperance pledge, and they would not give up the use of tobacco. The result
was, that they continued month after month and year after year to pay rent on
hired tenements. ``The money they have expended for whiskey and tobacco,''
remarked Mr. Barnum, moralizing upon this topic, ``would have given them homes
of their own if it had been devoted to that object, and their positions,
socially and morally, would have been far better. How many infatuated men there
are in all parts of the country who could now be independent, and even owners
of their own carriages, but for their slavery to these miserable habits!''
This East Bridgeport
land was originally purchased by Barnum at an average cost of about $200 per
acre. A few years after the above-described enterprise, a considerable part of
it was assessed in the tax list at from $3,000 to $4,000 per acre. It was
presently annexed to the city, and connected with it by three bridges across
the river. A horse-railroad was also built, of which Mr. Barnum was one of the
original stockholders.
This part of the city
was laid out by General Noble and Mr. Barnum, and various streets were named
after members of the two families. Hence there are Noble street, Barnum street,
William street (General Noble's first name), Harriet street (Mrs. Noble's
name), Hallett street (Mrs. Barnum's maiden name), and Caroline street, Helen
street, and Pauline street, the names of Barnum's three daughters. A public
school was also named for Mr. Barnum. The streets were lined with beautiful
shade trees, set out by thousands by Barnum; and Noble, and the same gentlemen
gave to the city its beautiful Washington Park of seven acres.
CAPTURING AND
EXHIBITING WHITE WHALES NEWSPAPER COMMENTS-- A TOUCHING OBITUARY--THE GREAT
BEHEMOTH--A LONG ``LAST WEEK''--COMMODORE NUTT--REAL LIVE INDIANS ON
EXHIBITION.
The year 1861 was
notable in the history of the American Museum. Barnum heard that some fishermen
at the mouth of the St. Lawrence river had captured alive a fine white whale.
He was also told that such an animal, if packed in a box filled with sea-weed
and salt water, could be transported over land a considerable distance without
danger to its life or health. He accordingly determined to secure and place on
exhibition in his Museum a couple of live whales. So he built in the basement
of the building a tank of masonry, forty feet long and eighteen feet wide, to
contain them. Then he went to the St. Lawrence river on a whaling expedition.
His objective point was the Isle au Coudres, which was populated by French
Canadians. There he engaged a party of twenty-four fishermen, and instructed
them to capture for him, alive and unharmed, a couple of the white whales which
at almost any time were to be seen in the water not far from the island.
The plan decided upon
was to plant in the river a ``kraal,'' composed of stakes driven down in the
form of a V, leaving the broad end open for the whales to enter. This was done
in a shallow place, with the point of the kraal towards shore; and if by chance
one or more whales should enter the trap at high water, the fishermen were to
occupy the entrance with their boats, and keep up a tremendous splashing and
noise till the tide receded, when the frightened whales would find themselves
nearly ``high and dry,'' or with too little water to enable them to swim, and
their capture would be next thing in order. This was to be effected by securing
a slip-noose of stout rope over their tails, and towing them to the sea-weed
lined boxes in which they were to be transported to New York.
Many times fine whales
were seen gliding close by the entrance to the trap, but they did not enter it,
and the patience of Barnum and his fishermen was sorely tried. One day one
whale did enter the kraal, and the fishermen proposed to capture it, but Barnum
was determined to have two, and while they waited for the second one to enter
the first one went out again. After several days of waiting, Barnum was aroused
early one morning by the excited and delighted shouts of his men. Hastily
dressing, he found that two whales were in the trap and were sure of being
captured. Leaving the rest of the task to his assistants, he hurried back to New
York. At every station on the route he gave instructions to the telegraph
operators to take off all whaling messages that passed over the wires to New
York, and to inform their fellow-townsmen at what hour the whales would pass
through each place.
The result of these
arrangements may be imagined; at every station crowds of people came to the
cars to see the whales which were travelling by land to Barnum's Museum, and
those who did not see the monsters with their own eyes, at least saw some one
who had seen them, and thus was secured a tremendous advertisement, seven
hundred miles long, for the American Museum.
Arrived in New York,
dispatches continued to come from the whaling expedition every few hours. These
were bulletined in front of the Museum and copies sent to the papers. The
excitement was intense, and, when at last, these marine monsters arrived and
were swimming in the tank that had been prepared for them, anxious thousands
literally rushed to see the strangest curiosities ever exhibited in New York.
Barnum's first whaling
expedition was thus a great success. Unfortunately he did not know how to feed
or take care of the animals. A supply of salt water could not be obtained, so
they were put into fresh water artificially salted, and this did not agree with
them. The basement of the Museum building was also poorly ventilated and the
air was unwholesome. As the result of these circumstances the whales died
within a week, although not until they had been seen by thousands of people.
Barnum immediately resolved to try again. In order to secure a better home for
his pets, he laid an iron pipe under the streets of the city, from his Museum
clear out into New York bay. Through this, by means of a steam-engine, he was
able to secure a constant supply of genuine sea-water. In order that the whales
should have good air to breathe, he constructed for them another tank on the
second floor of the Museum building. This tank had a floor of slate, and the
sides were made of French plate-glass, in huge pieces six feet long, five feet
wide, and one inch thick. These plates were imported by Barnum expressly for
the purpose. The tank was twenty-four feet square. Two more white whales were
soon caught in the same manner as before, and were conveyed in a ship to Quebec
and thence by rail to New York.
Barnum was always proud
of this enterprise, and it yielded him handsome profits. The second pair of
whales, however, soon died. Barnum remarked that their sudden and immense
popularity was too much for them. But a third pair was quickly secured to take
their place. Envious and hostile critics declared that they were not whales at
all, but only porpoises, but this did no harm. Indeed, Barnum might well have
paid them to start these malicious reports, for much good advertising was
thereby secured. The illustrious Agassiz was appealed to. He came to see the
animals, gave Barnum a certificate that they were genuine white whales, and
this document was published far and wide.
The manner in which the
showman advertised his curiosities may be seen from the following, taken from
one of the daily papers of the time:
BARNUM'S AMERICAN
MUSEUM.
----
After months of unwearied labor, and spending
NEARLY TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS
NEARLY TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS
NEARLY TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS
in capturing and transporting them from that part of the Gulf of St. Lawrence
nearest Labrador, the Manager is enabled to offer his visitors
TWO LIVING WHALES,
TWO LIVING WHALES,
TWO LIVING WHALES,
TWO LIVING WHALES,
TWO LIVING WHALES,
TWO LIVING WHALES,
a male and a female. Everybody has heard of WHALES
IN NURSERY TALES and ``SAILOR'S YARNS,''
IN NURSERY TALES and ``SAILOR'S YARNS,''
everybody has read of WHALES in story, song, and history, and everybody
WANTS TO SEE A WHALE,
WANTS TO SEE A WHALE,
WANTS TO SEE A WHALE,
WANTS TO SEE A WHALE,
and now they have the opportunity. Barnum has
CAPTURED TWO OF THE LEVIATHANS,
CAPTURED TWO OF THE LEVIATHANS,
CAPTURED TWO OF THE LEVIATHANS,
has built a small ocean in his Museum, filled it from the briny deep, and there
THE TWO LIVING WHALES,
THE TWO LIVING WHALES,
THE TWO LIVING WHALES,
THE TWO LIVING WHALES,
measuring respectively fifteen and twenty feet in length, may be seen at all
hours sporting in their native element. Who will miss the opportunity of
seeing them? Another may not offer in a lifetime. Embrace this ere it be
too late. See Mr. Barnum's card below.
LAST TWO DAYS OF
WILLIAM TILLMAN AND WILLIAM STEDDING,
The Colored Steward and German Sailor of the
SCHOONER S. J. WARING,
Who slew three of the piratical prize crew, and rescued themselves and the
vessel from their power.
WHAT IS IT? OR, MAN MONKEY.
MADAGASCAR ALBINOS,
PURE WHITE NEGROES, OR MOORS.
SEA LION, MAMMOTH BEAR SAMSON, with a variety of other
living Bears; MONSTER SNAKES, AQUARIA, HAPPY FAMILY,
LIVING SEAL, WAX FIGURES, &c.
In the Lecture-Room, a great Dramatic Novelty is offered,
EMBRACING FARCE, VAUDEVILLE and BURLETTA,
with a brilliant and talented company, including
LITTLE LOLA, THE INFANT WONDER,
Mr. and Mrs. C. B. REYNOLDS;
Miss DORA DAWRON, DOUBLE-VOICED SINGER,
LA PETITE ADDIE LE BRUN,
The favorite Juvenile Danseuse, always popular.
MARIE; THE CHILD OF SORROW,
With a laughable farce, every day at 3 and 7 3/4 o'clock.
Admission to all, 25 cents; Children under 10, 15 cents.
------------------------------------------------------------
A CARD FROM P. T.
BARNUM.--LIVING WHALES on exhibition.-- Having learned from fishermen and
eminent naturalists, including the written statement of the celebrated Prof.
Agassiz, that the White Whale could be found in that portion of the Gulf of St.
Lawrence nearest to Labrador, I made a journey there in June last, accompanied
by my agent. I remained there a fortnight, and made every arrangement for
capturing and keeping alive two of these monsters. This arrangement included
the service of thirty-five men, beside my special agent. I then returned and
had erected in the Museum a reservoir fifty feet in length and twenty-five feet
in width, in which was placed sea-water, and arrangements made for a continual
fresh supply. I also made arrangements with steamers and railroads to convey
these leviathans to New York at the fastest possible speed, without regard to
the expense.
I am highly gratified
in being able to assure the public that they have arrived safe and well, a MALE
and FEMALE, from 15 to 20 feet long, and are now swimming in the miniature
ocean in my Museum, to the delight of visitors. As it is very doubtful whether
these wonderful creatures can be kept alive more than a few days, the public
will see the importance of seizing the first moment to see them.
P. T. BARNUM.
AMERICAN MUSEUM, Thursday, August 8, 1861.
``A real live whale,''
said an editorial writer in the New York Tribune of that date, ``is as great a
curiosity as a live lord or prince, being much more difficult to catch, and far
more wonderful in its appearance and habits. After all people are people, and
have much the same ways of feeling and doing. But when we get among the whales,
we catch glimpses of a new and neat thing in nose, recall the narrative of
Jonah without throwing a shadow of a doubt upon its authenticity, and
appreciate keenly the difficulties with which mermaid society must have to
contend.
``We owe the presence
of two whales in our midst to the enterprise of Mr. P. T. Barnum. He has had
them in tow for a long while, but has kept his secret well, and it was not
until his own special whaler telegraphed from Troy that he had come so far into
the bowels of the earth with his submarine charge, and all well, that he felt
warranted in whispering whale to the public. The public was delighted, but not
surprised, because it feels that the genius that is equal to a What Is It is
also equal to the biggest thing, and would experience no unusual thrill of
wonder if a real iceberg, or a section of the identical North Pole, should be
announced on the bills of the Museum.
``But flocks of the
public sought the Museum yesterday, and were not disappointed. They saw not, as
Polonius, something `very like a whale,' but the original animal in its original
element. The bears, and the anacondas, the hatchet, and the seal, sank into
merited insignificance, although they will have their day again if the whales
should expire. The transfer of the fish was neatly effected. They travelled the
whole distance in first-class hermetical boxes, filled with water and thickly
lined with seaweed, and were landed, if the expression may be used, in the new
and excellent tank provided for them in the basement of the Museum. This tank
is fifty feet deep and twenty-five in width, has seven feet of sea-water in it,
and seems to suit the whales eminently. Mr. Barnum has fears that the pets will
have but a brief, if brilliant, career, in their new quarters, but we prefer to
predict for them a long and happy one.
``These are white
whales, and were taken near the Labrador coast by a crew of thirty-five men.
The largest has attained the extreme size reached by this species, and is about
22 feet long; the other is 18 feet long. Their form and motion are graceful,
and their silver backs and bellies show brightly through the water. A
long-continued intimacy has endeared them to each other, and they go about
quite like a pair of whispering lovers, blowing off their mutual admiration in
a very emphatic manner. Just at present they are principally engaged in
throwing their eyes around the premises, and pay small attention to visitors,
upon whom, indeed, the narrative of Jonah has a strong hold. And yet neither of
these whales could make a single mouthful of a man of ordinary size. Even if
one of them should succeed in swallowing a man, he could just stand up with the
whale, and make it, at least, as uncomfortable as himself.
``Here is a real
`sensation.' We do not believe the enterprise of Mr. Barnum will stop at white
whales. It will embrace sperm whales and mermaids, and all strange things that
swim or fly or crawl, until the Museum will become one vast microcosm of the
animal creation. A quarter seems positively contemptible weighed against such a
treat.''
And this was the public
tribute, from the same pen, to the first of the cetaceans that died through too
much publicity:
``The community was
shocked to hear of the death of one of Barnum's whales yesterday morning. Death
apparently loves a shining mark. It seems but yesterday--in fact it was the day
before--we gazed upon the youthful form, instinct with life, and looking
forward to a useful and pleasant career. The whale shared not the forebodings
of its friends. Mr. Barnum was possessed with a strange presentiment of
calamity, and summoned the public to either a house of mourning or a house of
joy, he knew not which, but at all events to be quick. At daybreak, we believe,
the great natural curiosity passed away.
``The blow is a severe
one. To Mr. Barnum it must be a shocking reminder of the emptiness of all human
plans. Enterprise, liberal expenditure, courage-- what are they all before the
fell destroyer? Even whales have their time to sink and rise no more. To the
dear companion of all the joys and sorrows of the troubled life of the deceased
the bereavement must be sore indeed. Delicacy forbids that we should lay bare
such sorrows. No twenty-five cent ticket should admit to them, including the
lecture-room. Such as witnessed the tender endearments between these white
whales, and saw how they had hearts that beat as one, and how they were not
happy when they were not pretty near each other in the tank, may, perhaps,
realize the anguish of their separation. We are not surprised to learn, indeed,
that the affliction has borne so heavily upon the survivor that there may be
tidings at any moment of the flight of its spirit also. May both whales meet
again in the open seas of immortality! The loss of the public is great,
although not irreparable. The world moves on, and many natural curiosities
remain to fill up the gaps caused by death. Mr. Barnum's spirit, although
saddened, is not broken. He sees the objects of his care and best management
snatched from him, and yet he announces that he will immediately send on for
two more whales of the same sort. We shall soon forget the lost whales in
contemplation of the new. Such is life, it is well known.
``The decease may be
attributed in a great measure to bear. It is true that there might have been
something injurious to the health of the fish in a long overland journey. `A
fish out of water' is a case that tries the utmost skill of the faculty. If a
man were confined in the most comfortable of water-tight boxes and carried,
under the care of a special agent, hundreds of miles beneath the water, we
should not be startled to hear that his constitution was much shattered at the
end of the journey. And yet we are more encouraged to think that the whale owed
his death to other causes than the overland transportation, because the sea
lion does so well, and the fishes in the aquaria appear to be so hearty and
contented. To bear, then, we must attribute our loss. This animal abounded in
the basement where the tank is, and whether through jealousy of the fame of the
new-comers, or through some settled antipathy between flesh and fish, or simply
through his natural beastliness, he communicated effluvia to the atmosphere
that were perfectly unendurable by whale, which promptly expired from want of
good breath.
``This agent of
destruction will be removed from the premises before the next whales arrive,
and suitable measures will be taken to guard against such a mournful
catastrophe. There is a whale in Boston whose health is so good that it never
requires medical attendance.
``The deceased was
about sixty years of age. It bore an excellent character. Its patience and
sweet disposition under the most trying circumstances will long be remembered.
The remains, weighing not less than twenty-six hundred pounds, will be suitably
disposed off. While the public mourns it may also console itself with the
reflection that there are plenty more where it came from, and that the energy
of Barnum is not to be abated by any of the common disasters of life, and may
hopefully anticipate a speedy announcement of an entirely new whale. Vale!
Vale!''
The tank in the
basement of the Museum was now devoted to a yet more interesting exhibition. On
August 12, 1861, Barnum placed in it the first live hippopotamus that had ever
been seen in America. The brute was advertised most extensively and ingeniously
as ``the great behemoth of the Scriptures,'' and thousands of scientific men,
biblical students, clergymen and others, besides the great host of the common
people, flocked to see it. There was fully as much excitement in New York over
this wonder in the animal creation as there was in London when the first
hippopotamus was placed in the Regent's Park ``Zoo.''
Barnum began by
advertising that the animal was on exhibition for a short time only. Then he
announced the ``last week'' of the novel show. Then, ``by special request,''
another week was added. And thus the ``last week of the hippopotamus'' was
prolonged through many months. The following is a fair sample of the
advertisements with which the daily papers literally teemed:
BARNUM'S MUSEUM
---- SECOND WEEK OF THAT WONDERFUL
LIVING HIPPOPOTAMUS,
FROM THE RIVER NILE IN EGYPT
THE GREAT BEHEMOTH OF THE SCRIPTURES
AND THE MARVEL OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM.
The history of this animal is full of interest, and to every class, especially
the educated and intelligent, but above all to the biblical student, who has
read with interest the glowing description of
THE GREAT BEHEMOTH
in the Book of Job. He is strictly an
AMPHIBIOUS ANIMAL,
living in the water and out of it; under the water, or on the top of it, floats
on its surface with perfect ease, or beneath the surface, midway between the
top and the bottom. In their natural state these animals are wild and
ferocious; though on the land, they are not very formidable, but when pursued they
fly to the rivers,
DESCEND TO THE BOTTOM AND WALK ACROSS,
frequently appearing on the opposite side without the least indication of their
course on the surface of the stream. If exasperated by assaults, in the water
they are the most
FRIGHTFUL ANTAGONISTS,
their gigantic proportions and herculean strength, giving them power over every
opposing force, frequently destroying whole boat-loads of men and their boats,
crushing with their huge jaws everything that comes in their way. In the Museum
the specimen here exhibited has an
ARTIFICIAL OCEAN OR RIVER,
where he is to be seen in all his natural peculiarities, floating on, and
swimming beneath the surface, walking on the bottom several feet beneath,
exhibiting, in short, all the peculiarities of his nature; and to perfect the
scene, native
ARABIAN KEEPER, SALAAMA,
who is himself a curiosity as a specimen of that historic tribe of men, who
exhibits all the stolidity and Arabian dignity of that Oriental race; the only
man who can control or exhibit his hippopotamiship, is in constant attendance.
They are both to be seen at all hours, DAY and EVENING.
This is the
FIRST AND ONLY REAL HIPPOPOTAMUS
ever seen in America. He is engaged at a cost of many thousand of dollars, and
will remain
A SHORT TIME ONLY.
A SHORT TIME ONLY.
Also just obtained at great expense, and now to be seen swimming in the large
tank in the Aquarial Hall,
A LIVING SHARK,
beside a great variety of other living Fish, Turtles, &c., &c.
WHAT IS IT? OR, MAN MONKEY.
SEA LION, MAMMOTH BEAR SAMSON, MONSTER SNAKES,
AQUARIA, HAPPY FAMILY, LIVING SEAL, &c.
The Lecture-Room Entertainments embrace
PETITE DRAMA, VAUDEVILLE, BURLETTA and FARCE.
By a company of rare musical and dramatic talent.
Miss DAWRON, DOUBLE-VOICED VOCALIST,
Mlle. MATILDA E. TOEDT,
The Talented Young Violinist, &c.
Admission to all, 25 cents; Children under 10, 15 cents.
Nor did the monster
fail to receive much other notice in the press. Said one writer: ``Nothing
discomfitted by the sudden death that overtook the gentle and loving whales,
Mr. Barnum has again invested untold heaps of money in a tremendous
water-monster. The great tank has again a tenant, and the great public have
huge amphibious matter for their wonderment. The new curiosity comes to us
staggering under the unwieldy name of Hippopotamus. He is a comely gentleman,
fair and beauteous to look upon; and the strange loveliness of his countenance
cannot fail to captivate the crowd. His youth, too, gives him a special claim
to the consideration of the ladies, for he is a little darling of only three
years--a very baby of a hippopotamus in fact, who, only a few months ago, daily
sucked his few gallons of lacteal nourishment from the fond bosom of mamma
Hippo, at the bottom of some murmuring Egyptian river. The young gentleman is
about as heavy as an ox, and gives you the idea that he is the result of the
amalgamation of a horse, a cow, two pigs, a seal, a dozen India-rubber
blankets, and an old-fashioned horse-hide covered trunk. Big as he is, unwieldy
as he is, strange, uncouth, and monstrous as he is, he appears after all to be
most mild and even-tempered. In truth, he is no more vicious than a
good-natured muley cow; and if by chance he should hurt anybody, he would have
to achieve it much in the same manner that such a cow would, by running against
him, or rolling over upon him. So that the red-breeched individual, who so
valiantly gets over the railing and stands by the side of young Hippo, doesn't,
after all, do a deed of such superhuman daring, for all he does it with such an
air of reckless sacrifice of self for the public good. The hippopotamus is
certainly one of the most interesting and attractive of all the strange
creatures ever yet caught by Mr. Barnum, and offered for the delectation of the
paying public. He is well worth a visit, and an hour's inspection. He receives
daily, from 9 A. M. to some time after dark.''
Having now a good
supply of salt water Barnum greatly enlarged his aquarium, which was the first
show of the kind ever seen in America. He exhibited in it living sharks,
porpoises, sea-horses and many rare fishes. For several seasons he kept a boat
cruising the ocean in search of marine novelties. In this way he secured many
of the beautiful angel fishes and others that never had been seen in New York
before. He also purchased the Aquarial Gardens in Boston, and removed the
entire collection to his Museum.
The story of another of
Barnum's greatest hits must be told in his own words: ``In December, 1861,'' he
related, ``I was visited at the Museum by a most remarkable dwarf, who was a
sharp, intelligent little fellow, with a deal of drollery and wit. He had a
splendid head, was perfectly formed, and was very attractive, and, in short,
for a `showman,' he was a perfect treasure. His name, he told me, was George
Washington Morrison Nutt, and his father was Major Rodnia Nutt, a substantial
farmer, of Manchester, New Hampshire. I was not long in dispatching an
efficient agent to Manchester, and in overcoming the competition with other
showmen who were equally eager to secure this extraordinary pigmy. The terms
upon which I engaged him for three years were so large that he was christened
the $30,000 Nutt; I, in the meantime, conferring upon him the title of
Commodore. As soon as I engaged him, placards, posters and the columns of the
newspapers proclaimed the presence of `Commodore Nutt' at the Museum. I also
procured for the Commodore a pair of Shetland ponies, miniature coachman and
footman, in livery, gold-mounted harness, and an elegant little carriage,
which, when closed, represented a gigantic English walnut. The little Commodore
attracted great attention, and grew rapidly in public favor. General Tom Thumb
was then travelling in the South and West. For some years he had not been
exhibited in New York, and during these years he had increased considerably in
rotundity and had changed much in his general appearance. It was a singular
fact, however, that Commodore Nutt was almost a fac-simile of General Tom
Thumb, as he looked half-a-dozen years before. Consequently, very many of my
patrons, not making allowance for the time which had elapsed since they had
last seen the General, declared that there was no such person as `Commodore
Nutt;' but that I was exhibiting my old friend Tom Thumb under a new name.
``Commodore Nutt
enjoyed the joke very much. He would sometimes half admit the deception, simply
to add to the bewilderment of the doubting portion of my visitors.
``It was evident that
here was an opportunity to turn all doubts into hard cash, by simply bringing
the two dwarf Dromios together, and showing them on the same platform. I
therefore induced Tom Thumb to bring his Western engagements to a close, and to
appear for four weeks, beginning with August 11, 1862, in my Museum.
Announcements headed `The Two Dromios,' and `Two Smallest Men, and Greatest
Curiosities Living,' as I expected, drew large crowds to see them, and many
came especially to solve their doubts with regard to the genuineness of the
`Nutt.' But here I was considerably nonplussed, for, astonishing as it may
seem, the doubts of many of the visitors were confirmed! The sharp people who
were determined `not to be humbugged, anyhow,' still declared that Commodore
Nutt was General Tom Thumb, and that the little fellow whom I was trying to
pass off as Tom Thumb, was no more like the General than he was like the man in
the moon. It is very amusing to see how people will sometimes deceive
themselves by being too incredulous.
``In 1862 I sent the
Commodore to Washington, and, joining him there, I received an invitation from
President Lincoln to call at the White House with my little friend. Arriving at
the appointed hour, I was informed that the President was in a special Cabinet
meeting, but that he had left word if I called to be shown in to him with the
Commodore. These were dark days in the rebellion, and I felt that my visit, if
not ill-timed, must at all events be brief. When we were admitted, Mr. Lincoln
received us cordially, and introduced us to the members of the Cabinet. When
Mr. Chase was introduced as the Secretary of the Treasury, the little Commodore
remarked:
`` `I suppose you are
the gentleman who is spending so much of Uncle Sam's money?'
`` `No, indeed,' said
the Secretary of War, Mr. Stanton, very promptly; `I am spending the money.'
`` `Well,' said
Commodore Nutt, `it is in a good cause, anyhow, and I guess it will come out
all right.'
``His apt remark
created much amusement. Mr. Lincoln then bent down his long, lank body, and
taking Nutt by the hand, he said:
`` `Commodore, permit
me to give you a parting word of advice. When you are in command of your fleet,
if you find yourself in danger of being taken prisoner, I advise you to wade
ashore.'
The Commodore found the
laugh was against him, but placing himself at the side of the President, and
gradually raising his eyes up the whole length of Mr. Lincoln's very long legs,
he replied:
`` `I guess, Mr.
President, you could do that better than I could.' ''
In no place did
extremes ever meet in a more practical sense than in the American Museum.
Commodore Nutt was the shortest of men; and at the same time the Museum
contained the tallest of women. Her name was Anna Swan, and she came from Nova
Scotia. Barnum first heard of her through a Quaker, who was visiting the
Museum. This visitor came to Barnum's office, and told him of a wonderful girl,
only seventeen years old, who lived near him at Pictou. Barnum soon sent an
agent up there, who brought the young lady back to New York. She was an
intelligent girl, and, despite her enormous stature, was decidedly
good-looking. For a long time she was a leading attraction at Barnum's Museum,
and afterwards went to England and attracted great attention there.
For many years Barnum
had been in the habit of engaging parties of American Indians from the far West
to exhibit at the Museum. He had also sent several parties of them to Europe, where
they were regarded as extraordinary curiosities.
In 1864 ten or twelve
chiefs, of as many different tribes, visited the President of the United
States, at Washington. By a pretty liberal outlay of money, Barnum succeeded in
inducing the interpreter to bring them to New York, and to pass some days at
the Museum. Of course, getting these Indians to dance, or to give any
illustration of their games or pastimes, was out of the question. They were
real chiefs of powerful tribes, and would no more have consented to give an
exhibition of themselves than the chief magistrate of our own nation would have
done. Their interpreter could not therefore promise that they would remain at
the Museum for any definite time; ``for,'' said he, ``you can only keep them just
so long as they suppose all your patrons come to pay them visits of honor. If
they suspected that your Museum was a place where people paid for entering,''
he continued, ``you could not keep them a moment after the discovery.''
On their arrival at the
Museum, therefore, Barnum took them upon the stage and personally introduced
them to the public. The Indians liked this attention from him, as they had been
informed that he was the proprietor of the great establishment in which they
were invited and honored guests. His patrons were of course pleased to see
these old chiefs, as they knew they were the ``real thing,'' and several of
them were known to the public, either as being friendly or cruel to the whites.
After one or two appearances on the stage, Barnum took them in carriages and
visited the Mayor of New York in the Governor's room at the City Hall. Here the
Mayor made them a speech of welcome, which, being interpreted to the savages,
was responded to by a speech from one of the chiefs, in which he thanked the
``Great Father'' of the city for his pleasant words, and for his kindness in
pointing out the portraits of his predecessors hanging on the walls of the
Governor's room.
On another occasion
Barnum took them by special invitation to visit one of the large public schools
up town. The teachers were pleased to see them, and arranged an exhibition of
special exercises by the scholars, which they thought would be most likely to
gratify their barbaric visitors. At the close of these exercises, one old chief
arose, and simply said: ``This is all new to us. We are mere unlearned sons of
the forest, and cannot understand what we have seen and heard.''
On other occasions he
took them to ride in Central Park, and through different portions of the city.
At every street-corner which they passed they would express their astonishment
to each other, at seeing the long rows of houses which extended both ways on
either side of each cross-street. Of course, after each of these outside visits
Barnum would return with them to the Museum, and secure two or three
appearances upon the stage to receive the people who had there congregated ``to
do them honor.''
As they regarded him as
their host, they did not hesitate to trespass upon his hospitality. Whenever
their eyes rested upon a glittering shell among his specimens of conchology,
especially if it had several brilliant colors, one would take off his coat,
another his shirt, and insist that he should exchange the shell for the
garment. When he declined the exchange, but on the contrary presented the
coveted article, he soon found he had established a dangerous precedent.
Immediately they all commenced to beg for everything in the vast collection
which they happened to take a liking to. This cost Barnum many valuable specimens,
and often ``put him to his trumps'' for an excuse to avoid giving them things
which he could not part with.
The chief of one of the
tribes one day discovered an ancient shirt of chain-mail which hung in one of
the cases of antique armor. He was delighted with it, and declared he must have
it. Barnum tried all sorts of excuses to prevent his getting it, for it had
cost a hundred dollars, and was a great curiosity. But the old man's eyes
glistened, and he would not take ``no'' for an answer. ``The Utes have killed
my little child,'' he said through the interpreter; and now he must have this
steel shirt to protect himself; and when he returned to the Rocky Mountains he
would have his revenge. Barnum remained inexorable until the chief finally
brought a new buckskin Indian suit, which he insisted upon exchanging. Barnum
then felt compelled to accept his proposal; and never did anyone see a man more
delighted than the Indian seemed to be when he took the mailed shirt into his
hands. He fairly jumped up and down with joy. He ran to his lodging-room, and
soon appeared again with the coveted armor upon his body, and marched down one
of the main halls of the Museum, with folded arms, and head erect, occasionally
patting his breast with his right hand, as much as to say, ``Now, Mr. Ute, look
sharp, for I will soon be on the war-path!''
Among these Indians
were War Bonnet, Lean Bear, and Hand-in-the-water, chiefs of the Cheyennes;
Yellow Buffalo, of the Kiowas; Yellow Bear, of the same tribe; Jacob, of the
Caddos; and White Bull, of the Apaches. The little wiry chief known as Yellow
Bear had killed many whites as they had travelled through the ``far West.'' He
was a sly, treacherous, bloodthirsty savage, who would think no more of
scalping a family of women and children than a butcher would of wringing the
neck of a chicken. But now he was on a mission to the ``Great Father'' at
Washington, seeking for presents and favors for his tribe, and he pretended to
be exceedingly meek and humble, and continually urged the interpreter to
announce him as a ``great friend to the white man.'' He would fawn about
Barnum, and although not speaking or understanding a word of our language,
would try to convince him that he loved him dearly.
In exhibiting these
Indian warriors on the stage, Barnum explained to the large audiences the names
and characteristics of each. When he came to Yellow Bear he would pat him
familiarly upon the shoulder, which always caused him to look up with a
pleasant smile, while he softly stroked Barnum's arm with his right hand in the
most loving manner. Knowing that he could not understand a word he said, Barnum
pretended to be complimenting him to the audience, while he was really saying
something like the following:
``This little Indian,
ladies and gentlemen, is Yellow Bear, chief of the Kiowas. He has killed, no
doubt, scores of white persons, and he is probably the meanest black-hearted
rascal that lives in the far West.'' Here Barnum patted him on the head, and
he, supposing he was sounding his praises, would smile, fawn upon him, and
stroke his arm, while he continued: ``If the bloodthirsty little villain
understood what I was saying, he would kill me in a moment; but as he thinks I
am complimenting him, I can safely state the truth to you, that he is a lying,
thieving, treacherous, murderous monster. He has tortured to death poor,
unprotected women, murdered their husbands, brained their helpless little ones;
and he would gladly do the same to you or to me, if he thought he could escape
punishment. This is but a faint description of the character of Yellow Bear.''
Here Barnum gave him another patronizing pat on the head, and he, with a
pleasant smile, bowed to the audience, as much as to say that the words were
quite true, and that he thanked Barnum very much for the high encomiums he had
so generously heaped upon him.
After the Indians had
been at the Museum about week they discovered the real character of the place.
They found they were simply on exhibition, and that people paid a fee for the
privilege of coming in and gazing at them. Forthwith there was an outcry of
discontent and anger. Nothing would induce them again to appear upon the stage.
Their dignity had been irretrievably offended, and Barnum was actually fearful
lest they should wreak vengeance upon him with physical violence. It was with a
feeling of great relief that he witnessed their departure for Washington the
next day.
In the fall of this
year Barnum produced at his Museum a dramatization of Dickens's ``Great
Expectations.'' On the opening night of the play, before the curtain rose, the
great showman himself went upon the stage and made this poetical address of
welcome to the audience:
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:
``That Prince of Humbugs, Barnum,'' so it appears
Some folks have designated me for several years.
Well, I don't murmur; indeed, when they embellish it,
To tell the truth, my friends, I rather relish it,
Since your true humbug's be, who as a host,
For the least money entertains you most.
In this sense I'm a ``humbug,'' I succumb!
Who as a ``General'' thing brought out Tom Thumb?
Who introduced (you can't say there I sinned)
The Swedish Nightingale, sweet Jenny Lind?
Who brought you Living Whales from Labrador?
The Hippopotamus from Nilus's shore,
The Bearded Lady with her (h)airs and graces,
The Aztec Children with their normal faces,
The Twins of Siam--rarest of dualities--
Two ever separate, ne'er apart realities?
The Family of Albinos? the Giraffe?
The famous Baby Show that made you laugh?
The Happy Family--cats, rats, doves, hawks, harmonious?
Their voices blend in tones euphonious.
The great Sea Lion from Pacific's coast,
The ``Monarch of the Ocean,'' no empty boast;
Old Adam's Bears, cutest of brute performers,
In modern ``peace meetings'' models for reformers.
That living miracle, the Lightning Calculator,
Those figures confound Hermann the ``Prestidigitator.''
The Grand Aquaria, an official story
Of life beneath the waves ill all its glory;
The curious ``What is It?'' which you, though spunky,
Won't call a man and cannot call a monkey.
These things and many more time forbids to state,
`I first introduced, if I did not originate;
``The World's Seven Wonders,'' pooh! let them invite you,
Here ``seven'' saloons all wonder-full delight you.
To call this ``humbug'' admits of no defence,
For all is shown for five and twenty cents.
And now, good friends, to use less rhyme than reason,
To-day re-opens our dramatic season;
Therefore I welcome you! And though we're certain
To raise ``Great Expectations'' with the curtain,
And ``play the Dickens'' afternoon and nightly,
I bid you welcome none the less politely,
To these my ``quarters,'' merry and reliable,
That yours are always welcome 'tis undeniable!
And Patrick Henry like I say, I boast of it,
If that be ``humbug,'' gentlemen, ``make the most of it.''
The foregoing address may be
correctly said to have as much truth as poetry. It is a graceful summary of the
curiosities which Barnum had brought before the world up to his sixtieth year.
It does not include the Sacred White Elephant of Siam, the mammoth Jumbo and
other wonders of nature which he was yet to reveal to astonished and delighted
millions. Nor does it indicate that grand genius of aggregation by which in
later years he surpassed all his previous performances--masterly as they were.
Not till the veteran had reached the age of seventy--the allotted span of
life--did he gather and create ``The Greatest Show on Earth.''
In connection with the
dramatization of Dickens' novel, it seems surprising that the Great Showman had
little intercourse with the Great Novelist. He was on intimate terms with
Thackeray and gave him useful hints for his lecturing tour in the United States,
by which the humorist duly profited. But Dickens, who reached the popular heart
as Barnum did their senses, seems to have held aloof from one whose knowledge
of men rivalled his own.
MISS LAVINIA
WARREN--THE RIVALS--MISS WARREN'S ENGAGEMENT TO TOM THUMB--THE WEDDING--GRAND
RECEPTION--LETTER FROM A WOULD-BE GUEST, AND DR. TAYLOR'S REPLY.
In 1862 Mr. Barnum
heard of an extraordinary dwarf girl named Lavinia Warren, who was living at
Middleboro', Massachusetts, and sent an invitation to her and her parents to
visit him at Bridgeport: they came, and Barnum found her to be a very
intelligent and refined young lady. He immediately made a contract with her for
several years, she agreeing to visit the Old World.
He purchased a splendid
wardrobe for her, including many elegant dresses, costly jewels and everything
else that could add to her naturally charming person. She was placed on
exhibition at the Museum, and from the first was a great success. Commodore
Nutt was exhibited with her, and although he was several years her junior, he
at once took a violent fancy to her. One day Mr. Barnum gave Miss Warren a
diamond and emerald ring, and as it did not exactly fit her finger, he offered
to get her another one just like it, and told her to present this one to
Commodore Nutt in her own name. She did so, and the Commodore, who possessed a
full proportion of masculine vanity, construed the gift to be a love token, and
poor Lavinia was much distressed, for she considered herself quite a woman, and
the Commodore only ``a nice boy.'' Still she did not like to offend him, and
continued to treat him kindly, while not actually encouraging his attentions.
At the time Tom Thumb
was not on exhibition at the Museum; he was taking a vacation at his home in
Bridgeport. One day he came to New York quite unexpectedly, and naturally
called on Mr. Barnum at the Museum. Lavinia was holding one of her levees when
he came in, and he was presented to her.
After a short interview
with her he went directly to Mr. Barnum's private office and asked to see him
alone. The door was closed and the General sat down. His first question gave
Mr. Barnum a slight inkling of the object of the interview. The General wanted
to know all about the family of Lavinia Warren. Mr. Barnum gave him all
information, and the General said, earnestly, ``That is the most charming
little lady I ever saw, and I believe she was created to be my wife. Now, Mr.
Barnum, you've always been a friend of mine, and I want you to say a good word
for me to her. I've got plenty of money and I want to marry and settle down,
and I really feel as though I must marry that young lady.''
Mr. Barnum laughed, and
recalling his ancient joke, said: ``Lavinia is already engaged, General.''
``To whom? Commodore
Nutt?'' asked Tom Thumb, jealously.
``No, to me.''
``Oh!'' laughed the
General, much relieved. ``Never mind; you may exhibit her for a while, and then
give up the engagement; but I do hope you will favor my suit with her.''
``Well, General,''
replied Barnum, ``I will not oppose your suit, but you must do your own
courting. I will tell you, however, that Commodore Nutt will be jealous of you,
and more than that, Miss Warren is nobody's fool, and you will have to proceed
very cautiously if you succeed in winning her.''
The General promised to
be very discreet. A change now came over him. He had been very fond of his
country home at Bridgeport, where he spent all his leisure time with his horses
and his yacht, for he had a great passion for the water; but now he was
constantly running down to the city, and the horses and yacht were sadly
neglected. He had a married sister living in New York, and his visits to her
multiplied to such an extent that his mother, who lived in Bridgeport, remarked
that Charles had never before shown so much brotherly affection, nor so much
fondness for city life.
His visits to the
Museum were frequent, and it was very amusing to watch his new relations with
Commodore Nutt, who strutted around like a bantam rooster whenever the General
approached Lavinia. One day the rivals got into a friendly scuffle in the
dressing-room, and the Commodore laid the General very neatly on his back.
But while the Commodore
was performing on the stage, and on Sunday afternoons and evenings, the General
found plenty of opportunities to talk to Lavinia, and it was evident that his
suit was progressing.
Finally, Tom Thumb
returned to Bridgeport, and privately begged Mr. Barnum to bring Lavinia up the
next Saturday evening, and also to invite him to the house.
His immediate object
was that his mother might see Miss Warren. Mr. Barnum agreed to the
proposition, and on the following Friday, while Miss Warren and the Commodore
were sitting in the green-room, he said:
``Lavinia, would you
like to go up to Bridgeport with me to-morrow, and stay until Monday?''
``I thank you,'' she
replied, ``it will be a great relief to get into the country for a couple of
days.''
``Mr. Barnum,'' said
the Commodore, ``I should like to go up to Bridgeport to-morrow.''
``What for?'' asked
Barnum.
``I want to see my
ponies; I have not seen them for several months;'' he replied.
Mr. Barnum remarked
that he was afraid he could not spare the Commodore from the Museum, but he
said:
``Oh! I can perform at
half past seven o'clock and then jump on the evening train and go up by myself,
reaching Bridgeport at eleven, and return early Monday morning.''
Fearing a clash of
interests between the two little men, but wishing to please the Commodore, Mr. Barnum
consented, especially as Miss Warren seemed to favor it.
The Commodore had made
his feelings almost as plain to the manager as had General Tom Thumb, but
Lavinia Warren's secret was her own. She kept up a wonderful self-possession
under the circumstances, for she must have known the reason of the General's
frequent visits to the Museum. Barnum was afraid that she intended to reject
Tom Thumb, and he told him as much; the General was nervous but determined;
hence his anxiety to have Lavinia meet his mother, and also to see the extent
of his possessions in Bridgeport.
The General met his
lady-love and Mr. Barnum at the station Saturday morning, and drove them to the
latter's house in his own carriage--the coachman being tidily dressed, with a
broad velvet ribbon and a silver buckle on his hat, especially for the
occasion.
After resting for a
half hour at Lindencroft, he came back and took Lavinia out to drive. They
stopped at his mother's house, where she saw the apartments which had been
built for him and filled with the most gorgeous furniture, all corresponding to
his diminutive size. Then he took her to East Bridgeport, and undoubtedly took
occasion to point out all of the houses which he owned, for he depended much on
his wealth making an impression on her.
He stayed to lunch at
Lindencroft, and was much pleased when Lavinia expressed her opinion that ``Mr.
Barnum or Tom Thumb owned about all Bridgeport.''
The General took his
leave and returned to five o'clock dinner, accompanied by his mother, who was
delighted with Lavinia. The General took Mr. Barnum aside and begged him for an
invitation to stay all night, ``For,'' said he, ``I intend to ask her to marry
me before the Commodore arrives.''
After tea Lavinia and
the General sat down to play backgammon. By and by the rest went to their
separate rooms, but Tom Thumb had volunteered to sit up for the Commodore, and
persuaded Miss Warren to keep him company.
The General was beaten
at backgammon, and after sitting a few minutes, he evidently thought it time to
put a clincher on his financial abilities. So he drew from his pocket a policy
of insurance and handed it to Lavinia, asking her if she knew what it was.
Examining it, she
replied, ``It is an insurance policy. I see you keep your property insured.''
``But the beauty of it
is, it is not my property,'' replied the General, ``and yet I get the benefit
of the insurance in case of fire. You will see,'' he continued, unfolding the
policy, ``this is the property of Mr. Williams, but here, you will observe, it
reads `loss, if any, payable to Charles S. Stratton, as his interest may appear.'
The fact is, I loaned Mr. Williams three thousand dollars, took a mortgage on
his house, and made him insure it for my benefit. In this way, you perceive, I
get my interest, and he has to pay the taxes.''
``That is a very wise
way, I should think,'' remarked Lavinia.
``That is the way I do
all my business,'' replied the General, complacently, as he returned the huge
insurance policy to his pocket. ``You see,'' he continued, ``I never lend any
of my money without taking bond and mortgage security, then I have no trouble
with taxes; my principal is secure, and I receive my interest regularly.''
The explanation seemed
satisfactory to Lavinia, and the General's courage began to rise. Drawing his
chair a little nearer to hers, he said:
``So you are going to
Europe, soon?''
``Yes,'' replied
Lavinia, ``Mr. Barnum intends to take me over in a couple of months.''
``You will find it very
pleasant,'' remarked the General; ``I have been there twice, in fact I have
spent six years abroad, and I like the old countries very much.''
``I hope I shall like
the trip, and I expect I shall,'' responded Lavinia; ``for Mr. Barnum says I
shall visit all the principal cities, and he has no doubt I will be invited to
appear before the Queen of England, the Emperor and Empress of France, the King
of Prussia, the Emperor of Austria, and at the courts of any other countries
which we may visit. Oh! I shall like that, it will be so new to me.''
``Yes, it will be very
interesting indeed. I have visited most of the crowned heads,'' remarked the
General, with an evident feeling of self-congratulation. ``But are you not
afraid you will be lonesome in a strange country?'' asked the General.
``No, I think there is
no danger of that, for friends will accompany me,'' was the reply.
``I wish I was going
over, for I know all about the different countries, and could explain them all
to you,'' remarked Tom Thumb.
``That would be very
nice,'' said Lavinia.
``Do you think so?''
said the General, moving his chair still closer to Lavinia's.
``Of course,'' replied
Lavinia, coolly, ``for I, being a stranger to all the habits and customs of the
people, as well as to the country, it would be pleasant to have some person
along who could answer all my foolish questions.''
``I should like it
first rate, if Mr. Barnum would engage me,'' said the General.
``I thought you
remarked the other day that you had money enough, and was tired of traveling,''
said Lavinia, with a slightly mischievous look from one corner of her eye.
``That depends upon my
company while traveling,'' replied the General.
``You might not find my
company very agreeable.''
``I would be glad to
risk it.''
``Well, perhaps Mr.
Barnum would engage you, if you asked him,'' said Lavinia.
``Would you really like
to have me go?'' asked the General, quietly insinuating his arm around her
waist, but hardly close enough to touch her.
``Of course I would,''
was the reply.
The little General's
arm clasped the waist closer as he turned his face nearer to hers, and said:
``Don't you think it
would be pleasanter if we went as man and wife?''
And after a little
hesitation she agreed that it would.
A moment later a
carriage drove up to the door, the bell rang and the Commodore entered.
``You here, General?''
said the Commodore as he espied his rival.
``Yes,'' said Lavinia,
``Mr. Barnum asked him to stay, and we were waiting for you.''
``Where is Mr.
Barnum?'' asked the Commodore.
``He has gone to bed,''
answered Tom Thumb, ``but a supper has been prepared for you.''
``I am not hungry,
thank you,'' said the Commodore petulantly, ``What room does Mr. Barnum sleep
in?''
He was answered, and
immediately went to Mr. Barnum whom he found reading in bed.
``Mr. Barnum,'' he said
sarcastically, ``does Tom Thumb board here?''
``No,'' said Mr.
Barnum, ``Tom Thumb does not board here. I invited him to stop over night, so
don't be foolish, but go to bed.''
``Oh, it's no affair of
mine. I don't care anything about it. Only I thought he'd taken up his
residence here.'' And off he went to bed, in a very bad humor.
Ten minutes after, Tom
Thumb rushed into the room in the greatest excitement, and cried joyfully:
``We're engaged, Mr. Barnum! We're engaged!''
``Is that possible?''
said Barnum.
``Yes sir, indeed it
is,'' responded the General, ``but you must'nt mention it. We've agreed to tell
no one, so don't say a word. I'm going to ask her Mother's consent Tuesday.''
Barnum swore secrecy,
and the General went off radiant with happiness.
The next day the family
plied Lavinia with all sorts of questions, but not a breath passed her lips
that would give the slightest indication as to what had transpired. She was
most amiable to the Commodore, and as the General concluded to go home the next
morning, the Commodore's happiness and good humor were fully restored. The
General made a call Sunday evening and managed to have an interview with
Lavinia. The next morning she and the Commodore returned to New York, without
Mr. Barnum.
The General called on
Monday to tell Mr. Barnum that he had concluded to send his letter to Lavinia's
mother by his friend, Mr. Wells, who had consented to go to Middleboro' the
next day, and to urge the General's suit if necessary.
The General went to New
York on Wednesday to wait there for Mr. Wells's return. That same day he and
Lavinia came to Mr. Barnum, and Tom Thumb said: ``Mr. Barnum, I want somebody
to tell the Commodore that Lavinia and I are engaged, for I'm afraid there will
be a row when he hears of it.''
``Why don't you do it
yourself, General?'' asked Barnum.
``Oh!'' said the
General, almost shuddering, ``I would not dare do it, he might knock me down.''
``I will do it
myself,'' said Lavinia. So the General retired and the Commodore was sent for. When
he had joined them, Mr. Barnum began by saying, ``Commodore, do you know what
this little witch has been doing?''
``No, I don't,'' he
answered.
``Well, she has been
cutting up the greatest prank you ever heard of. She almost deserves to be shut
up for daring to do it. Can't you guess what it is?''
He mused a moment, and
then said in a low tone, and looking full at her, ``Engaged?''
``Yes,'' said Barnum,
``actually engaged to be married to General Tom Thumb. Did you ever hear of
such a thing?''
``Is it so, Lavinia?''
he asked, earnestly.
``Yes,'' said Lavinia,
``it is really so.''
The Commodore turned
pale, choked a little, and turning on his heel, he said, in a broken voice:
``I hope you may be
happy.''
As he passed out the
door a tear rolled down his cheek. ``That's pretty hard,'' said Barnum.
``Yes it is hard,''
said Lavinia, ``and I am very sorry. Only I could'nt help it. It was all the
fault of your emerald and diamond ring.''
Half an hour later the
Commodore returned to the office and said:
``Mr. Barnum do you
think it would be right for Miss Warren to marry Charlie Stratton if her mother
should object?''
``No, indeed,'' replied
Mr. Barnum.
``Well, she says she
will marry him anyway; that she gives her mother the chance to consent, but if
she objects, she will have her way and marry him.''
``On the contrary,''
said Barnum, ``I will not permit it. She is engaged to go to Europe with me,
and I will not release her if her mother does not consent to her marriage.''
The Commodore's eyes
glistened, and he said: ``Between you and me, Mr. Barnum, I don't believe she
will consent.''
But she did, although
at first she had objected, thinking that it might be merely a money-making
scheme; but after she read Tom Thumb's letter, and heard Mr. Barnum's assurance
that he would release her from her engagement with him, in event of the
marriage, she consented.
After the Commodore
heard the news Mr. Barnum said to him:
``Never mind,
Commodore; Minnie Warren is a better match for you anyhow. She is two years
younger than you, and Lavinia is older.''
But the Commodore
replied grandly; ``Thank you sir, but I would not marry the best woman living.
I don't believe in women.''
Barnum then suggested
that he stand with Minnie, as groom and bridesmaid, but he declined. A few
weeks later, however, he told Barnum that Tom Thumb had asked him to stand with
Minnie, and that he was going to do so.
``And when I asked you,
you refused,'' said Barnum.
``It was not your
business to ask me,'' said the Commodore pompously, ``when the proper person
asked me, I accepted.''
The approaching wedding
was announced and created an immense excitement. Lavinia's levees were crowded
and she not infrequently sold three hundred dollars' worth of photographs in a
day. The General was engaged to exhibit and his own photograph was largely in
demand. The Museum was so well attended, the daily receipts being nearly three
thousand dollars, that Barnum offered them fifteen thousand dollars if they
would postpone their wedding for a month and continue the levees.
``No sir,'' said the
General excitedly, ``not for fifty thousand dollars.''
``Good for you
Charlie,'' said Lavinia, ``only you should have said one hundred thousand.''
It was suggested to
Barnum to have the wedding take place in the Academy of Music and charge a good
admission.
But Barnum refused.
Grace Church, at
Broadway and Tenth St., was the scene of this historic wedding, which occurred
at noon of Tuesday, Feb. 10, 1863. Long before the hour designated the entire
neighborhood was thronged by expectant and smiling crowds awaiting the arrival
of the happy pair with their attendants, and looking with ill-concealed envy
upon the scores of carriages that bore to the scene of action the fortunate
possessors of cards of invitation. At the entrance the ubiquitous Brown was to
be seen, bland and smiling, looking more like an honest Alderman of yore than a
sexton, and recognizing in each new deposit of youth or beauty or wealth
another star to shed lustre upon the extraordinary occasion.
Excellent police
arrangements, no less than the self-respect and decorum that always
characterizes an American crowd, secured the utmost quiet and order. The truth
was that an outsider could only have discovered the marriage to have been one
of peculiar interest from the snatches of feminine gossip that met the ear, in
which small-sized adjectives were profusely employed.
The church was crowded
with a gay assemblage of ladies and gentlemen, the former appearing in full
opera costume, and the latter in dress coats and white neck-cloths. In front of
the altar a platform three feet high covered with Brussels carpet had been
erected. Pending the arrival of the wedding cortege, Mr. Morgan performed a
number of operatic selections on the organ.
At high noon the
murmuring of the swarming throng outside and the turning of all heads townward
presaged the arrival of the bridal party; its undoubted arrival was announced
by the arrival of Barnum himself.
The bridal party
quickly entered the church, and proceeding up the middle aisle, took proper
positions upon the platform. Commodore Nutt acting as groomsman, and Miss
Minnie Warren as bridesmaid.
After several operatic
performances on the organ, the marriage services were commenced, the Rev. Dr.
Taylor and the Rev. Junius M. Willey officiating. The petite bride was given
away by the Rev. Mr. Palmer, at the request of her parents. Dr. Taylor
pronounced the marital benediction, when the party left the church and were
rapidly driven to the Metropolitan Hotel, the street, stoops, buildings and
windows in the neighborhood of which were crowded with men, women and children.
At 1 o'clock the
reception commenced, the bride and groom, attended by the Commodore and Miss
Minnie Warren, occupying a dais in one of the front parlors. The crowd soon
resolved into a perfect jam, and for some time great confusion prevailed. After
a time, certain arrangements were made by which the company were enabled to pay
their respects to the little couple.
The graceful form of
Mrs. Charles S. Stratton was shown to advantage in her bridal robe, which was
composed of plain white satin, the skirt en traine, being decorated with a
flounce of costly point lace, headed by tulle puffings; the berthe to match.
Her hair, slightly waved, was rolled a la Eugenié, and elaborately puffed in nœuds
behind, in which the bridal veil was looped: natural orange blossoms breathed
their perfume above her brow, and mingled their fragrance with the soft sighs
of her gentle bosom. Roses and japonicas composed a star-shaped bouquet, which
she held in her just-bestowed hand.
Her jewels consisted of
diamond necklace, bracelets, earrings, and a star-shaped ornament en diadem,
with brooch to match.
Mr. Stratton was
attired in a black dress coat and a vest of white corded silk, with an
undervest of blue silk.
The Commodore was
similarly attired, and Miss Minnie Warren appeared in a white silk skirt, with
a white illusion overdress, trimmed half way up the skirt with bouillonnes of
the same material, dotted with pink rosebuds. The corsage was décolléte, with
berthe to match.
At 3 o'clock the bridal
party left the reception room, and retired to their private parlor, when the
company soon after dispersed. Upon leaving the hotel the guests were supplied
with wedding cake, over two thousand boxes being thus distributed. In a parlor
adjoining that used for the reception were exhibited the bridal presents.
The jewelry and
silverware were displayed in glass cases.
That night, at 10
o'clock, the New York Excelsior Band serenaded the bridal party at the
Metropolitan, when Mr. Stratton appeared upon the balcony and made the
following speech to the large assemblage in front of the hotel:
``LADIES AND GENTLEMEN--I
thank you most sincerely for this and many other tokens of kindness showered
upon me to-day. After being for more than twenty years before the public, I
little expected at this late day, to attract so much attention. Indeed if I had
not become a family man I should never have known how high I stood in public
favor, and I assure you I appreciate highly and am truly grateful for this
evidence of your esteem and consideration. I am soon off for foreign lands, but
I shall take with me the pleasant recollection of your kindness to-day. But,
ladies and gentlemen, a little woman in the adjoining apartment is very anxious
to see us, and I must, therefore, make this speech, like myself, short. I
kindly thank the excellent band of music for its melody, the sweetness of which
is only exceeded by my anticipations of happiness in the new life before me.
And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, wishing you all health and happiness, I bid you
all a cordial good-night.'' [Applause.]
The following entirely
authentic correspondence, the only suppression being the name of the person who
wrote to Dr. Taylor, and to whom Dr. Taylor's reply is addressed, shows how a
certain would-be ``witness'' was not a witness of the famous wedding. In other
particulars the correspondence speaks for itself.
TO THE REV. DR. TAYLOR.
Sir: The object of my unwillingly addressing you this note is to inquire what
right you had to exclude myself and other owners of pews in Grace Church from
entering it yesterday, enforced, too, by a cordon of police for that purpose.
If my pew is not my property, I wish to know it; and if it is, I deny your
right to prevent me from occupying it whenever the church is open, even at a
marriage of mountebanks, which I would not take the trouble to cross the street
to witness.
Respectfully, your obedient servant,
W*** S***
804 BROADWAY, NEW YORK,
Feb. 16, 1863.
MR. W*** S***
Dear Sir: I am sorry, my valued friend, that you should have written me the
peppery letter that is now before me. If the matter of which you complain be so
utterly insignificant and contemptible as ``a marriage of mountebanks, which
you would not take the trouble to cross the street to witness,'' it surprises
me that you should have made such strenuous, but ill-directed efforts to secure
a ticket of admission. And why, permit me to ask, in the name of reason and
philosophy, do you still suffer it to disturb you so sadly? It would, perhaps,
be a sufficient answer to your letter, to say that your cause of complaint
exists only in your imagination. You have never been excluded from your pew. As
rector, I am the only custodian of the church, and you will hardly venture to
say that you have ever applied to me for permission to enter, and been refused.
Here I might safely
rest, and leave you to the comfort of your own reflections in the case. But as
you, in common with many other worthy persons, would seem to have very crude
notions as to your rights of ``property'' in pews, you will pardon me for
saying that a pew in a church is property only in a peculiar and restricted
sense. It is not property, as your house or horse is property. It vests you
with no fee in the soil; you cannot use it in any way, and in every way, and at
all times, as your pleasure or caprice may dictate; you cannot put it to any
common or unhallowed uses; you cannot remove it, nor injure it, nor destroy it.
In short, you hold by purchase, and may sell the right to, the undisturbed
possession of that little space within the church edifice which you call your
pew during the hours of divine service. But even that right must be exercised
decorously, and with a decent regard for time and place, or else you may at any
moment be ignominiously ejected from it.
I regret to be obliged
to add that, by the law of custom, you may, during those said hours of divine
service (but at no other time) sleep in your pew; you must, however, do so
noiselessly and never to the disturbance of your sleeping neighbors; your
property in your pew has this extent and nothing more. Now, if Mr. W*** S***
were at any time to come to me and say, ``Sir, I would that you should grant me
the use of Grace Church for a solemn service (a marriage, a baptism, or a
funeral, as the case may be), and as it is desirable that the feelings of the
parties should be protected as far as possible from the impertinent intrusion
and disturbance of a crowd from the streets and lanes of the city, I beg that
no one may be admitted within the doors of the church during the very few
moments that we expect to be there, but our invited friends only,''--it would
certainly, in such a case, be my pleasure to comply with your request, and to
meet your wishes in every particular; and I think that even Mr. W*** S*** will
agree that all this would be entirely reasonable and proper. Then, tell me, how
would such a case differ from the instance of which you complain? Two young
persons, whose only crimes would seem to be that they are neither so big, nor
so stupid, nor so ill-mannered, nor so inordinately selfish as some other
people, come to me and say, sir, we are about to be married, and we wish to
throw around our marriage all the solemnities of religion. We are strangers in
your city, and as there is no clergyman here standing in a pastoral relation to
us, we have ventured to ask the favor of the bishop of New York to marry us,
and he has kindly consented to do so; may we then venture a little further and
request the use of your church in which the bishop may perform the marriage
service? We assure you, sir, that we are no shams, no cheats, no mountebanks;
we are neither monsters nor abortions; it is true we are little, but we are as
God made us, perfect in our littleness. Sir, we are simply man and woman of
like passions and infirmities with you and other mortals. The arrangements for
our marriage are controlled by no ``showman,'' and we are sincerely desirous
that everything should be ordered with a most scrupulous regard to decorum. We
hope to invite our relations and intimate friends, together with such persons
as may in other years have extended civilities to either of us; but we pledge
ourselves to you most sacredly that no invitation can be bought with money.
Permit us to say further, that as we would most gladly escape from the
insulting jeers, and ribald sneers and coarse ridicule of the unthinking multitude
without, we pray you to allow us, at our own proper charges, so to guard the
avenues of access from the street, as to prevent all unseemly tumult and
disorder.
I tell you, sir, that
whenever, and from whomsoever, such an appeal is made to my Christian courtesy,
although it should come from the very humblest of the earth, I would go calmly
and cheerfully forward to meet their wishes, although as many W*** S***'s as
would reach from here to Kamtschatka, clothed in furs and frowns, should rise
up to oppose me.
In conclusion, I will
say, that if the marriage of Charles S. Stratton and Lavinia Warren is to be
regarded as a pageant, then it was the most beautiful pageant it has ever been
my privilege to witness. If, on the contrary, it is rather to be thought of as
a solemn ceremony, then it was as touchingly solemn as a wedding can possibly
be rendered. It is true the bishop was not present, but Mr. Stratton's own
pastor, the Rev. Mr. Willey, of Bridgeport, Connecticut, read the service with
admirable taste and impressiveness, and the bride was given away by her
mother's pastor and her own ``next friend,'' a venerable Congregational
clergyman from Massachusetts. Surely, there never was a gathering of so many
hundreds of our best people, when everybody appeared so delighted with
everything; surely it is no light thing to call forth so much innocent joy in
so few moments of passing time; surely it is no light thing, thus to smooth the
roughness and sweeten the acerbities which mar our happiness as we advance upon
the wearing journey of life. Sir, it was most emphatically a high triumph of
``Christian civilization!''
Respectfully submitted, by your obedient servant,
THOMAS HOUSE TAYLOR.
Not long after the
wedding, a lady called at Barnum's office and called his attention to a little
six-paged pamphlet which she said she had written. It was called ``Priests and
Pigmies,'' and she asked Barnum to read it. He glanced at the title, and at
once estimating the character of the publication, promptly declined to devote any
portion of his valuable time to its perusal.
``But you had better
look at it, Mr. Barnum; it deeply interests you, and you may think it worth
your while to buy it.''
``Certainly, I will buy
it, if you desire,'' said he, tendering her a sixpence, which he supposed to be
the price of the little pamphlet.
``Oh! you quite
misunderstand me; I mean buy the copyright and the entire edition, with the
view of suppressing the work. It says some frightful things, I assure you,''
urged the author.
He lay back in his
chair and fairly roared at this exceedingly feeble attempt at blackmail.
``But,'' persisted the
lady, ``suppose it says that your Museum and Grace Church are all one, what
then?''
``My dear madam,'' he
replied, ``you may say what you please about me or about my Museum; you may
print a hundred thousand copies of a pamphlet stating that I stole the
communion service, after the wedding, from Grace Church altar, or anything else
you choose to write; only have the kindness to say something about me, and then
come to me and I will properly estimate the money value of your services to me
as an advertising agent. Good morning, madam,''--and she departed.
BARNUM BECOMES A
REPUBLICAN--ILLUMINATING THE HOUSE OF A DEMOCRAT-- THE PEACE MEETING--ELECTED
TO THE LEGISLATURE--WAR ON THE RAILROADS---SPEECH ON THE AMENDMENT.
While he had always
taken an active interest in politics, it was many years before Barnum consented
to run for any office. In 1852 he was strongly urged to submit his name to the
State Convention, as a candidate for the office of Governor, and although the
Democratic party (to which he then belonged) was in the ascendancy, and the
nomination was equivalent to election, he still refused.
In 1860 his political
convictions were changed, and he identified himself with the Republican party.
During the exciting campaign of that year, which resulted in Lincoln's first
election to the presidency, it will be remembered that the ``Wide-Awake''
associations, with their uniforms and torchlight processions, were organized in
every city, town and village throughout the North.
One day Mr. Barnum
arrived home from New York and learned that the Bridgeport ``Wide Awakes?''
were to parade that evening and intended to march out to Lindencroft. Ordering
two boxes of candles he prepared for an illumination of every window in the
house. Many of his neighbors, among them several Democrats, came to Lindencroft
that evening to witness the parade, and to see the illumination. His next door
neighbor, Mr. T., was a strong Democrat, and before he left home, he ordered
his servants to stay in the basement, and not show a light, thus proving by the
darkness of his premises, the firmness of his Democratic principles.
Barnum urged his friend
James D. Johnson, who was not less a joker than a Democrat, to engage the
attention of Mr. and Mrs. T., and to keep their faces turned toward Bridgeport
and the approaching procession, while he and Mr. George A. Wells, also a
Democrat, ran over and illuminated Mr. T.'s. house. As the Wide-Awakes
approached and saw that the house of Mr. T. was in a blaze with light, they
concluded that he had changed his politics, and gave three rousing cheers for
him. Hearing his name, he turned and saw his house lighted from basement to
attic, and uttering one single emphatic ejaculation, he rushed for home. But he
was not able to extinguish the lights before the Wide-Awakes had gone on their
way rejoicing over his apparent conversion.
When the war broke out
in 1861, Barnum was too old for active service in the field, but he sent four
substitutes and contributed largely from his means to the support of the Union.
After Bull Run, July
21st, 1861, ``Peace Meetings'' began to be held in different parts of the
North, and especially in Connecticut. At these meetings it was usual to display
a white flag bearing the word ``Peace,'' above the national flag, and to listen
to speeches denunciatory of the war.
One of these meetings
was held August 24, 1861, at Stepney, ten miles north of Bridgeport, and Mr.
Barnum and Elias Howe, Jr., inventor of the sewing machine needle, agreed to
attend and hear for themselves whether the speeches were loyal or not. They
communicated their intention to a number of their friends, asking them to go
also, and at least twenty accepted the invitation. It was their plan to listen
quietly to the harangues, and if they found any opposition to the government or
anything calculated to create disaffection in the community, or liable to deter
enlistments,--to report the matter to the authorities at Washington and ask
that measures be taken to suppress the gatherings.
As the carriages of
these gentlemen turned into Main street they discovered two large omnibuses
filled with soldiers who were home on a furlough, and who were going to
Stepney. The lighter carriages soon outran the omnibuses, and the party arrived
at Stepney in time to see the white flag run up above the stars and stripes.
They stood quietly in the crowd, while the meeting was organized, and a
preacher--Mr. Charles Smith--was invited to open the proceedings with prayer.
``The Military and Civil History of Connecticut, during the war of 1861-65,''
by W. A. Croffut and John M. Morris, thus continues the account of the meeting:
``He (Smith) had not,
however, progressed far in his supplication, when he slightly opened his eyes,
and beheld, to his horror, the Bridgeport omnibuses coming over the hill,
garnished with Union banners, and vocal with loyal cheers. This was the signal
for a panic; Bull Run, on a small scale was re-enacted. The devout Smith, and
the undelivered orators, it is alleged, took refuge in a field of corn. The
procession drove straight to the pole unresisted, the hostile crowd parting to
let them pass; and a tall man-- John Platt--amid some mutterings, climbed the
pole, reached the halliards, and the mongrel banners were on the ground. Some
of the peace-men, rallying, drew weapons on `the invaders,' and a musket and a
revolver were taken from them by soldiers at the very instant of firing.
Another of the defenders fired a revolver, and was chased into the fields.
Still others, waxing belligerent, were disarmed, and a number of loaded muskets
found stored in an adjacent shed were seized. The stars and stripes were
hoisted upon the pole, and wildly cheered. P. T. Barnum was then taken on the
shoulders of the boys in blue, and put on the platform, where he made a speech
full of patriotism, spiced with the humor of the occasion. Captain James E.
Dunham also said a few words to the point. * * * * `The Star Spangled Banner'
was then sung in chorus, and a series of resolutions passed, declaring that
`loyal men are the rightful custodians of the peace of Connecticut.' Elias
Howe, Jr., chairman, made his speech, when the crowd threatened to shoot the
speakers. `If they fire a gun, boys, burn the whole town, and I'll pay for it!'
After giving the citizens wholesome advice concerning the substituted flag, and
their duty to the government, the procession returned to Bridgeport with the
white flag trailing in the mud behind an omnibus. * * * * They were received at
Bridgeport by approving crowds, and were greeted with continuous cheers as they
passed along.''
In the Spring of 1865,
Barnum accepted from the Republican party a nomination to the Connecticut
Legislature, from the town of Fairfield, and he did so mainly because he wished
to vote for the then proposed amendment to the Constitution, to abolish slavery
forever from the land.
He was elected, and on
arriving at Hartford the night before the session began, found the wire pullers
at work, laying their plans for the election of a Speaker of the House.
Barnum, with his usual
penetration and shrewdness, saw that the railroad interests had combined in
support of one of the candidates, and seeing in this, no promise of good to the
community at large, he at once consulted with a few friends in the Legislature,
and they resolved to defeat the railroad ``ring,'' if possible, in caucus.
Their efforts were successful and the railroad's candidate was not elected.
Immediately after the
caucus, Barnum sought the successful nominee, Hon. E. K. Foster, of New Haven,
and begged him not to appoint as chairman of the Railroad Committee the man who
had held the office for several successive years, and who was, in fact, the
great railroad factotum of the State. The speaker complied with Barnum's
request, and he soon saw how important it was to check the strong and growing
monopoly; for, as he said, the ``outside pressure'' to secure the appointment
of the objectionable party was terrible.
Although Barnum had not
foreseen such a thing until he reached Hartford, he soon discovered that a
battle with the railroad commissioners would be necessary, and his course was
shaped accordingly. A majority of the commissioners were mere tools in the
hands of the railroad companies, and one of them was actually a hired clerk in
the office of the New York and New Haven Railroad Company. It was also shown
that the chairman of the commissioners permitted most of the accidents which
occurred on that road to be taken charge of and reported upon by their paid
lobby agent.
This was so manifestly
destructive to the interests of all parties who might suffer from accidents on
the road, or have any controversy with the company, that the farmers, and the
anti-monopolist element united to defeat the chairman of the railroad
commissioners, who was a candidate for re-election, and to put their own
candidate in his place.
Through Barnum's
efforts a law was passed that no person in the employ of any railroad in the
State, should serve as railroad commissioner.
But the great struggle,
which lasted through the entire session, was upon the subject of railroad
passenger commutations. Commodore Vanderbilt had secured control of the Hudson
River and Harlem railroads, and had increased the price of commuters' tickets,
from two hundred to four hundred per cent. Many men living on the line of these
roads, ten to fifty miles from New York, had built fine residences in the
country on the strength of cheap transit to and from the city, and were now
compelled to submit to the extortion. Commodore Vanderbilt was also a large
shareholder in the New York and New Haven road, and it seemed evident that the
same practice would be introduced there Barnum therefore enlisted as many as he
could in a strong effort to strangle the outrage before it became too strong to
grapple with. Several lawyers in the Assembly promised their aid, but before
the final struggle came, all but one, in the whole body, had enlisted in favor
of the railroads.
What influence had been
at work with these gentlemen was, of course, a matter of conjecture.
Certain it is that all
the railroad interests in the State were combined; and while they had plenty of
money with which to carry out their designs, the chances were small indeed for
those members of the legislature who were struggling for simple justice, and
who had no pecuniary interests at stake.
Nevertheless, every
inch of ground was fought over, day after day, before the legislative railroad
committee; examinations and cross-examinations of railroad commissioners and
lobbyists were kept up. Scarcely more than one man, Senator Ballard, of Darien,
lent his personal aid to Barnum in the investigation, but together they left
not a stone unturned.
The man who was
prevented from being appointed chairman succeeded in becoming one of the
railroad commissioners, but so much light was thrown on his connection with
railroad reports, railroad laws and lobbying, by the indefatigable Barnum, the,
the man took to his bed, some ten days before the close of the session, and
actually staid there ``sick '' until the legislature adjourned.
The amendment to the
United States Constitution abolishing slavery met with little opposition; but
the proposed amendment to the State Constitution, giving the right of suffrage
to the negro, was violently opposed by the Democratic members. The report from
the minority of the committee to whom the question was referred gave certain
reasons for rejecting the contemplated amendment, and in reply to this minority
report, Barnum spoke, May 26th, 1865, as follows:--
ON THE CONSTITUTIONAL
AMENDMENT.
Mr. Speaker: I will not
attempt to notice at any length the declamation of the honorable gentleman from
Milford, for certainly I have heard nothing from his lips approaching to the
dignity of argument. I agree with the gentleman that the right of suffrage is
``dearly and sacredly cherished by the white man''; and it is because this
right is so dear and sacred, that I wish to see it extended to every educated
moral man within our State, without regard to color. He tells us that one race
is a vessel to honor, and another to dishonor; and that he has seen on ancient
Egyptian monuments the negro represented as ``a hewer of wood and a drawer of
water.'' This is doubtless true, and the gentleman seems determined always to
keep the negro a ``vessel of dishonor,'' and a ``hewer of wood.'' We, on the
other hand, propose to give him the opportunity of expanding his faculties and
elevating himself to true manhood. He says he ``hates and abhors, and despises
demagogism.'' I am rejoiced to hear it, and I trust we shall see tangible
evidence of the truth of what he professes in his abandonment of that slavery
to party which is the mere trick and trap of the demagogue.
When, a few days since,
this honorable body voted unanimously for the Amendment of the United States
Constitution, abolishing human slavery, I not only thanked God from my heart of
hearts, but I felt like going down on my knees to the gentlemen of the
opposition, for the wisdom they had exhibited in bowing to the logic of events
by dropping that dead weight of slavery which had disrupted the Democratic
party, with which I had been so long connected. And on this occasion I wish
again to appeal to the wisdom and loyalty of my Democratic friends. I say
Democratic ``friends,'' for I am and ever was, a thorough, out and out
Democrat. I supported General Jackson, and voted for every Democratic president
after him, up to and including Pierce; for I really thought Pierce was a
Democrat until he proved the contrary, as I conceived, in the Kansas question.
My democracy goes for the greatest good to the greatest number, for equal and
exact justice to all men, and for a submission to the will of the majority. It
was the repudiation by the Southern Democracy of this great democratic doctrine
of majority rule which opened the rebellion.
And now, Mr. Speaker,
let me remind our Democratic friends that the present question simply asks that
a majority of the legal voters, the white citizens of this State, may decide
whether or not colored men of good moral character, who are able to read, and
who possess all the qualifications of white voters, shall be entitled to the
elective franchise. The opposition may have their own ideas, or may be in doubt
upon this subject; but surely no true Democrat will dare to refuse permission
to our fellow-citizens to decide the question.
Negro slavery, and its
legitimate outgrowths of ignorance, tyranny and oppression, have caused this
gigantic rebellion, which has cost our country thousands of millions of
treasure, and hundreds of thousands of human lives in defending a principle.
And where was this poor, down-trodden colored race in this rebellion? Did they
seize the ``opportunity'' when their masters were engaged with a powerful foe,
to break out in insurrection, and massacre those tyrants who had so long held
them in the most cruel bondage? No, Mr. Speaker, they did not do this. My
``Democratic'' friends would have done it. I would have done it. Irishmen,
Chinamen, Portuguese, would have done it; any white man would have done it; but
the poor black man is like a lamb in his nature compared with the white man.
The black man possesses a confiding disposition, thoroughly tinctured with
religious enthusiasm, and not characterized by a spirit of revenge. No, the
only barbarous massacres we heard of, during the war, were those committed by
their white masters on their poor, defenceless white prisoners, and to the
eternal disgrace of southern white ``Democratic'' rebels, be it said, these
instances of barbarism were numerous all through the war. When this rebellion
first broke out, the northern Democracy raised a hue-and-cry against permitting
the negroes to fight; but when such a measure seemed necessary, in order to put
down traitors, these colored men took their muskets in hand and made their
bodies a wall of defence for the loyal citizens of the North. And now, when our
grateful white citizens ask from this assembly the privilege of deciding by
their votes whether these colored men, who at least, were partially our
saviours in the war, may or may not, under proper restrictions, become
participants in that great salvation, I am amazed that men calling themselves
Democrats dare refuse to grant this democratic measure. We wish to educate
ignorant men, white or black. Ignorance is incompatible with the genius of our
free institutions. In the very nature of things it jeopardizes their stability,
and it is always unsafe to transgress the laws of nature. We cannot safely shut
ourselves up with ignorance and brutality; we must educate and Christianize
those who are now by circumstances our social inferiors.
Years ago, I was afraid
of foreign voters. I feared that when Europe poured her teeming millions of
working people upon our shores, our extended laws of franchise would enable
them to swamp our free institutions, and reduce us to anarchy. But much
reflection has satisfied me that we have only to elevate these millions and
their descendants to the standard of American citizenship, and we shall find
sufficient of the leaven of liberty in our system of government to absorb all
foreign elements and assimilate them to a truly democratic form of government.
Mr. Speaker: We cannot
afford to carry passengers and have them live under our government with no real
vital interest in its perpetuity. Every man must be a joint owner.
The only safe
inhabitants of a free country are educated citizens who vote.
Nor in a free
government can we afford to employ journeymen; they may be apprenticed until
they learn to read, and study our institutions; and then let them become joint
proprietors and feel a proportionate responsibility. The two learned and
distinguished authors of the minority report have been studying the science of
ethnology and have treated us with a dissertation on the races. And what have
they attempted to show? Why, that a race which, simply on account of the color
of the skin, has long been buried in slavery at the South, and even at the
North has been tabooed and scarcely permitted to rise above the dignity of
whitewashers and boot-blacks, does not exhibit the same polish and refinement
that the white citizens do who have enjoyed the advantages of civilization,
education, Christian culture and self-respect which can only be attained by
those who share in making the laws under which they live.
Do our Democratic
friends assume that the negroes are not human? I have heard professed Democrats
claim even that; but do the authors of this minority report insist that the
negro is a beast? Is his body not tenanted by an immortal spirit? If this is
the position of the gentlemen, then I confess a beast cannot reason, and this
minority committee are right in declaring that ``the negro can develop no
inventive faculties or genius for the arts.'' For although the elephant may be
taught to plow, or the dog to carry your market-basket by his teeth, you cannot
teach them to shave notes, to speculate in gold, or even to vote; whereas, the
experience of all political parties shows that men may be taught to vote, even
when they do not know what the ticket means.
But if the colored man
is indeed a man, then his manhood with proper training can be developed. His
soul may appear dormant, his brain inactive, but there is a vitality there; and
Nature will assert herself if you will give her the opportunity.
Suppose an inhabitant
of another planet should drop down upon this portion of our globe at
mid-winter. He would find the earth covered with snow and ice, and congealed
almost to the consistency of granite. The trees are leafless, everything is
cold and barren; no green thing is to be seen; the inhabitants are chilled, and
stalk about shivering, from place to place; he would exclaim, ``Surely this is
not life; this means annihilation. No flesh and blood can long endure this;
this frozen earth is bound in the everlasting embraces of adamantine frost, and
can never develop vegetation for the sustenance of any living thing.'' He
little dreams of the priceless myriads of germs which bountiful Nature has
safely garnered in the warm bosom of our mother earth; he sees no evidence of
that vitality which the beneficent sun will develop to grace and beautify the
world. But let him remain till March or April, and as the snow begins to melt
away, he discovers the beautiful crocus struggling through the half-frozen
ground; the snow-drops appear in all their chaste beauty; the buds of the
swamp-maple shoot forth; the beautiful magnolia opens her splendid blossoms;
the sassafras adds its evidence of life; the pearl-white blossoms of the
dog-wood light up every forest: and while our stranger is rubbing his eyes in
astonishment, the earth is covered with her emerald velvet carpet; rich foliage
and brilliant colored blossoms adorn the trees; fragrant flowers are
enwreathing every wayside; the swift-winged birds float through the air and send
forth joyous notes of gratitude from every tree-top; the merry lambs skip
joyfully around their verdant pasture-grounds; and everywhere is our stranger
surrounded with life, beauty, joy and gladness.
So it is with the poor
African. You may take a dozen specimens of both sexes from the lowest type of
man found in Africa; their race has been buried for ages in ignorance and
barbarism, and you can scarcely perceive that they have any more of manhood or
womanhood than so many orang-outangs or gorillas. You look at their low
foreheads, their thick skulls and lips, their woolly heads, their flat noses,
their dull, lazy eyes, and you may he tempted to adopt the language of this
minority committee, and exclaim: Surely these people have ``no inventive
faculties, no genius for the arts, or for any of those occupations requiring
intellect and wisdom.'' But bring them out into the light of civilization; let
them and their children come into the genial sunshine of Christianity; teach
them industry, self-reliance, and self-respect; let them learn what too few
white Christians have yet understood, that cleanliness is akin to godliness,
and a part of godliness; and the human soul will begin to develop itself. Each
generation, blessed with churches and common schools will gradually exhibit the
result of such culture; the low foreheads will be raised and widened by an
active and expanded brain; the vacant eye of barbarism, ignorance and idleness
will light up with the fire of intelligence, education, ambition, activity and
Christian civilization; and you will find the immortal soul asserting her
dignity, by the development of a man who would startle by his intelligence the
honorable gentleman from Wallingford, who has presumed to compare beings made
in God's image with ``oxen and asses.'' That honorable gentleman, if he is
rightly reported in the papers (I did not have the happiness to hear his
speech), has mistaken the nature of the colored man. The honorable gentleman
reminds me of the young man who went abroad, and when he returned, there was
nothing in America that could compare with what he had seen in foreign lands.
Niagara Falls was nowhere; the White Mountains were ``knocked higher than a
kite'' by Mont Blanc; our rivers were so large that they were vulgar, when contrasted
with the beautiful little streams and rivulets of Europe; our New York Central
Park was eclipsed by the Bois de Bologne and the Champs Elysees of Paris, or
Hyde or Regent Park of London, to say nothing of the great Phœnix Park at
Dublin.
``They have introduced
a couple of Venetian gondolas on the large pond in Central Park,'' remarked a
friend.
``All very well,''
replied the verdant traveler, ``but between you and me, these birds can't stand
our cold climate more than one season.'' The gentleman from Wallingford
evidently had as little idea of the true nature of the African as the young
swell had of the pleasure-boats of Venice.
Mr. Johnson, of
Wallingford: ``The gentleman misapprehends my remarks. The gentleman from
Norwich had urged that the negro should vote because they have fought in our
battles. I replied that oxen and asses can fight, and therefore should, on the
same grounds, be entitled to vote.''
Mr. Barnum: I accept
the gentleman's explanation. Doubtless General Grant will feel himself highly
complimented when he learns that it requires no greater capacity to handle the
musket, and meet armed battalions in the field, than ``oxen and asses''
possess.
Let the educated free
negro feel that he is a man; let him be trained in New England churches,
schools and workshops; let him support himself, pay his taxes, and cast his
vote, like other men, and he will put to everlasting shame the champions of
modern Democracy, by the overwhelming evidence he will give in his own person
of the great Scripture truth, that ``God has made of one blood all the nations
of men.'' A human soul, ``that God has created and Christ died for,'' is not to
be trifled with. It may tenant the body of a Chinaman, a Turk, an Arab or a
Hottentot--it is still an immortal spirit; and, amid all assumptions of caste,
it will in due time vindicate the great fact that, without regard to color or
condition, all men are equally children of the common Father.
A few years since, an
English lord and his family were riding in his carriage in Liverpool. It was an
elegant equipage; the servants were dressed in rich livery; the horses
caparisoned in the most costly style; and everything betokened that the
establishment belonged to a scion of England's proudest aristocracy. The
carriage stopped in front of a palatial residence. At this moment a poor beggar
woman rushed to the side of the carriage, and gently seizing the lady by the
hand, exclaimed, ``For the love of God give me something to save my poor sick
children from starvation. You are rich; I am your poor sister, for God is our
common Father.''
``Wretch!'' exclaimed
the proud lady, casting the woman's hand away; ``don't call me sister; I have
nothing in common with such low brutes as you.'' And the great lady doubtless
thought she was formed of finer clay than this suffering mendicant; but when a
few days afterward she was brought to a sick bed by the smallpox, contracted by
touching the hand of that poor wretch, she felt the evidence that they belonged
to the same great family, and were subject to the same pains and diseases.
The State of
Connecticut, like New Jersey, is a border State of New York. New York has a
great commercial city, where aldermen rob by the tens of thousands, and where
principal is studied much more than principle. I can readily understand how the
negro has come to be debased at the North as well as at the South. The
interests of the two sections in the product of negro labor were nearly
identical. The North wanted Southern cotton and the South was ready in turn to
buy from the North whatever was needed in the way of Northern supplies and
manufactures. This community of commercial interests led to an identity in
political principles, especially in matters pertaining to the negro race--the
working race of the South--which produced the cotton and consumed so much of
what Northern merchants and manufacturers sold for plantation use. The Southern
planters were good customers and were worth conciliating. So when Connecticut
proposed in 1818 to continue to admit colored men to the franchise, the South
protested against thus elevating the negroes, and Connecticut succumbed. No
other New England State has ever so disgraced herself; and now Connecticut
Democrats are asked to permit the white citizens of this State to express their
opinion in regard to reinstating the colored man where our Revolutionary sires
placed him under the Constitution. Now, gentlemen, ``Democrats,'' as you call
yourselves, you who speak so flippantly of your ``loyalty,'' your ``love for
the Union'' and your ``love for the people''; you who are generally talking
right and voting wrong, we ask you to come forward and act ``democratically,''
by letting your masters, the people, speak.
The word ``white'' in
the Constitution cannot be strictly and literally construed. The opposition
express great love for white blood. Will they let a mulatto vote half the time,
a quadroon three-fourths, and an octoroon seven-eighths of the time? If not,
why not? Will they enslave seven-eighths of a white man because one-eighth is
not Caucasian? Is this democratic? Shall not the majority seven control the
minority one? Out on such ``democracy.''
But a Democratic
minority committee (of two) seem to have done something besides study
ethnology. They have also paid great attention to fine arts, and are
particularly anxious that all voters shall have a ``genius for the arts.'' I
would like to ask them if it has always been political practice to insist that
every voter in the great ``unwashed'' and ``unterrified'' of any party should
become a member of the Academy of Arts before he votes the ``regular'' ticket?
I thought he was received into the full fellowship of a political party if he
could exhibit sufficient ``inventive faculties and genius for the arts,'' to
enable him to paint a black eye. Can a man whose ``genius for the arts''
enables him to strike from the shoulder scientifically, be admitted to full
fellowship in a political party? Is it evident that the political artist has
studied the old masters, if he exhibits his genius by tapping an opponent's
head with a shillelah? The oldest master in this school of art was Cain; and so
canes have been made to play their part in politics, at the polls and even in
the United States Senate Chamber.
Is ``genius for the
arts and those occupations requiring intellect and wisdom'' sufficiently
exemplified in adroitly stuffing ballot-boxes, forging soldiers' votes, and
copying a directory, as has been done, as the return list of votes? Is the
``inventive faculty'' of ``voting early and often'' a passport to political
brotherhood? Is it satisfactory evidence of ``artistic'' genius, to head a mob?
and a mob which is led and guided by political passion, as numerous instances
in our history prove, is the worst of mobs. Is it evidence of ``high art'' to
lynch a man by hanging him to the nearest tree or lamp-post? Is a ``whisky
scrimmage'' one of the lost arts restored? We all know how certain ``artists''
are prone to embellish elections and to enhance the excitements of political
campaigns by inciting riots, and the frequency with which these disgraceful
outbreaks have occurred of late, especially in some of the populous cities, is
cause for just alarm. It is dangerous ``art.''
Mr. Speaker: I repeat
that I am a friend to the Irishman. I have traveled through his native country
and have seen how he is oppressed. I have listened to the eloquent and
patriotic appeals of Daniel O'Connell, in Conciliation Hall, in Dublin, and I
have gladly contributed to his fund for ameliorating the condition of his
countrymen. I rejoice to see them rushing to this land of liberty and
independence; and it is because I am their friend that I denounce the
demagogues who attempt to blind and mislead them to vote in the interests of
any party against the interests of humanity, and the principles of true
democracy. My neighbors will testify that at mid-winter I employ Irishmen by
the hundred to do work that is not absolutely necessary, in order to help them
support their families.
After hearing the
minority report last week, I began to feel that I might be disfranchised, for I
have no great degree of ``genius for the arts;'' I felt, therefore, that I must
get ``posted'' on that subject as soon as possible. I at once sauntered into
the Senate Chamber to look at the paintings: there I saw portraits of great
men, and I saw two empty frames from which the pictures had been removed. These
missing paintings, I was told, were portraits of two ex-Governors of the State,
whose position on political affairs was obnoxious to the dominant party in the
Legislature; and especially obnoxious were the supposed sentiments of these
governors on the war. Therefore, the Senate voted to remove the pictures, and
thus proved, as it would seem, that there is an intimate connection between
politics and art.
I have repeatedly
traveled through every State in the South, and I assert, what every intelligent
officer and soldier who has resided there will corroborate, that the slaves, as
a body are more intelligent than the poor whites. No man who has not been there
can conceive to what a low depth of ignorance the poor snuff-taking,
clay-eating whites of some portions of the South have descended. I trust the
day is not far distant when the ``common school'' shall throw its illuminating
rays through this Egyptian pall.
I have known slave
mechanics to be sold for $3,000, and even $5,000 each, and others could not be
bought at all; and I have seen intelligent slaves acting as stewards for their
masters, traveling every year to New Orleans, Nashville, and even to
Cincinnati, to dispose of their masters' crops. The tree colored citizens of
Opelousas, St. Martinsville, and all the Attakapas country in Louisiana, are as
respectable and intelligent as an ordinary community of whites. They speak the
French and English languages, educate their children in music and ``the arts,''
and they pay their taxes on more than fifteen millions of dollars.
Gentlemen of the
opposition, I beseech you to remember that our State and our country ask from
us something more than party tactics. It is absolutely necessary that the loyal
blacks at the South should vote, in order to save the loyal whites. Let
Connecticut, without regard to party, set them an example that shall influence
the action at the South, and prevent a new form of slavery from arising there,
which shall make all our expenditure of blood and treasure fruitless.
But some persons have
this color prejudice simply by the force of education, and they say, ``Well, a
nigger is a nigger, and he can't be anything else. I hate niggers, anyhow.''
Twenty years ago I crossed the Atlantic, and among our passengers was an Irish
judge, who was coming out to Newfoundland as chief justice. He was an
exceedingly intelligent and polished gentleman, and extremely witty. The passengers
from the New England States and those from the South got into a discussion on
the subject of slavery, which lasted three days. The Southerners were finally
worsted, and when their arguments were exhausted, they fell back on the old
story, by saying: ``Oh! curse a nigger, he ain't half human anyhow; he had no
business to be a nigger, etc.'' One of the gentlemen then turned to the Irish
judge, and asked his opinion of the merits of the controversy. The judge
replied:
``Gentlemen, I have
listened with much edification to your arguments pro and con during three days.
I was quite inclined to think the anti-slavery gentlemen had justice and right
on their side, but the last argument from the South has changed my mind. I say
a `nigger has no business to be a nigger,' and we should kick him out of
society and trample him under foot-- always provided, gentlemen, you prove he
was born black at his own particular request. If he had no word to say in the
matter, of course he is blameless for his color, and is entitled to the same
respect that other men are who properly behave themselves!''
Mr. Speaker: I am no
politician; I came to this legislature simply because I wish to have the honor
of voting for the two constitutional amendments--one for driving slavery entirely
out of our country; the other to allow men of education and good moral
character to vote, regardless of the color of their skins. To give my voice for
these two philanthropic, just and Christian measures is all the glory I ask
legislativewise. I care nothing whatever for any sect or party under heaven, as
such. I have no axes to grind, no logs to roll, no favors to ask. All I desire
is to do what is right, and prevent what is wrong. I believe in no
``expediency'' that is not predicated of justice, for in all things--politics,
as well as everything else--I know that ``honesty is the best policy.'' A
retributive Providence will unerringly and speedily search out all wrong-doing;
hence, right is always the best in the long run. Certainly,, in the light of the
great American spirit of liberty and equal rights which is sweeping over this
country, and making the thrones of tyrants totter in the Old World, no party
can afford to carry slavery, either of body or of mind. Knock off your manacles
and let the man go free. Take down the blinds from his intellect, and let in
the light of education and Christian culture. When this is done you have
developed a man. Give him the responsibility of a man and the self-respect of a
man, by granting him the right of suffrage, Let universal education, and the
universal franchise be the motto of free America, and the toiling millions of
Europe, who are watching you with such intense interest, will hail us as their
saviours. Let us loyally sink ``party'' on this question, and go for ``God and
our Country.'' Let no man attach an eternal stigma to his name by shutting his
eyes to the great lesson of the hour, and voting against permitting the people
to express their opinion on this important subject. Let us unanimously grant
this truly democratic boon. Then, when our laws of franchise are settled on a
just basis, let future parties divide where they honestly differ on State or
national questions which do nor trench upon the claims of manhood or American
citizenship.
HOW BARNUM RECEIVED THE
TIDINGS--HUMOROUS DESCRIPTION OF THE FIRE--A PUBLIC CALAMITY--GREELEY'S
ADVICE--INTENTION TO RE-ESTABLISH THE MUSEUM--SPEECH AT EMPLOYEES' BENEFIT.
On the 13th day of
July, 1865, when Barnum was speaking in the Legislature at Hartford, against
the railroad schemes, a telegram was handed him from his son-in-law and
assistant manager in New York, S. H. Hurd, saying that the American Museum was
in flames and its total destruction certain.
Barnum glanced at the
dispatch, folded and laid it in his desk, and went calmly on with his speech.
At the conclusion of his remarks, the bill which he was advocating was voted
upon and carried, and the House adjourned.
Not until then did
Barnum hand the telegram to his friend, William G. Coe, of Winsted, who
immediately communicated the intelligence to several members.
Warm sympathizers at
once crowded around him, and one of his strongest opponents pushing forward,
seized his hand, and said: ``Mr. Barnum, I am truly sorry to hear of your great
misfortune.''
``Sorry,'' replied
Barnum; ``why, my dear sir, I shall not have time to be sorry in a week! It
will take me at least that length of time before I can get over laughing at
having whipped you all so nicely on that bill.''
But he did find time to
be sorry when, next day, he went to New York and saw nothing of what had been
the American Museum but a smouldering mass of débris.
Here was destroyed, in
a few hours, the result of many years' toil in accumulating from every part of
the world myriads of curious productions of nature and art--a collection which
a half a million of dollars and a quarter of a century could not restore.
In addition to these,
there were many Revolutionary relics and other articles of historical interest
that could never be duplicated. Not a thousand dollars worth of property was
saved; the loss was irreparable, and the insurance was only forty thousand
dollars.
The fire probably
originated in the engine-room, where steam was constantly kept up to pump fresh
air into the waters of the aquaria and to propel the immense fans for cooling
the atmosphere of the rooms.
All the New York
newspapers made a great ``sensation'' of the fire, and the full particulars
were copied in journals throughout the country. A facetious reporter; Mr.
Nathan D. Urner, of the Tribune, wrote the following amusing account, which
appeared in that journal, July 14, 1865, and was very generally quoted from and
copied by provincial papers, many of whose readers accepted every line of the
glowing narrative as ``gospel truth:''
``Soon after the
breaking out of the conflagration, a number of strange and terrible howls and
moans proceeding from the large apartment in the third floor of the Museum,
corner of Ann street and Broadway, startled the throngs who had collected in
front of the burning building, and who were at first under the impression that
the sounds must proceed from human beings unable to effect their escape. Their
anxiety was somewhat relieved on this score, but their consternation was by no
means decreased upon learning that the room in question was the principal chamber
of the menagerie connected with the Museum, and that there was imminent danger
of the release of the animals there confined, by the action of the flames. Our
reporter fortunately occupied a room on the north corner of Ann street and
Broadway, the windows of which looked immediately into this apartment; and no
sooner was he apprised of the fire than he repaired there, confident of finding
items in abundance. Luckily the windows of the Museum were unclosed, and he had
a perfect view of almost the entire interior of the apartment. The following is
his statement of what followed, in his own language.
``Protecting myself
from the intense heat as well as I could by taking the mattress from the bed
and erecting it as a bulwark before the window, with only enough space reserved
on the top so as to look out, I anxiously observed the animals in the opposite
room. Immediately opposite the window through which I gazed was a large cage
containing a lion and lioness. To the right hand was the three-storied cage, containing
monkeys at the top, two kangaroos in the second story, and a happy family of
cats, rats, adders, rabbits, etc., in the lower apartment. To the left of the
lions' cage was the tank containing the two vast alligators, and still further
to the left, partially hidden from my sight, was the grand tank containing the
great white whale, which has created such a furore in our sightseeing midst for
the past few weeks. Upon the floor were caged the boa-constrictor, anacondas
and rattlesnakes, whose heads would now and then rise menacingly through the
top of the cage. In the extreme right was the cage, entirely shut from my view
at first, containing the Bengal tiger and the Polar bear, whose terrific growls
could be distinctly heard from behind the partition. With a simultaneous bound
the lion and his mate sprang against the bars, which gave way and came down
with a great crash, releasing the beasts, which for a moment, apparently amazed
at their sudden liberty, stood in the middle of the floor lashing their sides
with their tails and roaring dolefully.
``Almost at the same
moment the upper part of the three-storied cage, consumed by the flames, fell
forward, letting the rods drop to the floor, and many other animals were set
free. Just at this time the door fell through and the flames and smoke rolled
in like a whirlwind from the Hadean river Cocytus. A horrible scene in the
right-hand corner of the room, a yell of indescribable agony, and a crashing,
grating sound, indicated that the tiger and Polar bear were stirred up to the
highest pitch of excitement. Then there came a great crash, as of the giving
way of the bars of their cage. The flames and smoke momentarily rolled back,
and for a few seconds the interior of the room was visible in the lurid light
of the flames, which revealed the tiger and the lion, locked together in close
combat.
``The monkeys were
perched around the windows, shivering with dread, and afraid to jump out. The
snakes were writhing about, crippled and blistered by the heat, darting out
their forked tongues, and expressing their rage and fear in the most sibilant
of hisses. The `Happy Family' were experiencing an amount of beatitude which
was evidently too cordial for philosophical enjoyment. A long tongue of flame
had crept under the cage, completely singing every hair from the cat's body.
The felicitous adder was slowly burning in two and busily engaged in
impregnating his organic system with his own venom. The joyful rat had lost his
tail by a falling bar of iron; and the beatific rabbit, perforated by a red-hot
nail, looked as if nothing would be more grateful than a cool corner in some
Esquimaux farm-yard. The members of the delectated convocation were all huddled
together in the bottom of their cage, which suddenly gave way, precipitating
them out of view in the depths below, which by this time were also blazing like
the fabled Tophet.
``At this moment the
flames rolled again into the room, and then again retired. The whale and
alligators were by this time suffering dreadful torments. The water in which
they swam was literally boiling. The alligators dashed fiercely about,
endeavoring to escape, and opening and shutting their great jaws in ferocious
torture; but the poor whale, almost boiled, with great ulcers bursting from his
blubbery sides, could only feebly swim about, though blowing excessively, and
every now and then sending up great fountains of spray. At length, crack went
the glass sides of the great cases, and whale and alligators rolled out on the
floor with the rushing and steaming water. The whale died easily, having been
pretty well used up before. A few great gasps and a convulsive flap or two of
his mighty flukes were his expiring spasm. One of the alligators was killed
almost immediately by falling across a great fragment of shattered glass, which
cut open his stomach and let out the greater part of his entrails to the light
of day. The remaining alligator became involved in a controversy with an
anaconda, and joined the melee in the centre of the flaming apartment.
``A number of birds
which were caged in the upper part of the building were set free by some
charitably inclined person at the first alarm of fire, and at intervals they
flew out. There were many valuable tropical birds, parrots, cockatoos,
mockingbirds, humming-birds, etc., as well as some vultures and eagles, and one
condor. Great excitement existed among the swaying crowds in the streets below
as they took wing. There were confined in the same room a few serpents, which
also obtained their liberty; and soon after the rising and devouring flames
began to enwrap the entire building, a splendid and emblematic sight was
presented to the wondering and upgazing throngs. Bursting through the central
casement, with flap of wings and lashing coils, appeared an eagle and a serpent
wreathed in fight. For a moment they hung poised in mid-air, presenting a novel
and terrible conflict. It was the earth and air (or their respective
representatives) at war for mastery; the base and the lofty, the groveller and
the soarer, were engaged in deadly battle. At length the flat head of the
serpent sank; his writhing, sinuous form grew still; and wafted upward by the
cheers of the gazing multitude, the eagle, with a scream of triumph, and
bearing his prey in his iron talons, soared towards the sun. Several monkeys
escaped from the burning building to the neighboring roofs and streets; and
considerable excitement was caused by the attempts to secure them. One of the
most amusing incidents in this respect, was in connection with Mr. James Gordon
Bennett. The veteran editor of the Herald was sitting in his private office,
with his back to the open window, calmly discussing with a friend the chances
that the Herald establishment would escape the conflagration, which at that
time was threateningly advancing up Ann street towards Nassau street. In the
course of his conversation, Mr. Bennett observed: `Although I have usually had
good luck in cases of fire, they say that the devil is ever at one's shoulder,
and'--here an exclamation from his friend interrupted him, and turning quickly
he was considerably taken aback at seeing the devil himself, or something like
him, at his very shoulder as he spoke. Recovering his equanimity, with the ease
and suavity which is usual with him in all company, Mr. Bennett was about to
address the intruder, when he perceived that what he had taken for the
gentleman in black was nothing more than a frightened orang-outang. The poor
creature, but recently released from captivity, and doubtless thinking that he
might fill some vacancy in the editoral corps of the paper in question, had
descended by the water-pipe and instinctively taken refuge in the inner sanctum
of the establishment. Although the editor--perhaps from the fact that he saw
nothing peculiarly strange in the visitation--soon regained his composure, it
was far otherwise with his friend, who immediately gave the alarm. Mr. Hudson
rushed in and boldly attacked the monkey, grasping him by the throat. The
book-editor next came in, obtaining a clutch upon the brute by the ears; the
musical critic followed and seized the tail with both hands, and a number of
reporters, armed with inkstands and sharpened pencils, came next, followed by a
dozen policemen with brandished clubs; at the same time, the engineer in the
basement received the preconcerted signal and got ready his hose, wherewith to
pour boiling hot water upon the heads of, those in the streets, in case it
should prove a regular systematized attack by gorillas, Brazil apes, and
chimpanzees. Opposed to this formidable combination the rash intruder fared
badly, and was soon in durance vile. Numerous other incidents of a similar kind
occurred; but some of the most amusing were in connection with the wax figures.
``Upon the same impulse
which prompts men in time of fire to fling valuable looking-glasses out of
three-story windows, and at the same time tenderly to lower down feather
beds--soon after the Museum took fire, a number of sturdy firemen rushed into
the building to carry out the wax figures. There were thousands of valuable
articles which might have been saved if there had been less of solicitude
displayed for the miserable effigies which are usually exhibited under the
appellation of `wax figures.' As it was, a dozen firemen rushed into the apartment
where the figures were kept, amid a multitude of crawling snakes, chattering
monkeys and escaped paroquets. The `Dying Brigand' was unceremoniously
throttled and dragged towards the door; liberties were taken with the tearful
`Senorita' who has so long knelt and so constantly wagged her doll's head at
his side; the mules of the other bandits were upset, and they themselves
roughly seized. The full-length statue of P. T. Barnum fell down of its own
accord, as if disgusted with the whole affair. A red-shined fireman seized with
either hand Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan by their coat-collars, tucked
the Prince Imperial of France under one arm and the Veiled Murderess under the
other, and coolly departed for the street. Two ragged boys quarreled over the Tom
Thumb, but at length settled the controversy by one of them taking the head,
the other satisfying himself with the legs below the knees. They evidently had
Tom under their thumbs, and intended to keep him down. While the
curiosity-seeking policeman was garroting Benjamin Franklin, with the idea of
abducting him, a small monkey, flung from the windowsill by the strong hand of
an impatient fireman, made a straight dive, hitting Poor Richard just below the
waistcoat, and passing through his stomach, as fairly as the Harlequin in the
`Green Monster' pantomime ever pierced the picture with the slit in it, which
always hangs so conveniently low and near. Patrick Henry had his teeth knocked
out by a flying missile, and in carrying Daniel Lambert down stairs, he was
found to be so large that they had to break off his head in order to get him
through the door. At length the heat became intense, the `figgers' began to
perspire freely, and the swiftly approaching flames compelled all hands to
desist from any further attempt at rescue. Throwing a parting glance behind as
we passed down the stairs, we saw the remaining dignitaries in a strange
plight. Some one had stuck a cigar in General Washington's mouth, and thus,
with his chapeau crushed down over his eyes and his head leaning upon the ample
lap of Moll Pitcher, the Father of his Country led the van of as sorry a band
of patriots as not often comes within one's experience to see. General Marion
was playing a dummy game of poker with General Lafayette; Governor Morris was
having a set-to with Nathan Lane, and James Madison was executing a Dutch polka
with Madam Roland on one arm and Luicretia Borgia on the other. The next moment
the advancing flames compelled us to retire.
``We believe that all
the living curiosities were saved; but the giant girl, Anna Swan, was only
rescued with the utmost difficulty. There was not a door through which her
bulky frame could obtain a passage. It was likewise feared that the stairs
would break down, even if she should reach them. Her best friend, the living
skeleton, stood by her as long as he dared, but then deserted her, while, as
the heat grew in intensity, the perspiration rolled from her face in little
brooks and rivulets, which pattered musically upon the floor. At length, as a
last resort, the employees of the place procured a lofty derrick which
fortunately happened to be standing near, and erected it alongside of the
Museum. A portion of the wall was then broken off on each side of the window,
the strong tackle was got in readiness, the tall woman was made fast to one end
and swung over the heads of the people in the street, with eighteen men
grasping the other extremity of the line, and lowered down from the third
story, amid enthusiastic applause. A carriage of extraordinary capacity was in
readiness, and, entering this, the young lady was driven away to a hotel.
``When the surviving
serpents, that were released by the partial burning of the box in which they
were contained, crept along on the floor to the balcony of the Museum and
dropped on the sidewalk, the crowd, seized with St. Patrick's aversion to the
reptiles, fled with such precipitate haste that they knocked each other down
and trampled on one another in the most reckless and damaging manner.
``Hats were lost, coats
torn, boots burst and pantaloons dropped with magnificent miscellaneousness,
and dozens of those who rose from the miry streets into which they had been
thrown looked like the disembodied spirits of a mud bank. The snakes crawled on
the sidewalk and into Broadway, where some of them died from injuries received,
and others were dispatched by the excited populace. Several of the serpents of
the copper-head species escaped the fury of the tumultuous masses, and, true to
their instincts, sought shelter in the World and News offices. A large black
bear escaped from the burning Museum into Ann street, and then made his way
into Nassau, and down that thoroughfare into Wall, where his appearance caused
a sensation. Some superstitious persons believed him the spirit of a departed
Ursa Major, and others of his fraternity welcomed the animal as a favorable
omen. The bear walked quietly along to the Custom House, ascended the steps of
the building, and became bewildered, as many a biped bear has done before him.
He seemed to lose his sense of vision, and, no doubt, endeavoring to operate
for a fall, walked over the side of the steps and broke his neck. He succeeded
in his object, but it cost him dearly. The appearance of Bruin in the street
sensibly affected the stock market, and shares fell rapidly; but when he lost
his life in the careless manner we have described, shares advanced again, and
the Bulls triumphed once more.
``Broadway and its
crossings have not witnessed a denser throng for months than assembled at the
fire yesterday. Barnum's was always popular, but it never drew so vast a crowd
before. There must have been forty thousand people on Broadway, between Maiden
Lane and Chambers street, and a great portion stayed there until dusk. So great
was the concourse of people that it was with difficulty pedestrians or vehicles
could pass.
``After the fire
several high-art epicures, groping among the ruins, found choice morsels of
boiled whale, roasted kangaroo and fricasseed crocodile, which, it is said,
they relished; though the many would have failed to appreciate such rare
edibles. Probably the recherche epicures will declare the only true way to
prepare those meats is to cook them in a Museum wrapped in flames, in the same
manner that the Chinese, according to Charles Lamb, first discovered roast pig
in a burning house, and ever afterward set a house on fire with a pig inside,
when they wanted that particular food.''
All the New York
journals, and many more in other cities, editorially expressed their sympathy
with the misfortune, and their sense of the loss the community had sustained in
the destruction of the American Museum. The following editorial is from the New
York Tribune of July 14, 1865:
``The destruction of no
building in this city could have caused so much excitement and so much regret
as that of Barnum's Museum. The collection of curiosities was very large, and
though many of them may not have had much intrinsic or memorial value, a
considerable portion was certainly of great worth for any Museum. But aside
from this, pleasant memories clustered about the place, which for so many years
has been the chief resort for amusement to the common people who cannot often
afford to treat themselves to a night at the more expensive theatres, while to
the children of the city, Barnum's has been a fountain of delight, ever
offering new attractions as captivating and as implicitly believed in as the
Arabian Nights Entertainments: Theatre, Menagerie and Museum, it amused,
instructed, and astonished. If its thousands and tens of thousands of annual
visitors were bewildered sometimes with a Wooly Horse, a What is It? or a
Mermaid, they found repose and certainty in a Giraffe, a Whale or a Rhinoceros.
If wax effigies of pirates and murderers made them shudder lest those dreadful
figures should start out of their glass cases and repeat their horrid deeds,
they were reassured by the presence of the mildest and most amiable of giants,
and the fattest of mortal women, whose dead weight alone could crush all the
wax figures into their original cakes. It was a source of unfailing interest to
all country visitors, and New York to many of them was only the place that held
Barnum's Museum. It was the first thing--often the only thing--they visited
when they came among us, and nothing that could have been contrived, out of our
present resources, could have offered so many attractions, unless some more
ingenious showman had undertaken to add to Barnum's collection of waxen
criminals by putting in a cage the live Boards of the Common Council. We mourn
its loss, but not as without consolation. Barnum's Museum is gone, but Barnum
himself, happily, did not share the fate of his rattlesnakes and his, at least,
most ``un-Happy Family.'' There are fishes in the seas and beasts in the forest;
birds still fly in the air, and strange creatures still roam in the deserts;
giants and pigmies still wander up and down the earth; the oldest man, the
fattest woman, and the smallest baby are still living, and Barnum will find
them.
``Or even if none of
these things or creatures existed, we could trust to Barnum to make them out of
hand. The Museum, then, is only a temporary loss, and much as we sympathize
with the proprietor, the public may trust to his well-known ability and energy
to soon renew a place of amusement which was a source of so much innocent
pleasure, and had in it so many elements of solid excellence.''
As already stated, Mr.
Barnum's insurance was but forty thousand dollars while the loss was fully four
hundred thousand, and as his premium was five per cent., he had already paid
the insurance companies more than they returned to him.
His first impulse, on
reckoning up his losses, was to retire from active life and all business
occupations, beyond what his real estate interests in Bridgeport and New York
would compel. He went to his old friend, Horace Greeley, and asked for advice
on the subject.
``Accept this fire as a
notice to quit, and go a-fishing,'' said Mr. Greeley.
``What?'' exclaimed
Barnum.
``Yes, go a-fishing,''
replied Greeley. ``Why, I have been wanting to go for thirty years, and have
never yet found time to do so.''
And but for two
considerations Barnum might have taken this advice. One hundred and fifty
employees were thrown out of work at a season when it would have been difficult
to get anything else to do. That was the most important consideration. Then,
too, Barnum felt that a large city like New York needed a good Museum, and that
his experience of a quarter of a century in that direction afforded the greatest
facilities for founding another establishment of the kind. So he took a few
days for reflection.
The Museum employees
were tendered a benefit at the Academy of Music, at which most of the dramatic
artists in the city gave their services. At the conclusion Barnum was called
for, and made a brilliant speech, in which he announced that he had decided to
establish another Museum, and that, in order to give present occupation to his
employees, he had engaged the Winter Garden Theatre for a few weeks, his new
establishment promising to be ready by fall.
The New York Sun
commented on the speech as follows:
``One of the happiest
impromptu oratorical efforts that we have heard for some time was that made by
Barnum at the benefit performance given for his employees on Friday afternoon.
If a stranger wanted to satisfy himself how the great showman had managed so to
monopolize the ear and eye of the public during his long career, he could not
have had a better opportunity of doing so than by listening to this address.
Every word, though delivered with apparent carelessness, struck a key-note in
the hearts of his listeners. Simple, forcible and touching, it showed how
thoroughly this extraordinary man comprehends the character of his countrymen,
and how easily he can play upon their feelings.
``Those who look upon
Barnum as a mere charlatan, have really no knowledge of him. It would be easy
to demonstrate that the qualities that have placed him in his present position
of notoriety and affluence would, in another pursuit, have raised him to far
greater eminence. In his breadth of views, his profound knowledge of mankind,
his courage under reverses, his indomitable perseverance, his ready eloquence
and his admirable business tact, we recognize the elements that are conducive
to success in most other pursuits. More than almost any other living man,
Barnum may be said to be a representative type of the American mind.''
IN THE CONNECTICUT
LEGISLATURE--THE GREAT RAILROAD FIGHT-- BARNUM'S EFFECTIVE STROKE--CANVASSING
FOR A UNITED STATES SENATOR--BARNUM'S CONGRESSIONAL CAMPAIGN--A CHALLENGE THAT
WAS NOT ACCEPTED.
During his legislative
career Mr. Barnum made many new friends and pleasant acquaintances, and there
were many events great and small which tended to make the session memorable.
Barnum was by no means an idle member. On several occasions, indeed, he took a
most conspicuous part in debates and in framing legislation. On one occasion, a
Representative, who was a lawyer, introduced resolutions to reduce the number
of Representatives, urging that the ``House'' was too large and ponderous a
body to work smoothly; that a smaller number of persons could accomplish
business more rapidly and completely; and, in fact, that the Connecticut
Legislature was so large that the members did not have time to get acquainted
with each other before the body adjourned sine die. Barnum replied, that the
larger the number of Representatives, the more difficult it would be to tamper
with them; and if they all could not become personally acquainted, so much the
better, for there would be fewer ``rings,'' and less facilities for forcing
improper legislation.
``As the House seems to
be thin now, I will move to lay my resolutions on the table,'' remarked the
member; ``but I shall call them up when there is a full House.''
``According to the
gentleman's own theory,'' Barnum replied, ``the smaller the number, the surer
are we to arrive at correct conclusions. Now, therefore, is just the time to
decide; and I move that the gentleman's resolutions be considered.'' This
proposition was seconded amid a roar of laughter; and the resolutions were
almost unanimously voted down, before the member fairly comprehended what was
going on. He afterwards acknowledged it as a pretty fair joke, and at any rate
as an effective one.
At this time
Connecticut had two capitals, Hartford and New Haven. The State House at
Hartford was a wretched old building, too small and entirely unfit for the
purposes to which it was devoted; and that at New Haven was scarcely better.
Barnum made a strong effort to secure the erection of new buildings in both
cities, and was made chairman of the committee having the matter in charge.
During his investigations he ascertained that Bridgeport, Middletown and
Meriden would each be willing to erect a fine new State House at its own cost,
for the sake of being made the capital of the State. Thus the jealousy of
Hartford and New Haven was greatly aroused, and committees of citizens waited
upon Mr. Barnum, beseeching him not to press the matter of removing the
capital. In the end nothing definite was done, but years afterward Hartford was
made the sole capital and one of the finest public buildings in the world was
erected there.
The most notable event
of the whole session however occurred near its close, when Barnum introduced a
bill to amend the railroad law of the State by inserting in it the following:
``Section 508. No
railroad company, which has had a system of commutation fares in force for more
than four years, shall abolish, alter, or modify the same, except for the
regulation of the price charged for such commutation; and such price shall, in
no case, be raised to an extent that shall alter the ratio between such
commutation and the rates then charged for way fare, on the railroad of such
company.''
The New York and New
Haven Railroad Company seemed determined to move heaven and earth to prevent
the passage of this law. The halls of legislation were thronged with railroad
lobbyists, who button-holed nearly every member. Barnum's motives were
attacked, and the most foolish slanders were circulated. Not only every legal
man in the House was arrayed against him, but occasionally a ``country
member,'' who had promised to stick by and aid in checking the cupidity of
railroad managers, would drop off, and be found voting on the other side. ``I
devoted,'' says Barnum, ``many hours, and even days, to explaining the true
state of things to the members from the rural regions, and, although the
prospect of carrying this great reform looked rather dark, I felt that I had a
majority of the honest and disinterested members of the House with me. Finally,
Senator Ballard informed me that he had canvassed the Senate, and was convinced
that the bill could be carried through that body if I could be equally
successful with the House.''
The date of the final
debate and vote was fixed for the morning of July 13. At that time the
excitement was intense. The State House was crowded with railroad lobbyists;
for nearly every railroad in the State had made common cause with the New York
and New Haven Company, and every Representative was in his seat, excepting the
sick man, who had doctored the railroads till he needed doctoring himself. The
debate was led off by skirmishers on each side, and was finally closed on the
part of the railroads by Mr. Harrison, of New Haven, who was chairman of the
railroad committee. Mr. Harrison was a close and forcible debater and a
clear-headed lawyer. His speech exhibited considerable thought, and his
earnestness and high character as a gentleman of honor carried much weight.
Besides, his position as chairman of the committee naturally influenced some
votes. He claimed to understand thoroughly the merits of the question, from
having, in his capacity as chairman, heard all the testimony and arguments
which had come before that committee; and a majority of the committee, after
due deliberation, had reported against the proposed bill.
Mr. Barnum arose to
close the debate. He endeavored to state briefly the gist of the whole case.
``Only a few years before,'' he said, ``the New York and New Haven Company had
fixed their own price for commuters' tickets along the whole line of the road,
and had thus induced hundreds of New York citizens to remove to Connecticut
with their families, and build their houses on heretofore unimproved property,
thus vastly increasing the value of the lands, and correspondingly helping our
receipts for taxes. He urged that there was a tacit understanding between the
railroad and these commuters and the public generally, that such persons as
chose thus to remove from a neighboring State, and bring their families and
capital within Connecticut's borders, should have the right to pass over the
railroad on the terms fixed at the time by the president and directors; `that
any claim that the railroad could not afford to commute at the prices they had
themselves established was absurd, from the fact that, even now, if one
thousand families who reside in New York, and had never been in our own State,
should propose to the railroad to remove these families (embracing in the
aggregate five thousand persons) to Connecticut, and build one thousand new
houses on the line of the New York and New Haven Railroad, provided the
railroad would carry the male head of the family at all times for nothing, the
company could well afford to accept the proposition, because they would receive
full prices for transporting all other members of these families, at all times,
as well as full prices for all their visitors and servants.'
``And now,'' he said,
``what are the facts? Do we desire the railroad to carry even one-fifth of
these new-comers for nothing? Do we, indeed, desire to compel them to transport
them for any definitely fixed price at all? On the contrary, we find that
during the late rebellion, when gold was selling for two dollars and eighty
cents per dollar, this company doubled its prices of commutation, and retains
the same prices now, although gold is but one-half that amount ($1.40). We
don't ask them to go back to their former prices; we don't compel them to rest
even here; we simply say, increase your rates, pile up your demands just as
high as you desire, only you shall not make fish of one and fowl of another.
You have fixed and increased your prices to passengers of all classes just as
you liked, and established your own ratio between those who pay by the year and
those who pay by the single trip; and now, all we ask is, that you shall not
change the ratio. Charge ten dollars per passenger from New York to New Haven,
if you have the courage to risk the competition of the steamboats; and whatever
percentage you choose to increase the fare of transient passengers, we permit
you to increase the rates of commuters in the same ratio.
``The interests of the
State, as well as communities, demand this law; for if it is once fixed by
statute that the prices of commutation are not to be increased, many persons
will leave the localities where extortion is permitted on the railroads, and
will settle in our State. But these railroad gentlemen say they have no
intention to increase their rates of commutation, and they deprecate what they
term `premature legislation,' and an uncalled-for meddling with their affairs.
Mr. Speaker, `an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.' Men engaged in
plots against public interests always ask to be `let alone.' Jeff Davis only
asked to be `let alone,' when the North was raising great armies to prevent the
dissolution of the Union. The people cannot afford to let these railroads
alone. This hall, crowded with railroad lobbyists, as the frogs thronged Egypt,
is an admonition to all honest legislators that it is unsafe to allow the
monopolies the chance to rivet the chains which already fetter the limbs of
those whom circumstances place in the power of these companies.''
At this point in his
speech he was interrupted a messenger, who placed in his hands a dispatch from
his son-in-law in New York, marked ``Urgent.'' He opened and read it. It
announced that his Museum had been totally destroyed by fire. He laid it upon
his desk, and without the slightest change of manner continued his argument, as
follows:
``These railroad
gentlemen absolutely deny any intention of raising the fares of commuters, and
profess to think it very hard that disinterested and conscientious gentlemen
like them should be judged by the doings of the Hudson River and Harlem
Railroads. But now, Mr. Speaker, I am going to expose the duplicity of these
men. I have had detectives on their track, for men who plot against public
interest deserve to be watched. I have in my pocket positive proofs that they
did, and do, intend to spring their trap upon the unprotected commuters on the
New York and New Haven Railroad.''
He then drew from his
pocket and read two telegrams received that morning, one from New York and the
other from Bridgeport, announcing that the New York and New Haven Railroad
Directory had held a secret meeting in New York the day before, for the purpose
of immediately raising the fares of commuters twenty per cent., so that in case
his bill became a law they could get ahead of him. He continued:
``Now, Mr. Speaker, I
know that these dispatches are true; my information is from the inside of the
camp. I see a director of the New York and New Haven Railroad sitting in this
hall; I know that he knows these dispatches are true; and if he will go before
the railroad committee and make oath that he don't know that such a meeting
took place yesterday, for exactly this purpose, I will forfeit and pay one
thousand dollars to the families of poor soldiers in this city. In
consideration of this attempt to forestall the action of this Legislature, I
offer an amendment to the bill now under consideration, by adding after the
word `ratio' the words `as it existed on the 1st day of July, 1865.' In this
way we shall cut off any action which these sleek gentlemen may have taken
yesterday. It is now evident that these railroad gentlemen have set a trap for
this Legislature; and I propose that we now spring the trap, and see if we
cannot catch these wily railroad directors in it. Mr. Speaker, I move the previous
question.''
This revelation
astounded the opposition, and the ``previous question'' was ordered. On the
final vote the bill was carried through triumphantly, and has ever since
remained an important item in the statute-book of the State.
In the spring of 1866
Barnum was re-elected to represent the town of Fairfield in the Legislature. He
had not intended to serve again. But one of the directors of the railroad, who
had led the opposition to Barnum's new railroad law, had openly boasted about the
town that Barnum should not be allowed to hold the office again. It was in
response to these boasts that Barnum decided to accept the nomination, and he
was handsomely elected.
The leading issue
before that Legislature was the election of a United States Senator. Andrew
Johnson was then President of the United States, and had begun to break away
from the Republican party. One of the Connecticut Senators was following him in
this action. The other Senator was now a candidate for re-election. Barnum had
been an earnest admirer of him, but now ascertained that he too was siding with
Johnson. This caused Barnum to take an active part in opposing him, and the
showman-legislator spent many days and nights endeavoring to impress upon his
colleagues the importance of defeating this candidate and electing the Hon. O.
S. Ferry to the Senatorship.
Excitement ran high. At
first Mr. Ferry had only a few votes. But under Barnum's skilful leadership he
at last obtained a majority in the party caucus and was accordingly elected.
During that summer
Barnum entertained many eminent politicians and other public men at his
beautiful residence, Lindencroft. Governor Hawley wanted him to serve as a
Commissioner to the Paris Exposition of 1867, but he was unable to do so.
In the spring of 1867
he was nominated for Congress by the Republicans of the Fourth District. In
referring to this episode, he afterward remarked: ``Politics were always
distasteful to me. I possessed, naturally, too much independence of mind, and
too strong a determination to do what I believe to be right, regardless of
party expediency, to make a lithe and oily politician. To be called on to favor
applications from office-seekers, without regard to their merits, and to do the
dirty work too often demanded by political parties; to be `all things to all
men,'' though not in the apostolic sense; to shake hands with those whom I
despised, and to kiss the dirty babies of those whose votes were courted, were
political requirements which I felt I could never acceptably fulfil.
Nevertheless, I had become, so far as business was concerned, almost a man of
leisure; and some of my warmest personal friends insisted that a nomination to
so high and honorable a position as a member of Congress was not to be lightly
rejected, and so I consented to run. Fairfield and Litchfield counties composed
the district, which, in the preceding Congressional election, in 1865, and just
after the close of the war, was Republican. In the year following, however, the
district in the State election went Democratic. I had this Democratic majority
to contend against in 1867, and as the whole State turned over and elected the
Democratic ticket, I lost my election. In the next succeeding Congressional
election, in 1869, the Fourth District also elected the only Democratic
Congressman chosen from Connecticut that year.
``I was neither
disappointed nor cast down by my defeat. The political canvass served the
purpose of giving me a new sensation, and introducing me to new phases of human
nature--a subject which I had always great delight in studying. The filth and
scandal, the slanders and vindictiveness, the plottings and fawnings, the
fidelity, meanness and manliness,: which by turns exhibited themselves in the
exciting scenes preceding the election, were novel to me, and were so far
interesting.
``Shortly after my
opponent was nominated I sent him the following letter, which was also
published in the Bridgeport Standard:
`` `BRIDGEPORT, Conn.,
February 21, 1867.
`` `W. H. BARNUM, Esq., Salisbury, Conn.:
`` `Dear Sir: Observing that the Democratic party has nominated you for
Congress from this district, I desire to make you a proposition.
`` `The citizens of
this portion of our State will be compelled, on the first Monday in April next,
to decide whether you or myself shall represent their interests and their
principles in the Fortieth Congress of the United States.
`` `The theory of our
government is, that the will of the people shall be the law of the land. It is
important, therefore, that the people shall vote understandingly, and
especially at this important crisis in our national existence. In order that
the voters of this district shall fully comprehend the principles by which each
of their Congressional candidates is guided, I respectfully invite you to meet
me in a serious and candid discussion of the important political issues of the
day at various towns in the Fourth Congressional District of Connecticut, on
each week-day evening, from the fourth day of March until the thirtieth day of
the same month, both inclusive.
`` `If you will consent
to thus meet me in a friendly discussion of those subjects, now so near and
dear to every American heart, and, I may add, possessing at this time such
momentous interest to all civilized nations in the world who are suffering from
misrule, I pledge myself to conduct my portion of the debate with perfect
fairness, and with all due respect for my opponent, and doubt not you will do
the same.
`` `Never, in my
judgment, in our past history as a nation, have interests and questions more
important appealed to the people for their wise and careful consideration. It
is due to the voters of the Fourth Congressional District that they have an
early and full opportunity to examine their candidates in regard to these
important problems, and I shall esteem it a great privilege if you will accept
this proposition.
`` `Please favor me
with an early answer, and oblige
`` `Truly yours,
`` `P. T. BARNUM.' ''
To this letter Mr. William
H. Barnum replied, positively declining to accept his rival's proposition.
When Congress met P. T.
Barnum was surprised to see in the newspapers an announcement that the seat of
his successful rival was to be contested on the ground of bribery and fraud. ``
This,'' he said, ``was the first intimation that I had ever received of such an
intention, and I was never, at any time before or afterwards, consulted upon
the subject. The movement proved to have originated with neighbors and townsmen
of the successful candidate, who claimed to be able to prove that he had paid
large sums of money to purchase votes. They also claimed that they had proof
that men were brought from an adjoining State to vote, and that in the office
of the successful candidate naturalization papers were forged to enable
foreigners to vote upon them. But, I repeat, I took no part nor lot in the
matter, but concluded that if I had been defeated by fraud, mine was the real
success.' ''
DISPOSING OF THE LEASE
OF THE MUSEUM SITE--THE BARGAIN WITH MR. BENNETT--BARNUM'S REFUSAL TO BACK
OUT--A LONG AND BITTER WAR WITH ``THE HERALD''--ACTION OF THE OTHER MANAGERS--
THE RETURN OF PEACE.
After the destruction
of his museum by fire, Barnum determined to open another and still finer
establishment. It would not be on the old site, however, but further up town.
The unexpired lease of the two lots at Ann Street and Broadway he proposed to
sell; and he quickly had numerous offers for it. This lease still had about
eleven years to run, and the annual rental was only $10,000; and there was a
provision that, in case of the burning of the building, the owner was to spend
$24,000 in aiding Barnum to rebuild, and then, at the expiration of the lease,
was to pay Barnum the appraised value of the building, not exceeding $100,000.
This lease had seemed extravagant when Barnum had made it, but the great growth
of the city had so increased the value of property in that vicinity, that now
the rental of $10,000 seemed ridiculously small. An experienced real estate
broker, whom Barnum engaged for the purpose, estimated the value of the lease
at $275,000. Barnum was so anxious, however, to get the matter settled at once
that he decided to offer the lease for sale at $225,000.
The next day he met
James Gordon Bennett, the elder, the owner of the New York Herald. Mr. Bennett
told him that he thought of buying both the lease and the fee simple of the
property itself, and erecting there a fine building for his great newspaper. Barnum
therefore, offered him the lease for $200,000, and after a few day's
consideration Mr. Bennett accepted the offer. His attorney thereupon handed to
Mr. Barnum a check on the Chemical Bank for $200,000, which Barnum immediately
used in the purchase of Government Bonds. Mr. Bennett had agreed to purchase
the fee of the property for $500,000. He had been informed that the property
was worth some $300,000 to $400,000, and he did not mind paying $100,000 extra
for the purpose of carrying out his plans. But the parties who estimated for
him the value of the land knew nothing of the fact that there was a lease upon
the property, else of course they would in their estimate have deducted the
$200,000, which the lease would cost. When, therefore, Mr. Bennett saw it
stated in the newspapers that the sum which he had paid for a piece of land
measuring only fifty-six by one hundred feet was more than was ever paid before
in any city in the world for a tract of that size, he discovered the serious
oversight which he had made; and the owner of the property was immediately
informed that Bennett would not take it. But Bennett had already signed a bond
to the owner, agreeing to pay $100,000 cash, and to mortgage the premises for
the remaining $400,000.
Supposing that by this
step he had shaken off the owner of the fee, Bennett was not long in seeing
that, as he was not to own the land, he would have no possible use for the
lease, for which he had paid the $200,000; and accordingly his next step was to
shake Barnum off also, and get back the money he had paid him.
In speaking of what
followed, Mr. Barnum afterwards said: ``My business for many years, as manager
of the Museum and other public entertainments, compelled me to court notoriety;
and I always found Bennett's abuse far more remunerative than his praise, even
if I could have had the praise at the same price, that is for nothing.
Especially was it profitable to me when I could be the subject of scores of
lines of his scolding editorials free of charge, instead of paying him forty
cents a line for advertisements, which would not attract a tenth part so much
attention. Bennett had tried abusing me, off and on, for twenty years, on one
occasion refusing my advertisement altogether for the space of about a year;
but I always managed to be the gainer by his course. Now, however, when new
difficulties threatened, all the leading managers in New York were members of
the `Managers' Association,' and as we all submitted to the arbitrary and
extortionate demands of the Herald, Bennett thought he had but to crack his
whip, in order to keep all and any of us within the traces. Accordingly one day
Bennett's attorney wrote me a letter, saying that he would like to have me call
on him at his office the following morning. Not dreaming of the object, I
called as desired, and after a few pleasant commonplace remarks about the
weather, and other trifles, the attorney said:
`` `Mr. Barnum, I have
sent for you to say that Mr. Bennett has concluded not to purchase the museum
lots, and therefore that you had better take back the lease, and return the
$200,000 paid for it.'
`` `Are you in
earnest?' I asked with surprise.
`` `Certainly, quite
so,' he answered.
`` `Really,' I said,
smiling, `I am sorry I can't accommodate Mr. Bennett; I have not got the little
sum about me; in fact, I have spent the money.'
`` `It will be better
for you to take back the lease,' said the attorney, seriously.
`` `Nonsense,' I
replied, `I shall do nothing of the sort; I don't make child's bargains. The
lease was cheap enough, but I have other business to attend to, and shall have
nothing to do with it.'
``The attorney said
very little in reply; but I could see, by the almost benignant sorrow expressed
upon his countenance, that he evidently pitied me for the temerity that would
doubtless lead me into the jaws of the insatiable monster of the Herald. The
next morning I observed that the advertisement of my entertainments with my
museum company at Winter Garden was left out of the Herald columns. I went directly
to the editorial rooms of the Herald; and learning that Bennett was not in, I
said to Mr. Hudson, then managing editor:
`` `My advertisement is
left out of the Herald; is there a screw loose?'
`` `I believe there
is,' was the reply.
`` `What is the
matter?' I asked.
`` `You must ask the
Emperor,' said Mr. Hudson, meaning of course Bennett.
`` `When will the
``Emperor'' be in?' I inquired. `Next Monday,' was the answer.
`` `Well, I shall not
see him,' I replied; `but I wish to have this thing settled at once. Mr.
Hudson, I now tender you the money for the insertion of my museum advertisement
on the same terms as are paid by other places of amusement; will you publish it?'
`` `I will not,' Mr.
Hudson peremptorily replied.
`` `That is all,' I
said. Mr. Hudson then smilingly and blandly remarked, `I have formally answered
your formal demand, because I suppose you require it; but you know, Mr. Barnum,
I can only obey orders.' I assured him that I understood the matter perfectly,
and attached no blame to him in the premises. I then proceeded to notify the
secretary of the `Managers' Association' to call the managers together at
twelve o'clock the following day; and there was a full meeting at the appointed
time. I stated the facts in the case in the Herald affair, and simply remarked,
that if we did not make common cause against any newspaper publisher who
excluded an advertisement from his columns simply to gratify a private pique,
it was evident that either and all of us were liable to imposition at any time.
``One of the managers
immediately made a motion that the entire Association should stop their
advertising and bill printing at the Herald office, and have no furthur connection
with that establishment. Mr. Lester Wallack advised that this motion should not
be adopted until a committee had waited upon Bennett, and had reported the
result of the interview to the Association. Accordingly, Messrs. Wallack,
Wheatley and Stuart were delegated to go, down to the Herald office to call on
Mr. Bennett.
``The moment Bennett
saw them, he evidently suspected the object of their mission, for he at once
commenced to speak to Mr. Wallack in a patronizing manner; told him how long he
had known, and how much he respected his late father, who was a true English
gentleman of the old school,' with much more in the same strain. Mr. Wallack
replied to Bennett that the three managers were appointed a committee to wait
upon him to ascertain if he insisted upon excluding from his columns the museum
advertisements--not on account of any objection to the contents of the
advertisements, or to the museum itself, but simply because he had a private
business disagreement with the proprietor; intimating that such a proceeding,
for such a reason, and no other, might lead to a rupture of business relations
with other managers. In reply, Mr. Bennett had something to say about the fox
that had suffered tailwise from a trap, and thereupon advised all other foxes
to cut their tails off; and he pointed the fable by setting forth the impolicy
of drawing down upon the Association the vengeance of the Herald. The
committee, however, coolly insisted upon a direct answer to their question.
``Bennett then
answered: `I will not publish Barnum's advertisement; I do my business as I
please, and in my own way.'
`` `So do we,' replied
one of the managers, and the committee withdrew.
``The next day the
Managers' Association met, heard the report, and unanimously resolved to
withdraw their advertisements from the Herald, and their patronage from the
Herald job establishment, and it was done. Nevertheless, the Herald for several
days continued to print gratutitously the advertisements of Wallack's Theatre
and Niblo's Garden, and inordinately puffed these establishments, evidently in
order to ease the fall, and to convey the idea that some of the theatres
patronized the Herald, and perhaps hoping by praising these managers to draw
them back again, and so to nullify the agreement of the Association in regard
to the Herald. Thereupon, the mangers headed their advertisements in all the
other New York papers with the line, `This establishment does not advertise in
the New York Herald,' and for many months this announcement was kept at the top
of every theatrical advertisement and on the posters and playbills.
``The Herald then began
to abuse and villify the theatrical and opera managers, their artists and their
performances, which, of course, was well understood by the public, and relished
accordingly. Meanwhile the theatres prospered amazingly. Their receipts were
never larger, and their houses never more thronged. The public took sides in
the matter with the managers and against the Herald, and thousands of people
went to the theatres merely to show their willingness to support the managers
and to spite `Old Bennett.' The editor was fairly caught in his own trap. Other
journals began to estimate the loss the Herald sustained by the action of the
managers, and it was generally believed that this loss in advertising and job
printing was not less than from $75,000 to $100,000 a year. The Herald's
circulation also suffered terribly, since hundreds of people, at the hotels and
elsewhere, who were accustomed to buy the paper solely for the sake of seeing
what amusements were announced for the evening, now bought other papers. This
was the hardest blow of all, and it fully accounted for the abuse which the
Herald daily poured out upon the theatres.
``Bennett evidently
felt ashamed of the whole transaction. He would never publish the facts in his
columns, though he once stated in an editorial that it had been reported that
he had been cheated in purchasing the Broadway property; that the case had gone
to court, and the public would soon know all the particulars. Some persons
supposed by this that Bennett had sued me; but this was far from being the
case. The owner of the lots sued Bennett, to compel him to take the title and
pay for the property as per agreement; and that was all the `law' there was
about it. He held James Gordon Bennett's bond, that he would pay him half a
million of dollars for the land, as follows: $100,000 cash, and a bond and
mortgage upon the premises for the remaining $400,000. The day before the suit
was to come to trial, Bennett came forward, took the deed, and paid $100,000
cash, and gave a bond and mortgage of the entire premises for $400,000.
``Had I really taken
back the lease, as Bennett desired, he would have been in a worse scrape than
ever; for having been compelled to take the property, he would have been
obliged, as my landlord, to go on and assist in building a Museum for me,
according to the terms of my lease, and a Museum I should certainly have built
on Bennett's property, even if I had owned a dozen Museums up town.
``In the autumn of
1868, the associated managers came to the conclusion that the punishment of
Bennett for two years was sufficient, and they consented to restore their
advertisements to the Herald. I was then carrying on my new Museum, and
although I did not immediately resume advertising in the Herald, I have since
done so.''
Such is the account
Barnum gave, in his own words, of this extraordinary quarrel. He was, it will
be seen, unsparing of criticism and denunciation. Kindly as was his nature, he
was ``a good hater,'' and never was there a more relentless fighter. In
denouncing Mr. Bennett he was perfectly sincere, and believed himself to be
entirely in the right. At the same time he never hesitated to give a full meed
of appreciative praise to the great journalist, for his extraordinary
enterprise and commanding talents. Both the men are now dead, after careers of
marvellous success, and the animosity that raged between them is also long
dead; it perished years before they did. It is here rehearsed merely as an
integral and essential part of this biography, to be regarded in a spirit of
philosophic contemplation, entirely devoid of bitterness or acrimony,
THE FIGHT FOR THE
ESTABLISHMENT OF SEASIDE PARK--LAYING OUT CITY STREETS IMPATIENCE WITH ``OLD
FOGIES''--BUILDING A SEASIDE HOME--WALDEMERE--A HOME IN NEW YORK CITY.
A remarkable feature of
Mr. Barnum's life was his loyalty to the place he had chosen as his home, and
his devotion to its interests. He had great faith in Bridgeport, and worked
unceasingly to justify it. He looked far ahead, saw the prospective growth of
the place, and laid broad plans of preparation for the future.
Apart from his great
services in laying out East Bridgeport, he was the author of the improvements
on the water-front known as Seaside Park. The idea of such a thing occurred to
him first in 1863, when he rode over the ground and observed its fitness for
the purpose. He then began agitating the matter, and urging the immediate
acquirement by the city of land for a park and public drive-way along the
margin of the Sound. It was necessary, he represented, to do it at once, before
the natural increase in the value of the land made such an undertaking too
expensive. That it would be a profitable venture he felt certain; for such an
improvement would make every bit of real estate in the city more valuable, and
would attract many new residents to the place.
There were, however,
many conservatives, ``old fogies'' he called them, who opposed him. He then
approached the farmers who owned the land lying immediately upon the shore, and
tried to convince them that, if they would give the city, free, a deep slip
next to the water, to be used as a public park, it would increase in value the
rest of their land so much as to make it a profitable operation for them. But
it was like beating against the wind. They were ``not so stupid as to think
that they could become gainers by giving away their property.''
He succeeded, however,
in getting the active aid and co-operation of Messrs. Nathaniel Wheeler, James
Loomis, Francis Ives, Frederick Wood, and some others, who went with him to the
landowners and added their persuasions to his. After much urging, they finally
got the terms upon which the proprietors would give a portion and sell another
portion of their land, which fronted on the water, provided the land thus
disposed of should forever be appropriated to the purposes of a public park.
But, unfortunately, a part of the land it was desirable to include was a farm,
of some thirty acres, then belonging to an unsettled estate, and neither the
administrator nor the heirs could or would give away a rod of it. But the whole
farm was for sale-- and, to overcome the difficulty in the way of its transfer
for the public benefit, Barnum bought it for about $12,000, and then presented
the required front to the park. He did not want this land or any portion of it,
for his own purposes or profit, and he offered a thousand dollars to any one
who would take his place in the transaction; but no one accepted, and he was
quite willing to contribute so much of the land as was needed for so noble an
object. Besides this, he gave $1,400 toward purchasing other land and improving
the park, and, after months of persistent personal effort, he succeeded in
raising, by private subscription, the sum necessary to secure the land needed.
This was duly paid for, deeded to, and accepted by the city, and Barnum had the
pleasure of naming this new and great public improvement, ``Seaside Park.''
When Mr. Barnum first
selected Bridgeport as his home, as already stated in a preceding chapter, the
place was commended to him by its nearness to New York, its convenience of
access, and the beauty of its situation. ``Nowhere,'' said he, ``in all my
travels in America and abroad had I seen a city whose very position presented
so many and varied attractions. Situated on Long Island Sound, with that vast
water-view in front, and on every other side a beautiful and fertile country
with every variety of inland scenery, and charming drives which led through
valleys rich with well-cultivated farms, and over hills thick-wooded with
far-stretching forests of primeval growth--all these natural attractions
appeared to me only so many aids to the advancement the beautiful and busy city
might attain, if public spirit, enterprise, and money grasped and improved the
opportunities the locality itself extended. I saw that what Nature had so
freely lavished must be supplemented by yet more liberal Art.''
It was in pursuance of
this object that he built the famous Iranistan; and when he did so he felt
confident that this superb place would so increase the value of surrounding
property that none but first-class residences would be erected in the vicinity.
He, however, went on to improve the surrounding property as much as possible.
He opened numerous fine avenues through land purchased by himself, and freely
gave them to the city. In this way he opened miles of new streets and planted
them with thousands of shade trees. The planting of trees was almost a mania
with him, in pursuit of the doctrine laid down in Scott's ``Heart of
Mid-Lothian'': ``When ye hae naething else to do, ye may be aye sticking in a
tree; it will be growing when ye're sleeping.''
Barnum was always for
enterprise and progress. ``Conservatism,'' he said, ``may be a good thing in
the State, or in the Church, but it is fatal to the growth of cities, and the
conservative notions of old fogies make them indifferent to the requirements
which a very few years in the future will compel, and blind to their own best
interests. Such men never look beyond the length of their noses, and consider
every investment a dead loss unless they can get the sixpence profit into their
pockets before they go to bed. My own long training and experience as a manager
impelled me to carry into such private enterprises as the purchase of real
estate that best and most essential managerial quality of instantly deciding,
not only whether a venture was worth undertaking, but what, all things
considered, that venture would result in. Almost any man can see how a thing
will begin, but not every man is gifted with the foresight to see how it will
end, or how, with the proper effort, it may be made to end. In East Bridgeport
where we had no `conservatives' to contend with, we were only a few years in
turning almost tenantless farms into a populous and prosperous city. On the
other side of the river, while the opening of new avenues, the planting of
shade trees, and the building of many houses, have afforded me the highest
pleasures of my life, I confess that not a few of my greatest annoyance's have
been occasioned by the opposition of those who seem to be content to simply
vegetate through their existence, and who looked upon me as a restless,
reckless innovator, because I was trying to remove the moss from everything
around them, and even from their own eyes.''
Mrs. Barnum's health
continued to decline, and in the summer of 1867 her doctor commended her to
live on the seashore. Accordingly her husband sold Lindencroft, and they
removed for the summer to a small farm-house adjoining Seaside Park. So
delighted were they with life by the water during the hot days of the summer
that they determined thereafter to spend every summer on the very shore of Long
Island Sound. Finding it impossible to prepare a house of their own in time for
the next season, they spent the summer of 1868 in a new and handsome house
which Mr. Barnum owned but which he had built for sale. In the fall of 1868,
however, he purchased a large and beautiful grove of hickory trees adjoining
Seaside Park, and decided to build a permanent residence there.
But there was a vast
deal to do in grading and preparing the ground, in opening new streets and
avenues as approaches to the property, and in setting out trees near the
proposed site of the house; so that ground was not broken for the foundation
till October. He planned a house which should combine the greatest convenience
with the highest comfort, keeping in mind always that houses were made to live
in as well as to look at, and to be ``homes'' rather than mere residences. So
the house was made to include abundant room for guests, with dressing-rooms and
baths to every chamber; water from the city throughout the premises; gas
manufactured on the ground; and that greatest of all comforts, a semi-detached
kitchen, so that the smell as well as the secrets of the cuisine might be
confined to its own locality. The stables and gardens were located far from the
mansion, on the opposite side of one of the newly-opened avenues, so that in
the immediate vicinity of the house, on either side and before both fronts,
stretched large lawns, broken only by the grove, single shade-trees, rock-work,
walks, flower-beds, and drives. The whole scheme as planned was faithfully
carried out in less than eight months The first foundation stone was laid in
October, 1868; and they moved into the completed house in June following, in
1869.
On taking possession of
this new residence, Barnum formally named it ``Waldemere.'' Literally this name
was ``Wald-am-Meer,'' or ``Woods-by-the Sea,'' but Barnum preferred the more
euphonious form. On the same estate he built at the same time two beautiful
cottages, called ``Petrel's Nest,'' and ``Wavewood,'' the homes of his two
daughters, Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Seeley--the latter his youngest. Here Barnum
decided to speed five months of every year, and for his home during the other
seven months he purchased a splendid mansion on Murray Hill, in New York City,
at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 38th Street.
SECOND MARRIAGE--THE
KING OF HAWAII--ELECTED MAYOR OF BRIDGEPORT-- SUCCESSFUL TOUR OF THE
HIPPODROME--BARNUM'S RETIREMENT FROM OFFICE.
In the autumn of 1874
Mr. Barnum married the daughter of his old English friend, John Fish. The
wedding took place in the Church of the Divine Paternity, Fifth Avenue, New
York, and after a brief bridal tour, they returned to Waldemere.
In December, 1874,
David Kalakau, King of the Sandwich Islands, visited New York, and with his
suite was invited to attend the Hippodrome.
During the performance
Barnum sat beside the King, who kept up a pleasant conversation with him for
two hours. The King expressed himself as highly delighted with the
entertainment, and said he was always fond of horses and racing.
Some twelve thousand
spectators were present, and before the exhibition was finished they began to
call loudly ``The King! The King!''
Turning to his host,
Kalakau inquired the meaning of their excitement. ``Your Majesty,'' replied
Barnum, ``this vast audience wishes to give you an ovation. The building is so
large that they cannot distinguish your Majesty from every part of the house,
and are anxious that you should ride around the circle in order that they may
greet you.''
At the moment, Barnum's
open barouche was driven into the circle and approached the royal box.
``No doubt your Majesty
would greatly gratify my countrymen, if you would kindly step into this
carriage and ride around the circle.''
The King immediately
arose, and amidst tremendous cheering, stepped into the carriage. Barnum took a
seat by his side, and the King smilingly remarked, ``We are all actors.''
The audience rose to
their feet, cheered and waved their handkerchiefs, as the King rode around the
circle, raising his hat and bowing. The excitement was simply tremendous.
In March, 1875, the
nomination for Mayor of Bridgeport was offered Barnum, but he refused it, until
assured that the nomination was intended as a compliment, and that both parties
would sustain it. Politically the city is largely Democratic, but Barnum led
the Republican ticket, and was easily elected.
His Inaugural address
before the new Common Council, April 12, is given below.
GENTLEMEN OF THE COMMON
COUNCIL:--
Intrusted as we are, by
the votes of our fellow-citizens, with the care and management of their
interests, it behooves us to endeavor to merit the confidence reposed in us. We
are sometimes called the ``fathers of the city.'' Certainly our duty is, and
our pleasure should be, to admininister the municipal government as a good and
wise father conducts his household, caring for all, partial to none. No
personal feelings should dictate our official acts. We are not placed here to
gratify personal or party resentment, nor to extend personal or party favor in
any manner that may in the remotest degree conflict with the best interests of
our city. As citizens we enjoy a great common interest. Each individual is a
member of the body corporate, and no member can be unduly favored or unjustly
oppressed without injury to the entire community. No person or party can afford
to be dishonest. Honesty is always the best policy, for ``with what measure ye
mete it shall be measured to you again.''
A large portion of this
honorable body are now serving officially for the first time, and therefore may
not be fully acquainted with the details of its workings; but we are all
acquainted with the great principles of Justice and Right. If we fail to work
according to these eternal principles, we betray the confidence placed in us,
and this our year of administration will be remembered with disapprobation and
contempt.
Let us bring to our
duties careful judgment and comprehensive views with regard to expenditure, so
that we may be neither parsimonious nor extravagant, but, like a prudent
householder, ever careful that expenses shall be less than the income.
Our city is peculiarly
adapted for commercial purposes, it should be our care, therefore, to adopt
such measures as tend to promote trade, manufactures and commerce. Its
delightful and healthy locality makes it also a desirable place of residence.
We should strive to enhance its natural beauty, to improve our streets and,
with moderate expenditure, to embellish our parks, by which means we shall
attract refined and wealthy residents.
As conservators of the
public peace and morals it is our duty to prevent, so far as possible, acts
which disturb one or the other, and to enforce the laws in an impartial and
parental spirit.
The last report of our
Chief of Police says: `` 'Tis a sad and painful duty, yet candor compels us to
state that at least ninety per cent. of the causes of all the arrests during
the year are directly traceable to the immoderate use of intoxicating liquors,
not to speak of the poverty and misery it has caused families which almost
daily come under our observation.''
In the town of
Vineland, N. J., where no intoxicating drinks are sold, the overseer of the
poor stated in his annual report that in a population of 10,000 there was but
one indictment in six months, and that the entire police expenses were but
seventy-five dollars per year--the sum paid to him--and the poor expenses a
mere trifle. He further says: ``We practically have no debt, and our taxes are
only one per cent. on the valuation. ``Similar results are reported in the town
of Greeley, Colorado, where no liquors are sold.
Our laws license the
sale of intoxicating drinks under certain restrictions on week days, but no man
can claim the right under such license to cause mobs, riots, bloodshed or
murder. Hence no man has, or can have, any right by license or otherwise to
dispense liquors to intoxicated persons, nor to furnish sufficient liquor to
cause intoxication. Our duty is therefore to see that the police aid in
regulating to the extent of their legal power a traffic which our laws do not
wholly prohibit. Spirituous liquors of the present day are so much adulterated
and doubly poisoned that their use fires the brain and drives their victims to
madness, violence and murder. The money annually expended for intoxicating
drinks, and the cost of their evil results in Bridgeport, or any other American
city where liquor selling is licensed, would pay the entire expenses of the
city (if liquors were not drank), including the public schools, give a good
suit of clothes to every poor person of both sexes, a barrel of flour to every
poor family living within its municipal boundaries, and leave a handsome
surplus on hand. Our enormous expenses for the trial and punishment of
criminals, as well as for the support of the poor, are mainly caused by this
traffic. Surely, then, it is our duty to do all we can, legally, to limit and
mitigate its evil. As no person ever became a drunkard who did not sincerely
regret that he or she ever tasted intoxicating drinks, it is a work of mercy,
as well as justice, to do all in our power to lessen this leprous hindrance to
happiness. We should strive to exterminate gambling, prostitution and other
crimes which have not yet attained to the dignity of a ``license.''
The public health
demands that we should pay attention to necessary drainage, and prevent the
sale of adulterated food. The invigorating breezes from Long Island Sound, and
the absence of miasmatic marshes serve to make ours one of the most healthy
cities in America. Scientific experiments made daily during the whole of last
year have established the fact that our atmosphere is impregnated with OZONE,
or concentrated oxygen, to an extent not hitherto discovered on this continent.
No city of the same size in America is so extensively known throughout our own
land and in Europe as Bridgeport. It should be our pleasure to strengthen all
natural advantages which we possess as a city by maintaining a government of
corresponding excellence.
It is painful to the
industrious and moral portions of our people to see so many loungers about the
streets, and such a multitude whose highest aspirations seem to be to waste their
time in idleness, or at base ball, billiards, etc.
No person needs to be
unemployed who is not over fastidious about the kind of occupation. There are
too many soft hands (and heads) waiting for light work and heavy pay. Better
work for half a loaf than beg or steal a whole one. Mother earth is always near
by, and ready to respond to reasonable drafts on her never-failing treasury. A
patch of potatoes raised ``on shares'' is preferable to a poulticed pate earned
in a whisky scrimmage. Some modern Micawbers stand with folded hands waiting
for the panic to pass, as the foolish man waited for the river to run dry and
allow him to walk over.
The soil is the
foundation of American prosperity. When multitudes of our consumers become
producers; when fashion teaches economy, instead of expending for a gaudy dress
what would comfortably clothe the family; when people learn to walk until they
can afford to ride; when the poor man ceases to spend more for tobacco than for
bread; when those who complain of panics learn that ``we cannot eat our cake
and keep it,'' that a sieve will not hold water, that we must rely on our own
exertions and earn before we expend, then will panics cease and prosperity
return. While we should by no means unreasonably restrict healthy recreation,
we should remember that ``time is money,'' that idleness leads to immoral
habits, and that the peace, prosperity and character of a city depend on the
intelligence, integrity, industry and frugality of its inhabitants.
Frank Leslie's Illustrated
Newspaper of July 24th, contained a picture entitled ``His Honor, P. T. Barnum,
Mayor of Bridgeport, Presiding at a Meeting of the Common Council of that
City.'' The editor's remarks are as follows:--
``Mayor Barnum's
message was a model of brevity and practical thought. Having at the beginning
of his official career declared war against the whisky dealers, he next
proceeded to open the struggle. For twenty years the saloons had been kept open
on Sundays, and it was declared impossible to close them. Mr. Barnum has all
his life acted upon the quaint French aphorism that `nothing is so possible as
the impossible.' He gave notice that the saloons must be closed. A select
committee of citizens volunteered to aid in collecting testimony in case the
sellers should disregard the proclamation, and leave the latch-string to their
back doors displayed on the outside. Although the doors were open, the keepers
refused to sell except to personal friends. The committee-men stood opposite
the saloons, and took the names of a dozen or so who were admitted. The next
morning the saloon-keepers were arrested, and when they found their `friends'
had been subpœnaed to appear as witnesses, they pleaded guilty and immediately
brought out their pocket-books to pay the judicial `shot.' This plan
effectually broke up Sunday traffic in liquor, thus insuring a quiet day for
the citizens, and greatly accommodating the saloon-keepers, the best portion of
whom really favor a general closing on Sunday.
``By nature an
organizer of men and systems, he is his own best executive officer. No one
knows so well as he how men may be best governed, and no one can so pleasantly
polish off the rough sides of mankind. Successful beyond the usual measure as
an intelligent, courteous and considerate showman, he has already proved
himself the most acceptable of Mayors.''
In 1875, the Hippodrome
was transported by rail throughout the United States, going as far east as
Portland, Maine, and west to Kansas City, Missouri. Notwithstanding the
depressed state of finances generally that year, the season was a fairly
profitable one.
A very painful event in
connection with the show, occurred in July. The aeronaut, Donaldson, made his
customary daily ascension from the Hippodrome grounds at Chicago, and was never
heard from afterward. He took with him Mr. N. S. Grimwood, a reporter of the
Chicago Journal, whose body was found a few weeks later in Lake Michigan. There
was a terrible storm the night of the ascension and it was doubtless then that
the men perished.
About the middle of
June Barnum visited Niagara Falls with Mrs. Barnum and a party of English
friends. Leaving the party at Niagara, Mr. and Mrs. Barnum went to Akron, Ohio,
where the ``Travelling World's Fair'' was to exhibit. The Mayor of Akron called
upon them and invited them to a concert, where, in response to loud calls,
Barnum gave a short speech; they were afterward tendered a reception and a
serenade at the hotel. The next day they were escorted to Buchtel College by
the founder of the institution, Mr. J. R. Buchtel, and the Reverend D. C.
Tomlinson. The students received Barnum enthusiastically, and he gave them one
of his delightful speeches.
Returning to Buffalo,
they rejoined their friends, and also met the Hippodrome. Early in the morning
of the second day of the exhibition Barnum despatched a special train to
Niagara Falls, with some hundreds of the Hippodrome Company, to whom he wished
to give the pleasure of viewing the cataract. The band which accompanied them
crossed Suspension Bridge playing ``God Save the Queen,'' and ``Yankee
Doodle,'' and returned to Buffalo in time for the afternoon performance. In
July, Barnum visited the Hippodrome at St Louis and Chicago, and then returned
to Waldemere for the rest of the summer.
During the autumn of
1875, under the auspices of the Redpath Lyceum Bureau, in Boston, Mr. Barnum
found time to deliver some thirty times, a lecture on ``The World and How to
Live in It,'' going as far east as Thomaston, Maine, and west to Leavenworth,
Kansas. When the tour was finished the Bureau wrote him that ``In parting for
the season please allow us to say that none of our best lecturers have
succeeded in delighting our audiences and lecture committees so well as yourself.''
The National Jubilee
year was celebrated by the Hippodrome Company in a very patriotic manner. It
was said, that they gave the people, a Fourth of July celebration every day.
The establishment traveled in three trains of railroad cars; they took along a
battery of cannon, and every morning fired a salute of thirteen guns. Groups of
persons costumed in the style of Continental troops, and supplemented with the
Goddess of Liberty, a live eagle and some good singers, sang patriotic songs,
accompanied with bands of music, and also with cannon placed outside the tents
and fired by means of electricity. The performance was closed by singing
``America,'' the entire audience rising and joining in the chorus. At night
there were fireworks in which Revolutionary scenes were brilliantly depicted.
The street parade was a gorgeous feature. It began to move when the salute was
fired, and the town bells were always rung to aid the effect of the National
Jubilee.
Barnum's official term
as Mayor of Bridgeport, expired April 3, 1876. Preferring to travel part of the
time with his Centennial show, he refused a renomination. The last meeting of
the Common Council under his administration, met March 29.
The New York Daily
Graphic, of March 30, read:--
``Mr. P. T. Barnum,
Mayor of Bridgeport, has uttered his valedictory message. The document is very
much like the man. He disapproves of the reports of the Chief of Police and
Clerk of the Police Commissioners, because they declare that liquor saloons and
brothels cannot be closed, and he even reproves the latter for his `flippant
manner' of dealing with the subject. Barnum must have his joke or two, withal,
and he can no more subsist without his fun than could a former Mayor of this
city. He ventures to allude in this solemn document to the management of the
New York and New Haven Railroad Company, as `the good bishop and his
directors;' makes a first rate pun on the names of two citizens; and says to
the Aldermen, `And now we have, like the Arabs, only to `fold our tents and
silently steal away,' congratulating ourselves that this is the only stealing
which has been performed by this honorable body.' Mr. Barnum's administration
in Bridgeport has been mild, but characterized by firmness and independence.
His trouble with the Jews was of short duration, for he is most respectful
toward all theologies. He has not been able to carry out his extreme temperance
views; but he has made a very good Mayor of a city, for whose prosperity he has
labored for half a lifetime.''
It can safely be said
that Barnum amused and instructed more persons than any men who ever lived. In
the course of his career as manager of public entertainments, the number of his
patrons was enormous. Here is his own estimate, in 1889:--
``During the forty years
that I have been a manager of public amusements, the number of my patrons has
been almost incredible. From a careful examination of my account books for the
different exhibitions which I have owned and controlled, I find that more than
eighty-two millions of tickets, in the aggregate, were disposed of, and
numerous exhibitions which I have had at various times are not included in this
statement.''
The traveling
exhibitions which I managed during the
six years preceding my purchase of the New York
American Museum, in 1841, were attended by . . . . . 1,500,000 persons.
The American Museum
which I managed from 1841
to 1865, when it was destroyed by fire, sold . . . . 37,560,000 tickets.
My Broadway Museum, in
T.865-6-7 and 8, sold . . . . . 3,640,000
My Philadelphia Museum,
1849, 1850 and 1851, sold . . 1,800,000
My Baltimore Museum,
sold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 900,000
My traveling Asiatic
Caravan, Museum and Menagerie,
in 1851-2-3 and 4, sold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5,824,000
My great traveling
World's Fair and Hippodrome, in
1871-2-3-4-5 and 6, sold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7,920,000
Carried forward . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .59,144,000
Brought forward . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59,144,000
My other traveling
exhibitions in America and Europe,
sold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2,200,000 tickets.
General Tom Thumb has
exhibited for me 34 years,
and sold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20,400,000 ``
Jenny Lind's Concerts,
under my management, were
attended by . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 600,000 persons
Catharine Hayes's 60
Concerts in California, under my
contract, sold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .120,000 tickets.
Thus, my patrons amount
to the enormous number of 82,464,000
In addition to that, he
delivered over seven hundred public lectures which were attended in the
aggregate by 1,300,000 persons, and wrote three books of reminiscences. Is it
to be wondered at, that such a well-known character should receive a letter
from New Zealand addressed simply, ``Mr. Barnum, America''?
My first recollection
of Mr. Barnum goes back to the period of my small-boyhood, when he came to the
country village near my home to lecture upon temperance. I still remember the
animation of his discourse on that occasion; its humor and its anecdote; and,
with what absorbing interest the large audience sat out the hour and a half or
more which the speaker so well filled. In describing the drunkard and the
illusions which master him, he showed a keen perception of human nature; and,
in every part of his address there was no end of spirited appeal and analysis,
mingled with unbounded mirth and pathos, as the fluctuating argument went on.
A few years later, when
I had grown old enough to visit the metropolis, I made it one of the chief
items of my concern to visit the old museum on the corner of Ann Street and
Broadway, where the Herald Building now stands. There was, even then, no
curiosity there more impressive than its proprietor, who was the very
embodiment of life, kindly feeling, and wholesome joy. I noticed that he was in
all parts of the museum in very rapid succession, and that nothing escaped his
attention. Something in his manner caught every eye. It was said of Daniel
Webster that when he walked through the streets of London, strangers who met
him turned around for another look after he passed by. And, I confess I yielded
in Mr. Barnum's presence, as others did, to this same sight-seeing inclination.
It was not merely that he was so well known, and that his name had gone about
the world with the circuit of the sun; it was because the force that made this
thing possible worked also in other ways, and compelled you to give its owner
attention.
He had a kind word or
an entertaining one for everybody who came near him, as occasion offered,
whether he was an old acquaintance or a stranger. The occasion did not come to
me, though I remember wishing it had, when I left the museum. Probably I should
have deliberately sought it if I had had more assurance and experience at that
time; and if I had known, too, that we were afterward to meet intimately, and
that for more than twenty years the latch-string of his different homes, in
Bridgeport and New York, was to respond so many dozens of times to my touch,
for days and weeks of remarkable hospitality.
My opportunity for
knowing Mr. Barnum personally came about when I was, as a young man,
conducting, almost single-handed, a lecture course in a very small country town
in the later sixties, soon after the close of the war. The night for Mr. Barnum
to come to us was a very cold and forbidding one in February. A snow-storm, the
most formidable one of the winter, sprang up to apparently thwart the success
of the performance; and so certain was Mr. Barnum that nobody would appear to
hear him, he offered not only to release me from the contract between us, but,
in addition to that, would pay me the price I was to pay him, or more, to be
permitted to return to New York. ``There is nothing on earth I hate to do so
much,'' said he, ``as to lecture to empty benches.''
I said to him: ``Please
trust me for the avoidance of that. If it had been a pleasant night, instead of
this howling storm, I would have filled the hall and the yard in front to the
front gate. But, as it now is, I will still guarantee to fill the hall.'' And
filled it was, to our equal delight.
Before entering and
discovering this fact, I ventured to say to Mr. Barnum that, owing to the
general untowardness and inclemency of the night, I would introduce him in my
own way, and not in the conventional one, if he did not object. ``By all
means,'' said he; ``if you can awaken any warmth or hilarity on as sorrowful an
outlook as this, do not spare me, or hesitate for a moment.''
On arriving at our
seats on the platform, I arose and said, in some such words as these:
``LADIES AND
GENTLEMEN:--You will bear me out in saying it has been my usual custom to
introduce the speaker of the evening in the briefest way possible, and not to
trouble you with any talk of my own. To-night, in view of the storm, and while
Mr. Barnum is resting for a moment, I will break my rule and tell you a story.
Some years ago a queer fellow from the country went to New York, and, among the
sights and experiences he had planned for, he went to Barnum's Museum. Mr.
Greenwood was then its manager, and noticed with some interest his patron's
rusticity when he called for a ticket. He asked Mr. Greenwood, after having
paid for the card of admittance, `Where is Barnum?' As Mr. Barnum happened to
be in sight on the entrance floor, Mr. Greenwood, pointing to him said, There
he is.'
``At once the querist
started in the direction named. He got very near Mr. Barnum and stood looking
intently at him. Then he moved a little segment in the circle he was
describing, and looked again. Several times he repeated these inspections,
until he had from all points viewed the object of his curiosity and had completed
the circle, when he started for the door, Mr. Greenwood watching him all the
time. When he came near enough Mr. Greenwood said to him: `My friend, you have
not seen the Museum yet. There is a whale downstairs and any number of things
up-stairs, a moral play soon to come off, etc.' `I know it,' said the rustic,
`and I don't care. I've seen Barnum, and I've got my money's worth.'
``Now, ladies and
gentlemen, I have not been able to bring to you the American Museum tonight,
but I have done what is better--I have brought to you Mr. Barnum.''
Mr. Barnum then arose,
not in the least nonplussed, but greatly pleased with the packed house and the
hearty cheers which greeted him:
``MR. PRESIDENT, LADIES
AND GENTLEMEN:--I cannot, for the life of me, see why you should have sent so
far as New York for me to come and address you. I am not really a lyceum
lecturer at all. I am only a showman, and it seems you have a man here who can
show up the showman.''
The whole story may
read very weakly in print; for Mr. Barnum's tones of voice, and gestures and
mobility of feature are not communicable to cold type. But the playfulness of
this unusual preface not only stirred the audience on a dismal night, but put
the lecturer at his very best. Mr. Barnum's lecture was elastic. It might be
shaped for an hour, as it was not fully written, or it might consume more time.
On this occasion it was two hours and over. While the snow was still falling in
open sleighs, that could find no shelter, their owners, not minding this, were enjoying
one of the most delightful evenings of a whole winter--of many winters,
perhaps.
And all this leads me
to say that Mr. Barnum, while claiming no part of a professional lecturer's
endowment, and only made oratory a casual--if it was sometimes a frequent--matter,
was, nevertheless, admirably equipped to entertain an audience. He could tell a
story inimitably. His mimetic faculty, like Gough's, gave him something of the
quality of an actor, so that he illustrated well what he had to say. No
lectures have proved much more instructive and entertaining than Mr. Barnum's
on The Art of Money Getting; and, wherever he went to address an audience, he
was sure to be called again.
When I met him in
Bridgeport for the first time, I found he was easily the chief man of the
place. He was living then at Lindencroft, on Fairfield Avenue. His Oriental
palace, Iranistan, had burned down some years before. But, wherever he lived,
his house gave open welcome to many guests, illustrious and other; and no one
who had the good fortune to enter it, ever went away without connecting with
his visit the happiest of memories. At the table he especially shone. Wit,
repartee, and even puns, when occasion offered, coruscated over the meal, and
diffused universal good humor. He had always at hand innumerable anecdotes,
which he made peculiarly his own, and which he told with inimitable grace and
unction. I am sure nobody will ever tell them again as he told them; for,
contrary to the proverb, the prosperity of the jest in his case lay,
nine-tenths, in his way of relating it--though it was never a dull one.
It mattered not what
the business of the day might be, or what obstacles or discouragements had been
encountered, his cheerfulness was perennial and unfailing. Mirth and good cheer
were apparently inborn and organic with him. He could no more suppress them
than a fountain could cease bubbling up, or a river turn backward in its
course. And what men and women he has had, first and last, at his table; it is
impossible to exhaust the list or exaggerate its quality. Horace Greeley, Henry
Ward Beecher, E. H. Chapin, Bayard Taylor, Mark Twain, and the Cary sisters,
were a few among Americans; and Thackeray, Matthew Arnold, George Augustus
Sala, and I know not how many others, from abroad. No catalogue of them, but
only types can be given here. He was almost never without people who made no
claim to distinction; and to them, too, he was the genial, urbane, and
entertaining host.
There was a depth of
warm humanity in Mr. Barnum's inmost texture that his public fame does not
fully disclose. That children liked him has been already often said; but those
in maturer youth-- young gentlemen and ladies--felt, somehow, that he never
ceased, at any age, to be their cotemporary. No younger and more hopeful
thoughts were offered than his. If, as sometimes happened, when he organized,
as he persistently did, the summer picnic, inland or on the coast, there was a
party made for each direction, the struggle was to see which could capture Mr.
Barnum. Which way the rest of us might go was not of so much consequence; but
the party which lost him in behalf of the other, felt like one trying to enjoy
Hamlet with the chief character missing.
At one time he actually
kept a seaside caterer at a distant beach to receive his guests of twenty or
more on a place of his own, whenever, on summer days, he could collect guests
enough and give them attention. It was only necessary to send word in the
morning, and the tables were ready, and the party was conveyed to the shady
grounds from Mr. Barnum's door. Swings were not forgotten for the children, nor
was anything forgotten that conduced to rational joy. If some poor sick person
was heard of in the city, one carriage, Mr. Barnum's own, would go somewhat out
of the way to stop and leave delicacies and presents, not without a few words
of sympathy and comfort. When, on one occasion that I remember, he took two or
three hundred people from several towns in the State, and from New York, to
Charles Island, a summer place midway between Bridgeport and New Haven, the
hospitality was royal, and even the steamboat tickets were mysteriously
provided for all.
I have never noticed,
in the multitude of printed sketches of Mr. Barnum's doings, any general
mention of his lavish hospitality poured out for years, but there will be
hundreds who can testify to and will remember it. It was as if he had said:
``As we go along through life let us make others happy.'' And he did this with
no niggardliness or stint, in his private life as well as in his public career.
There is a series of
stories of Mr. Barnum's humane endeavors longer than Æsop's or Pilpays' fables
combined, and it is impossible to relate them all. But I have heard one
recently that will very well illustrate the beneficial manner of his charity,
and which shows that, by native sagacity, he had early learned the scientific
way of giving--to give so that the gift may be more than its surface
expression, and so as not to produce chronic pauperism.
It seems that a poor
widow, some years ago, went to Mr. Barnum's house and told him she was very
poor, and had a large family to support; she could not, in fact, decently
support them. But if Mr. Barnum would only loan her $75 with which to buy a
sewing-machine, she assured him she could do enough better to be able to save a
little, and to pay the money back. Mr. Barnum, thinking her honest and
truthful, said she might have the money on the terms suggested, but told her
when she had saved the requisite amount to bring it to him. After some struggle
and privation, in due time she did this, and laid it before him. ``Well,'' said
he, ``my good woman, you have now fairly earned your sewing-machine, and you
have done one thing more, you have learned how to save.'' And thereupon he
handed back the money, and told her to put it in safe keeping.
Mr. Barnum's deep
attachment for Bridgeport grew year by year, and was most strikingly
manifested. The thousands of trees he had set out there, the new streets he
opened, and the Seaside Park, which was his creation mainly, are but a few of
the evidences of his public enterprise. The Barnum Historical and Scientific
Institute, and the Barnum Gymnasium were among his latest endowments, East
Bridgeport he practically gave existence to, and both that and the city proper
are so essentially his monument that you cannot now divorce the name of
Bridgeport from that of Barnum.
Some years ago, when
certain experiments were made to test the presence of ozone in the air, and
much was said of its value to health, Mr. Barnum had the air at Bridgeport put
on trial, and proved exultingly that no climate in this country was so
salubrious as that of Bridgeport, especially in the region of the Seaside Park.
He was very enthusiastic on the subject, and wrote to the local papers, to
myself, and to others about it to give the fact publicity and proper emphasis.
It may be said by some
that Mr. Barnum, in many of his real estate enterprises, made money; and so he
did, by his foresight, faith, and sagacity concerning his adopted town. He
partly foresaw the future of Bridgeport, and then largely made it. But if he
had not made money--and his example was open for others to follow--he could
have had no money to give. He used to say himself, half jokingly: ``I believe
in a profitable philanthropy,'' which illustrates one of his characteristic
traits--his absolute frankness. In fact, he was so open-hearted about himself
that no account he ever gave of his private doings was ever flattering or
exalted. He wore no phylacteries, and was as far away as possible from
Pecksniffian pretensions.
In early life he
suffered hardship and deprivations, and no Mark Tapley ever met them with more
composure and, on occasions, with more hilarity. But he knew well what comfort
and convenience are, and when they were at his command he enjoyed their best
gifts. He once told me that it pained him to see Mr. Greeley omit those little
cares for himself in later life to which he was surely entitled, and so, when
he was his guest for many days together, he took care to provide him with a
loose morning coat and comfortable slippers, and would not have him drop in an
ordinary chair by accident, but secured for him the easiest one.
Busy as Mr. Barnum was,
he found many hours for social and other pleasures. He did this by his
systematic allotment of his time. All the machinery of his household and his
business ran with a smoothness and punctuality that would have delighted George
Washington. Everything was on time; his meals were regular--not movable feasts.
It was a wonder how he wrote so many letters, foreign and domestic; dispatched
so promptly his household and his city affairs, and his out-of-town business;
met all sorts of callers on all sorts of errands; and yet spared time for
rides, a social game or talk, and an evening out with so much frequency.
Absolute idleness was positively painful to him; occupation of some sort he
must have, and to the very end he had and enjoyed it.
I can scarcely realize,
even now, that he is really gone--so clear of mind and active was he to the
very last. Nor can it be easily imagined how Bridgeport in this generation can
accustom itself to so great a loss. To hear that the average man--of
distinction even--has died, seems common and credible. But the message which
announced Mr. Barnum's death came like a troubled dream from which we somehow
expect to awaken. That one so full of life as to be its very embodiment, should
leave us, it will take time to fully comprehend. If, in the world, his demise
leaves a striking and peculiar void, to a multitude of friends it comes with a
tender sorrow that shall tincture indelibly many flowing years. J. B. ----
Among letters that have
come to hand we select the following as the tribute of a representative
American divine:
BROOKLYN, April 16th,
1891.
Dear Mr. Benton:
There was a Mr. Barnum whom all the world knew, and whose name is familiar in
every civilized land; but there was another Mr. Barnum whom we, his intimate
friends knew, and regarded with a hearty affection. That he was a most
courteous gentleman and the entertaining companion at his table and hospitable
fireside, is but a part of the truth. He had a big warm heart that bound all
his friends to him with hooks of steel.
I first met him on the
platform of a grand temperance banquet, in Tripler Hall, New York, thirty-nine
years ago--where he and Mr. Beecher, and Dr. Chapin, Hon. Horace Mann, Gen.
Houston, of Texas, and myself were the speakers
A gold medal was
presented that evening to the Hon. Neal Dow, of Maine, the father of the
``Prohibitory Law.'' Mr. Barnum made a very vivacious and vigorous address. In
after years he delivered several addresses in behalf of Total Abstinence in my
church, and they were admirable specimens of close argument, most pungently presented.
He indulged in but few witticisms or amusing stories; for, as he well said,
``The Temperance Reform was too serious a matter for trifling jokes and
buffooneries.''
During the first year
of my married life, 1853, Mr. Barnum visited me at Trenton, N. J., and he often
spoke of the happy hour he spent at our table, and the cozy dinner my young
wife prepared for him. In after years he often sat at my table, and on two
occasions he entertained me with princely hospitality at his Bridgeport
mansion. On one occasion he invited the leading clergymen of the town to meet
me.
We differed very
decidedly in our religious creeds, and never fell into arguments about them. I
honored his conscientious convictions, and his staunch adherence to what he
believed to be the right interpretation of God's Word. With the scoffing
scepticism of the day he had no sympathy, and utterly abhorred it. His kind
heart made him a philanthropist, and in his own peculiar way he loved to do
good to his fellow-men. Surrounded by innumerable temptations, he maintained a
clean, chaste, and honest life, and found his happiest hours in the society of
wife and children, under his own roof-tree. Had Mr. Barnum devoted himself to
political life he would have made an excellent figure; for he had keen
sagacity, vast and varied observations of human nature, and sturdy common
sense. In conversation with intellectual men he always held his own with
admirable acumen and vigor of expression. He was altogether one of the most
unique characters that his native State has produced, and when his name ceases
to be connected with shows and zoological exhibitions, he will be lovingly
remembered as the genial friend, the sturdy patriot, the public-spirited and
philanthropic neighbor, and the honest, true-hearted man.
Yours respectfully,
THEODORE L. CUYLER.
April 10th, 1891, was
the day set for Mr. Barnum's funeral. The morning was cold, gray, and dismal.
Nature's heart, with the spring joy put back and deadened, symboled the
melancholy that had fallen upon Bridgeport. No town was ever more transformed
than was this city by one earthly event. On the public and private buildings
were hung the habiliments of woe; flags were at half mast, and, in the store
windows were to be seen innumerable portraits and likenesses of the dead
citizen, surrounded by dark drapery, or embedded in flowers.
Nor was this all. The
people on the street and in the windows of their houses seemed to be thinking
of but one thing--their common loss. The pedestrian walked slower; the voices
of talkers, even among the rougher classes, were more subdued, and in their
looks was imprinted the unmistakable signal of no common or ordinary
bereavement.
The large church was
not only filled, with its lecture-room, a considerable time before the hour set
for the services; but thousands of people crowded the sidewalks near-by for
hours, knowing they could only see the arrival and departure of the funeral
cortege. The private services at the house, ``Marina,'' near the Seaside Park,
which preceded the public services in the church, were simple and were only
witnessed and participated in by the relatives and immediate friends.
The immense
congregation that filled to repletion the South Congregational Church, while
the last services were being held over the remains of Hon. P. T. Barnum, were
deeply impressed with the touching tribute which was paid the great showman and
public benefactor by his old friend, Rev. Robert Collyer, D. D.
It was a pathetic
picture which met the eyes of the vast throng. The aged preacher, with long
white hair hanging loosely on his shoulders, and an expression of keen sorrow
on his kindly face, standing in a small pulpit looking down on the remains of
his old and cherished friend. The speaker's voice was strong and steady
throughout his sermon. Each word of that sad panegyric could be distinctly
heard in all parts of the edifice, but in offering up the last prayer, he broke
down. The aged preacher made a strong effort to control himself, but his voice
finally became husky, and tears streamed down his wrinkled cheeks. The audience
was deeply touched by this display of feeling, and many ladies among the
congregation joined with the preacher and wept freely.
The immense gathering
were unusually quiet when the aged minister took his place in the pulpit, and
his words were strangely clear, and distinct in all portions of the church, In
his feeling tribute, Dr. Collyer said:
``P. T. Barnum was a
born fighter for the weak against the strong, for the oppressed against the
oppressor. The good heart, tender as it was brave, would always spring up at
the cry for help and rush on with the sword of assistance. This was not all
that made him loved, for the good cheer of his nature was like a halo about him.
He had always time to right a wrong and always time to be a good citizen and
patriot of the town, State, or republic in which he lived. His good, strong
face, was known almost as well on the other side. You may be proud of him as he
was proud of his town. He helped to strengthen and beautify it, and he did
beautify it in many places. `It is said that the hand that grasps takes away
the strength from the hand that ought to give,' and that such a man must die
without friends or blessings. He was not that man. He was always the open and
generous man, who could not do too much for Bridgeport. He often told me of his
desire to help this place, and he was not content to wait until after death.
What he has done for Bridgeport is the same as he has done for other noble
works. As my brother, Rev. Mr. Fisher, said today, there was never anything
proposed in this city that had any promise of goodness but that he was ready to
pour out money and assistance for it.
``Faith in one's self
fails in the spring if one has not faith in God also. He had that faith I know.
He had worship, reverence, and love in his heart, and as he rests from his
labors we meet and linger here for a few minutes and pay respect and honor to
the memory of a great and good man. We can forget that we belong to divers
churches, and stand here as children of one faith and one baptism, honoring for
the last time one who has finished his labors here and with a crown of glory
for his reward, has joined in his eternal home the Father he served so well.''
When the church
services were over, the procession moved to Mountain Cemetery, a mile or more
distant, where, in a beautiful plat, long ago arranged, with a modest monument
above it, rest the remains of Mr. Barnum's first wife. Here, in a place made
beautiful by nature and improved by art, was consigned the mortal part of him
whose story we have tried, weakly, perhaps, to tell. Great masses of flowers,
similar to those displayed in the house and church, were upon the grave and
about it, and the people, who came there in large numbers, did not leave for
hours after the religious service had been read.
A book of good size
might be made of the notable expressions called forth by Mr. Barnum's death
from leading journals and men known to fame. It is impossible to give any fair
sample of them here, but the London Times' leader of April 8th may serve,
perhaps, as a good specimen:
``Barnum is gone. That
fine flower of Western civilization, that arbiter elegantiarum to Demos, has
lived. At the age of eighty, after a life of restless energy and incessant
publicity, the great showman has lain down to rest. He gave, in the eyes of the
seekers after amusement, a lustre to America. * * * He created the métier of
showman on a grandiose scale, worthy to be professed by a man of genius. He
early realized that essential feature of a modern democracy, its readiness to
be led to what will amuse and instruct it. He knew that `the people' means
crowds, paying crowds; that crowds love the fashion and will follow it; and
that the business of the great man is to make and control the fashion. To live
on, by, and before the public was his ideal. For their sake and his own, he
loved to bring the public to see, to applaud, and to pay. His immense activity,
covering all those years, marked him out as one of the most typical and
conspicuous of Yankees. From Jenny Lind to Jumbo, no occasion of a public
`sensation' came amiss to him.
``Phineas Taylor
Barnum, born in 1810, at Bethel, Connecticut--how serious and puritanical it
sounds! --would have died with a merely local reputation unless chance had
favored him by putting in his way something to make a hit with. He stumbled
across Charles H. Stratton, the famous, the immortal `General Tom Thumb' of our
childhood. Together they came to Europe and held `receptions' everywhere. It
was the moment when the Queen's eldest children were in the nursery, and Barnum
saw that a fortune depended on his bringing them into friendly relations with
Tom Thumb. He succeeded; and the British public flocked to see the amusing
little person who had shown off his mature yet miniature dimensions by the side
of the baby Heir Apparent. Then came the Jenny Lind furore. Then came a
publicity of a different sort. Mr. Barnum became a legislator for his State,
and even, in 1875, Mayor of Bridgeport. Why not? The man who can organize the
amusements of the people may very well be trusted to organize a few of their
laws for them.
``When, in 1889, the
veteran brought over his shipload of giants and dwarfs, chariots and waxworks,
spangles and circus-riders, to entertain the people of London, one wanted a
Carlyle to come forward with a discourse upon `the Hero as Showman.' It was the
ne plus ultra of publicity. * * * There was a three-fold show--the things in
the stalls and cages, the showman, and the world itself. And of the three
perhaps Barnum himself was the most interesting. The chariot races and the
monstrosities we can get elsewhere, but the octogenarian showman was unique.
His name is a proverb already, and a proverb it will continue.''