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Title: A Unique Story of a Marvellous Career: Life of Hon. Phineas T.
Barnum

Author: Joel Benton

Release date: December 1, 1998 [eBook #1576]
Most recently updated: April 2, 2015

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1576

Credits: Scanned by Charles Keller with OmniPage Professional OCR

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A UNIQUE
STORY OF A MARVELLOUS CAREER: LIFE OF HON. PHINEAS T.
BARNUM ***

Scanned by Charles Keller with OmniPage Professional OCR

A UNIQUE STORY OF A MARVELLOUS CAREER.
LIFE OF Hon. PHINEAS T. BARNUM. ——
COMPRISING HIS BOYHOOD, YOUTH, …

By JOEL BENTON.

CONTENTS.

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."

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII. THE AMERICAN MUSEUM. Advertising Extraordinary—A Quick-witted
Performer—Niagara Falls with Real Water—Other Attractions—Drummond Light

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIV. IN ENGLAND AGAIN. Egyptian Hall and the Zoological Garden—The
Special Relics—Purchase of the Happy Family—Return to America

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXX. AN ENTERPRISING ENGLISHMAN. A New Friend—Dinner to Tom
Thumb and Commodore Nutt—Measuring the Giant—The Two Engines

CHAPTER XXXI. AT HOME AGAIN. The Clock Debts Paid—The Museum once more under
Barnum's Management—Enthusiastic Reception—His Speech—Two Poems

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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."

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 Croesus 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?"

CHAPTER II. EARLY YEARS AT BETHEL.
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 con-siderably '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."

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.

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 di-
minished. 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:]

[1] These were the euphonious names of localities in the vicinity of
Bethel.

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.

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.

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."

CHAPTER V. BEGINNING AS A SHOWMAN.
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."

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 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.

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.

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 protege 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 Olmsted 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."

CHAPTER VIII. THE AMERICAN MUSEUM.
ADVERTISING EXTRAORDINARY—A QUICK-WITTED PERFORMER—NIAGARA
FALLS WITH REAL WATER—OTHER ATTRACTIONS—DRUMMOND LIGHTS.

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.

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.

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,

{pointing finger} 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 lasso, 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.

CHAPTER X. GIANTS AND DWARFS.
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, 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."

CHAPTER XI. TOM THUMB IN LONDON.
AN ARISTOCRATIC VISITOR—CALLING AT BUCKINGHAM PALACE AND HOB-
NOBBING 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's wittiest 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.

CHAPTER XII. IN FRANCE.
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 elite 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 mouth.

Statuettes and pictures of "Tom Ponce" appeared everywhere; a cafe 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.

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."

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.

CHAPTER XIV. IN ENGLAND AGAIN.
EGYPTIAN HALL AND THE ZOOLOGICAL 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 Zoological
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 L160, 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.

CHAPTER XV. AT HOME.
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.

CHAPTER XVI. JENNY LIND.
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 (L5,000) 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 (L2,500) 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 debut 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.

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.

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;
Whose empire o'ershadows Atlantic's wide breast,
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 debut. 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 naivete 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 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 Freyschutz, 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 piu 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."

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
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.

CHAPTER XIX. HAVANA.
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 appeared 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!' "

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
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 Autobiography

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 little 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.

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.

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 to-
morrow." 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 ………….. $17,864.05 " ………….. 14,203.03
—————- No. 1. "……………. 12,519.59 2. "……………. 14,266.09 3.
"……………. 12,174.74 4. "……………. 16,028.39 5. Boston…………
16,479.50 6. "……………. 11,848.62 7. "……………. 8,639 92 8.
"……………. 10,169.25 9. Providence…….. 6,525.54 10. Boston…………
10,524.87 11. "……………. 5,240.00 12. "……………. 7,586.00 13.
Philadelphia…… 9,291.25 14. "……………. 7,547.00 15. "…………….
8,458.65 16. New York………. 6,415.90 17. "……………. 4,009.70 18.
"……………. 5,982.00 19. "……………. 8,007.10 20. "…………….
6,334.20 21. "……………. 9,429.15 22. "……………. 9,912.17 23.
"……………. 5,773.40 24. "……………. 4,993.50 25. "…………….
6,670.15 26. "……………. 9,840.33 27. "……………. 7,097.15 28.
"……………. 8,263.30 29. "……………. 10,570.25 30. "…………….
10,646.45 31. Philadelphia…… 5,480.75 32. "……………. 5,728.65 33.
"……………. 3,709.88 34. "……………. 4,815.48 35. Baltimore………
7,117.00 36. "……………. 8,357.05 37. "……………. 8,406.50 38.
"……………. 8,121.33 39. Washington City… 6,878.55 40. "…………….
8,507.05 41. Richmond………. 12,385.21 42. Charleston…….. 6,775.00
43. "……………. 3,653.75 44. Havana………… 4,666.17 45.
"……………. 2,837.92 46. Havana………… 2,931.95 47. New
Orleans……. 12,599.85 48. "……………. 10,210.42 49. "…………….
8,131.15 50. "……………. 6,019.85 51. "……………. 6,644.00 52.
"……………. 9,720.80 53. "……………. 7,545.50 54. "…………….
6,053.50 55. "……………. 4,850.25 56. "……………. 4,495.35 57
"……………. 6,630.35 58. "……………. 4,745.10 59. Natchez………..
5,000.00 60. Memphis……….. 4,539.56 61. St. Louis……… 7,811.85 62.
"……………. 7,961.92 63. "……………. 7,708.70 64. "…………….
4,086.50 65. "……………. 3,044.70 66. Nashville……… 7,786.30 67.

"……………. 4,248.00 68. Louisville…….. 7,833.90 69. "…………….
6,595.60 70. "……………. 5,000.00 71. Madison……….. 3,693.25 72.
Cincinnati…….. 9,339.75 73. "……………. 11,001.50 74. "…………….
8,446.30 75. "……………. 8,954.18 76. "……………. 6,500.40 77.
Wheeling………. 5,000.00 78. Pittsburg……… 7,210.58 79. New
York………. 6,858.42 80. "……………. 5,453.00 81. "…………….
5,463.70 82. "……………. 7,378.35 83. "……………. 7,179.27 84.
"……………. 6,641.00 85. "……………. 6,917.13 86. New York……….
6,642.04 87. "……………. 3,738.75 88. "……………. 4,335.28 89.
"……………. 5,339.23 90. "……………. 4,087.03 91. "…………….
5,717.00 92. "……………. 9,525.80 93. 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 " " 48,884,41 " 6,110 55
Boston 7 " " 70,388.16 " 10,055.45
Providence 1 " " 6,525.54 " 6,525.54
Baltimore 4 " " 32,101.83 " 8,000.47
Washington 2 " " 15,385 60 " 7,692.80
Richmond 1 " " 12,385.21 " 12,385.21
Charleston 2 " " 10,428.75 " 5,214.37
Havana 3 " " 10,436.04 " 3478.68
New Orleans l2 " " 87,646.12 " 7,303.84

Natchez 1 " " 5,000.00 " 5,000.00
Memphis 1 " " 4,539.56 " 4,539.56
St. Louis 5 " " 30,613.67 " 6,122.73
Nashville 2 " " 12,034 30 " 6,017.15
Louisville 3 " " 19,429.50 " 6,476.50
Madison 1 " " 3,693.25 " 3,693.25
Cincinnati 5 " " 44,242.13 " 8,848.43
Wheeling 1 " " 5,000.00 " 5,000.00
Pittsburg 1 " " 7,210.58 " 7,210.58

Total 95 Concerts. Receipts, $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…………………….357,500.00 480,811.15

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.

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.

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 ingenious 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.

CHAPTER XXIII. SOME DOMESTIC ENTERPRISES.
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:

WINTER BOUQUETS.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF AN AMERICAN CITIZEN.

The poor man's garden lifeless lay
Beneath a fall of snow;

But Art in costly greenhouses,
Keeps Summer in full glow.
And Taste paid gold for bright bouquets,
The parlor vase that drest,
That scented Fashion's gray boudoir,
Or bloomed on Beauty's breast.

A rich man sat beside the fire,
Within his sculptured halls;
Brave heart, clear head, and busy hand
Had reared those stately walls.
He to his gardener spake, and said
In tone of quiet glee—
"I want a hundred fine bouquets—
Canst make them, John, for me?

John's eyes became exceeding round,
This question when he heard;
He gazed upon his master,
And he answered not a word.
"Well, John," the rich man laughing said,
"If these too many be,
What sayest to half the number, man?
Canst fifty make for me?"

Now John prized every flower, as 'twere
A daughter or a son;
And thought, like Regan—"What the need
Of fifty, or of one?"
But, keeping back the thought, he said,
"I think, sir, that I might;

But it would leave my lady's flowers
In very ragged plight."

"Well, John, thy vegetable pets
Must needs respected be;
We'll halve the number once again—
Make twenty-five for me.
And hark ye, John, when they are made
Come up and let me know;
And I'll give thee a list of those
To whom the flowers must go,"

The twenty-five bouquets were made,
And round the village sent;
And to whom thinkest thou, my friend,
These floral jewels went?
Not to the beautiful and proud—
Not to the rich and gay—
Who, Dives-like, at Luxury's feast
Are seated every day.

An aged Pastor, on his desk
Saw those fair preachers stand;
A Widow wept upon the gift,
And blessed the giver's hand.
Where Poverty bent o'er her task,
They cheered the lonely room;
And round the bed where sickness lay,
They breathed Health's fresh perfume

Oh! kindly heart and open hand—
Those flowers in dust are trod,

But they bloom to weave a wreath for thee,
In the Paradise of God.
Sweet is the Minstrel's task, whose song
Of deeds like these may tell;
And long may he have power to give,
Who wields that Dower so well!

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.

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.

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.

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 REDIVIVUS.

A WORD FOR BARNUM.

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 effusion. 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 th 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, philanthropy, 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 philanthropist, 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
announced 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."

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.

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 pocket 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,

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.

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 paraphrase 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 L30,000 or
L40,000."

"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 proceeded 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 afterwards 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