Barnum

By M. R. Werner

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Title: Barnum

Author: M. R. Werner

Release date: May 24, 2025 [eBook #76157]

Language: English

Original publication: Garden City, NY: Garden City Publishing Co., Inc, 1923

Credits: Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARNUM ***

[Illustration: P T Barnum

From the 1870 edition of Barnum’s Autobiography]

M. R. WERNER

[Illustration]

BARNUM

[Illustration: THE STAR SERIES]

GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK
GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC.

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

TO
JAMES SHELLEY HAMILTON

PREFACE

P. T. Barnum wrote a voluminous autobiography, the many editions
of which have long been out of print. This autobiography is one of
the most ingenious and fascinating, and at the same time one of the
most bombastic and verbose books in American literature. It will be
discussed here in its proper place in detail, and it is mentioned in
the very beginning because some explanation is necessary, besides the
story of this extraordinary man, for telling it now. Barnum was taken
for many years at his own valuation, by his friends and critics alike;
those who admired him accepted him for what he himself always said
he was, “The Prince of Humbugs,” and those who despised him admitted
readily that he deserved that title. His autobiography was regarded
during his lifetime as the perfect embodiment of the facts of that life
and their interpretation, and no attempt has been made since to review
one of America’s greatest shows. In the Preface to some of his editions
of the _Life of P. T. Barnum, Written by Himself_, and _Struggles
and Triumphs, Forty Years’ Recollections of P. T. Barnum_, as it was
sometimes called, Barnum wrote:

“There is an almost universal, and not unworthy curiosity to learn
the methods and measures, the ups and downs, the strifes and
victories, the mental and moral _personnel_ of those who have taken
an active and prominent part in human affairs. But an autobiography
has attractions and merits superior to those of a ‘Life’ written
by another, who, however intimate with its subject, cannot know
all that helps to give interest and accuracy to the narrative, or
completeness to the character. The story from the actor’s own lips
has always a charm it can never have when told by another.”

The story from the actor’s own lips is likely to be prejudiced in
favor of the author who is also the hero. When Rudyard Kipling first
toured the United States, he interviewed Mark Twain. Mark Twain told
this young Anglo-Indian, who had visited the Hartford shrine to worship
before an American whom he believed to be a master, something that
applies to Barnum and his autobiography:

“Returning to the big chair, he [Mark Twain], speaking of truth and
the like in literature, said that an autobiography was the one work
in which a man, against his own will and in spite of his utmost
striving to the contrary, revealed himself in his true light to the
world....

“‘But in genuine autobiography, I believe it is impossible for a
man to tell the truth about himself or to avoid impressing the
reader with the truth about himself.... It is not in human nature
to write the truth about itself. None the less the reader gets
a general impression from an autobiography whether the man is a
fraud or a good man. The reader can’t give his reasons any more
than a man can explain why a woman struck him as being lovely when
he doesn’t remember her hair, eyes, teeth, or figure. And the
impression that the reader gets is a correct one.’

“‘Do you ever intend to write an autobiography?’ Kipling asked.

“‘If I do, it will be as other men have done--with the most earnest
desire to make myself out to be the better man in every little
business that has been to my discredit; and I shall fail, like the
others, to make my readers believe anything except the truth.’”[1]

Even so with Barnum: it is impossible for him to tell the truth about
himself, and yet he does not avoid impressing the reader with the truth
about himself. No one thanks P. T. Barnum more than I for publishing
his voluminous autobiography, for without it this book would have
been more difficult, and with it the task of interpreting the story
and character of one of the most typical Americans was a business
of checking the inaccuracies that necessarily follow from what Mark
Twain called the earnest desire to make himself out to be the better
man in every little business that has been to his discredit. There
was also the work of coördinating the material found in the seven
different editions of the autobiography, for Barnum continually found
it necessary in later editions to suppress things contained in early
editions which seemed unseemly after mature consideration, even though
they happened to be the truth about himself. He also added appendices
each year towards the end of his career that gave interesting
information about his activities, so that in order to get a complete
picture of the man from his autobiography it is necessary to read about
ten different volumes. After these duties were finished, there remained
only the larger task of ferreting out those things which the author
of his own life always sees fit to omit entirely. Every eminent or
notorious person should write his autobiography, if only to provide his
future biographer with a skeleton to articulate.

Since Barnum’s death in 1891 there has been ample time to estimate
accurately his influence and position in our life. It is my conviction
that both of these were important. A distinguished American editor
said recently that he considers Lincoln and Barnum the most typical
American figures, and that he is rather afraid to think which is
the more typical. William Roscoe Thayer wrote in _The Life of John
Hay_: “If the question had been asked during the third quarter of the
nineteenth century, ‘Who is the typical American of this period?’ a
perspicacious observer might have replied, ‘Phineas T. Barnum.’” And it
is because he was so typical and at the same time so unique that Barnum
remains to-day one of the outstanding figures of our national life, for
Barnum was a most typical American without ever becoming an average
American. In newspapers, books, and magazines we frequently see the
sentence, “P. T. Barnum was right.” There was a popular song beginning,
“P. T. Barnum had the right idea.” But the people to-day who use these
expressions are rather doubtful of the details of the showman’s social
psychology, which made him successful, and therefore right. That social
psychology is usually summed up popularly in the phrase attributed to
him, “There’s a sucker born every minute.” But there was more to Barnum
than that, and it is the purpose of this book to give an impression of
that idea, or group of ideas, which has interested the world in Barnum
since the year 1841, when Barnum’s American Museum opened its doors at
Ann Street and Broadway.

The things that Barnum did were often so curious, sometimes so
incredible, and always so picturesque, that the reader may be inclined
to doubt their accuracy. I am not writing a romance, however, and there
is ample authority for every statement and anecdote included in this
book; the bibliography at the end indicates the sources of information.
The footnote is one of the banes of a reader’s continued interest. If
he is a curious reader, the footnote plagues him with the necessity to
look at the bottom of the page; if he is a cursory reader, the footnote
which he skips is always an annoyance because he is compelled to skip
it. Therefore, I have omitted, at the risk of being called a romancer
and in the hope of being more entertaining, all footnotes except those
absolutely necessary to my reputation for veracity.

Many persons have aided me in the composition of this book. My thanks
are especially due to Leonidas Westervelt, whose private collection
of Barnum and Jenny Lind books, pamphlets, and letters, which is
probably the largest in existence, he so kindly placed at my disposal;
to C. Barnum Seeley, for information about his grandfather; to Harry
Houdini, for permission to use pictures and showbills from his huge
private collection of theatrical material; to Elizabeth Hall Dietz, for
valuable assistance; and to the New York Public Library and the Harvard
College Library.

M. R. W.

CONTENTS

PAGE
THE CONNECTICUT YANKEE 3

GROWING PAINS 24

BARNUM’S AMERICAN MUSEUM 43

TRAVELS WITH A MIDGET 77

HIS BROTHER’S KEEPER 103

JENNY LIND 114

THE SWEDISH NIGHTINGALE IN THE AMERICAN WOODS 140

SUNDRIES AND AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY 198

HUMBUGGED AND BANKRUPT 218

“THE ART OF MONEY-GETTING” 228

THE DWARFS’ DUEL, OR THE MARRIAGE OF THE MIDGETS 253

THIS WORLD, AND THE NEXT 274

THE CIRCUS 306

OLD AGE 361

“NOT MY WILL, BUT THINE, BE DONE--” 370

BIBLIOGRAPHY 373

INDEX 377

BARNUM

CHAPTER I

THE CONNECTICUT YANKEE

Firecrackers had just celebrated the thirty-fourth year of the
Independence of the United States in the small town of Bethel,
Connecticut, when the first son by his second wife was born to Philo F.
Barnum. P. T. Barnum was born on July 5, 1810. He arrived late. It was
a pity, for he would so much have enjoyed being born on the Fourth of
July. He himself wrote that after peace and quiet were restored, and
the audience had regained their seats, he made his début. Probably his
tardiness was for the best: competition between P. T. Barnum and the
national holiday would have been too much--for the national holiday.

Lincoln had just about cut his first tooth, and Poe was in his
swaddling clothes, when Barnum appeared on the American scene. When, in
1891, he died, Free Silver was beginning to be discussed in the Senate,
and William James’s _Principles of Psychology_ was a new book. The span
his life covered was as significant as any in American history, and
he managed to make himself as much at home among his contemporaries
as the Fourth of July. Barnum wrote to Matthew Arnold when Arnold
was lecturing in this country, inviting him to visit at Bridgeport,
Connecticut. The invitation read: “You and I, Mr. Arnold, ought to be
acquainted. You are a celebrity, I am a notoriety.” This remained his
self-appointed position among his fellowmen during his entire lifetime.

They named him Phineas Taylor Barnum, after his maternal grandfather,
Phineas Taylor, from whom he inherited a tract of swampy,
snake-infested land, known as “Ivy Island,” and a propensity for
practical jokes which the boy never outgrew. Barnum wrote of his
grandfather: “He would go farther, wait longer, work harder, and
contrive deeper, to carry out a practical joke, than for anything
else under heaven.” Barnum admitted the influence of Phineas Taylor’s
propensity, and throughout his own life he exercised it with all
the force which heredity gives to individual action. The paternal
grandfather was Ephraim Barnum--Captain Ephraim Barnum, a captain of
militia in the Revolutionary War. Captain Ephraim Barnum had fourteen
children by two wives, and died at the age of eighty-four, when P. T.
Barnum was seven years old. His grandson tells us that “he relished a
joke better than the average of mankind.”

Philo F. Barnum, P. T. Barnum’s father, was sometime tailor, farmer,
tavern-keeper, livery-stable proprietor, and country store merchant.
He also operated a small express company, and his son wrote that “with
greater opportunities and a larger field for his efforts and energies,
he might have been a man of mark and means.” He never did a profitable
business in any of these capacities.

Phineas began the little schooling he received when he was six years
old. He later wrote that “a school-house in those days was a thing
to be dreaded--a schoolmaster, a kind of being to make the children
tremble.” The first three male teachers he sat under--a Mr. Camp, a
Mr. Zerah Judson, and a Mr. Curtiss--“used the ferule prodigiously.”
For one season he attended the private school of Laurens P. Hickok,
later Professor Hickok, the educational philosopher and metaphysician.
Hickok’s sweetheart, Eliza Taylor, was also a pupil. “One day he threw
a ruler at my head,” Barnum wrote. “I dodged, and it struck Eliza in
the face. He quietly apologized and said she might apply that to some
other time when she might deserve it.” Young Phineas excelled all other
scholars in Bethel in arithmetic, he admits, and his later career shows
a constant development by the rules of arithmetical progression and
sometimes even as fast as a geometrical progression. He recalled that
his teacher and a neighbor got him out of bed late at night at the age
of twelve to settle a wager. The teacher had bet that Phineas could
figure up the correct number of feet in a load of wood in five minutes.
Phineas marked down on the stovepipe in his father’s kitchen the given
dimensions and in less than two minutes gave the correct result,
much to the delight of his teacher, his mother, and himself, and the
incredulous astonishment of the neighbor.

He was often kept out of school to help on his father’s farm, and he
records as one of his earliest emotions an aversion to hand-work that
earned him a reputation as the laziest boy in town. This impression
of him by his neighbors, however, was false, Barnum said, “because I
was always busy at head-work to evade the sentence of gaining bread
by the sweat of my brow.” Throughout his life he hated manual labor
and routine work, but the number of enterprises in which he sometimes
engaged simultaneously would indicate that he never disliked work if
he was allowed to choose its nature. What Barnum called “my organ of
acquisitiveness” was large. At an early age he earned money by selling
cherry-rum to soldiers, and when he was twelve years old he owned a
sheep, a calf, and a sum of money in his own right. He would have been
a wealthy boy for his environment, if his father had not insisted that
he buy his own clothes.

When he was about twelve years old, Barnum paid his first visit to
New York City, assisting a neighbor to deliver a drove of cattle
there. To “go to York” from Connecticut in 1821 was not a trip, but
a journey, which had some of the elements of a pilgrimage; it took
Phineas four days to reach the big city with his cattle. During this
period passengers traveled from Connecticut to New York via the New
York-Boston stage coach or by boat via Long Island Sound. The stage
coach was not allowed to take on passengers in any Connecticut town on
Sunday, and any man who rode on horseback or in his carriage before
sundown on the Lord’s Day was arrested by a deacon of the church. If
the stage coach driver was found with passengers in his possession, he
was arrested by meeting house sentinels, posted along the Connecticut
route of the coach. In Barnum’s youth the Blue Laws were Connecticut’s
contribution to American life. The voyage to New York by boat depended
upon the state of the wind, sometimes requiring eight hours and
sometimes several days. Barnum’s grandfather, Phineas Taylor, took
this voyage upon an occasion which gave him an opportunity to enact
what seemed to impress his grandson as Phineas Taylor’s most famous
practical joke. On this particular voyage the fourteen jolly jokers
from Bethel were becalmed for seven days, at the end of which all
needed to shave. There was one razor on board, belonging to Phineas
Taylor, who professed himself against the practice of shaving and
refused the loan of his razor. Finally, the boat approached New York
on Sunday afternoon. Barnum’s grandfather was persuaded to lend his
razor since the barber shops would be closed when the party arrived
in New York. Because time was short, he stipulated that each man must
shave half his face and pass the razor on to the next. After all had
finished, each could begin shaving the other half of his face. Half of
each face was shaved, and Phineas Taylor began on the other half of
his own face. When he had finished, Barnum’s grandfather stropped the
razor, and, as if by accident, it flew from his hand into the water.
All the other passengers created a sensation with their half-shaved
faces when they arrived in New York on Sunday afternoon. Barnum himself
never ceased to delight in this type of joke.

Barnum’s father soon despaired of ever being able to make his son
useful on the farm, and Barnum admitted that he “generally contrived
to shirk the work altogether, or, by slighting it, get through with
the day’s work.” His father opened a country store in Bethel and made
Phineas the clerk. Here he drove sharp bargains with old women who
paid for their purchases in butter, eggs, beeswax, feathers, and rags.
The atmosphere of the country store exercised an important influence
on Barnum’s later career. On wet days there was no business, and
then, he tells us, “from six to twenty social, jolly, story-telling,
joke-playing wags and wits, regular originals, would get together at
the tavern or store, and spend their evenings or stormy afternoons in
relating anecdotes, describing their adventures, playing off practical
jokes upon each other, and engaging in every project out of which a
little fun could be extracted by village wits whose ideas were usually
sharpened at brief intervals by a ‘treat,’ otherwise known as a glass
of Santa Cruz rum, old Holland gin, or Jamaica spirits.” Practical
jokes of a crude nature, the product of brains whose sole aim was to
get the better of the other fellow somehow, were a great source of
amusement and one of the few sources of instruction of young Phineas.
These Connecticut Yankees must have made this Connecticut Yankee
realize that if he was to survive in this world, he must be sharp and
not too scrupulous, except on Sunday.

His own grandfather played what Barnum called a practical joke, and
which we might be inclined to call something more, on the boy the
day he was born. It has been mentioned that Barnum inherited a tract
of land called “Ivy Island” from Phineas Taylor in consideration of
taking the name Phineas through life. His grandfather never spoke of
the boy in the presence of strangers without saying that he was the
richest boy in town because he owned “Ivy Island.” For about six years
these allusions to “Ivy Island” continued, and finally, when he was
twelve years old, permission was granted him to visit the property
which was deeded in his name. The property consisted of bogs, snakes,
hornets, and stunted ivies, mostly under water. When he asked for an
explanation, Phineas was told that it could not be an island unless
it was literally surrounded by water, and that it could not be “Ivy
Island” unless its main product was stunted ivies. We shall see how
Barnum used “Ivy Island” to advantage, but at the time it was a
profound disappointment, and the incident must have influenced his
impression of the ways of the world.

Deception was common practice in the country store business. Barnum
wrote that often he cut open bundles of rags brought to the store
by country women to exchange for goods, and found that what were
ostensibly good linen and cotton rags contained in their midst extra
weight in the shape of stone, gravel or ashes; and farmers regularly
brought their loads of oats, corn, and rye into town short of their
stated weights. Many years later Barnum told a story in his book, _The
Humbugs of the World_, that he would agree characterizes the atmosphere
in which he found himself as a boy:

“There is a much older and better-known story about a grocer who
was a deacon, and who was heard to call downstairs before breakfast
to his clerk:

“‘John, have you watered the rum?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘And sanded the
sugar?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘And dusted the pepper?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘And
chicoried the coffee?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Then come up to prayers.’”

The boy was brought up to attend church regularly. Barnum’s grandfather
was a Universalist, and that was the religion which he strenuously
defended during his maturity and unto his death, but apparently he
also came under the stern influence of strict Methodism. Of his early
religious experiences Barnum told a reporter for the _New York Sun_
when he was seventy-three years old: “I was brought up in the fear
of hell, and when I went to Methodist prayer meetings, at the age of
thirteen or fourteen, I used to go home and pray and cry and beg God
to take me out of existence if He would only save me; but I didn’t
see much chance for me in the way they put it.” There was only one
meeting house in Bethel, where all attended, and no differences of
sects seemed to disrupt the harmony of religion, but seemingly this
did not detract from the severity with which worship was indulged.
Doubtless it was partly as a reaction from the fiery hell of those
early Methodist influences that Barnum as soon as he was able to choose
for himself turned to Universalism, by which salvation is guaranteed
more or less to all those who seek for it, without regard to their
previous condition of sinful servitude. The meeting house at Bethel,
without steeple or bell, was also without heat in winter, for one of
the brethren said when a stove was suggested by an irreverent reformer,
“A pretty pass, indeed, when professing Christians need a fire to warm
their zeal.” The women were allowed to bring to church tin boxes with
live coals, as foot-stoves, but the men were expected to endure with
hardihood the cold Connecticut winter draughts during the long sermons,
which usually lasted one hour and a half, and sometimes continued for
two hours.

Phineas attended a Bible class at which the students drew texts for
their compositions from the clergyman’s hat. In his autobiography
Barnum told that he once drew forth the text from 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 is short, but it serves as a concise creed from which he did
not deviate later in life:

“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 engaged 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 fellow-man, 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 clergyman approved highly this essay of the thirteen-year-old
Barnum, and he himself approved it many times in later life, when he
wrote the same thing in different words. To his mind, one must look
carefully to the main chance, attain monetary success by all odds,
and practise humility by means of a proper respect for God and Jesus
Christ. In short, Barnum lived a life that he himself always did
look back upon with satisfaction--a satisfaction which stands out
triumphantly in his autobiography.

The character of his early environment in Bethel, Connecticut, was
admirably summed up by Barnum when he was seventy-one years old.
He presented a bronze fountain eighteen feet high, “the design a
Triton of heroic size, spouting water from an uplifted horn,” to the
inhabitants of his birthplace. The town was decorated with flags and
bunting, and the police and fire companies, with apparatus and bands
of music, greeted their native son, their returned hero, the conqueror
of Success. Barnum made this speech, which is inserted here because
it tells with characteristic altiloquence more of his early life than
anything he ever wrote, or which ever could be written by another:

“My friends: Among all the varied scenes of an active and eventful
life, crowded with strange incidents of struggle and excitement, of
joy and sorrow, taking me often through foreign lands and bringing
me face to face with the king in his palace and the peasant in
his turf-covered hut, I have invariably cherished with the most
affectionate remembrance the place of my birth, the old village
meeting house, without steeple or bell, where in its square family
pew I sweltered in summer and shivered through my Sunday-school
lessons in winter, and the old school-house where the ferule,
the birchen rod and rattan did active duty, and which I deserved
and received a liberal share. I am surprised to find that I can
distinctly remember events which occurred before I was four years
old.

“I can see as if but yesterday our hard-working mothers hetcheling
their flax, carding their tow and wool, spinning, reeling, and
weaving it into fabrics for bedding and clothing for all the family
of both sexes. The same good mothers did the knitting, darning,
mending, washing, ironing, cooking, soap and candle making, picked
the geese, milked the cows, made butter and cheese, and did many
other things for the support of the family.

“We babies of 1810, when at home, were dressed in tow frocks,
and the garments of our elders were not much superior, except on
Sunday, when they wore their ‘go-to-meeting clothes’ of homespun
and linsey-woolsey.

“Rain water was caught and used for washing, while that for
drinking and cooking was drawn from wells with their ‘old oaken
bucket’ and long poles and well sweeps.

“Fire was kept over night by banking up the brands in ashes in the
fireplace, and if it went out one neighbor would visit another
about daylight the next morning with a pair of tongs to borrow a
coal of fire to kindle with. Our candles were tallow, home-made,
with dark tow wicks. In summer nearly all retired to rest at early
dark without lighting a candle except on extraordinary occasions.
Home-made soft soap was used for washing hands, faces, and
everything else. The children in families of ordinary circumstances
ate their meals on trenchers, wooden plates. As I grew older
our family and others got an extravagant streak, discarded the
trenchers and rose to the dignity of pewter plates and leaden
spoons. Tin peddlers who traveled through the country with their
wagons supplied these and other luxuries. Our food consisted
chiefly of boiled and baked beans, bean porridge, coarse rye bread,
apple sauce, hasty pudding beaten in milk, of which we all had
plenty. The elder portion of the family ate meat twice a day--had
plenty of vegetables, fish of their own catching, and occasionally
big clams, which were cheap in those days, and shad in their
season....

“Our dinners several times each week consisted of ‘pot luck,’ which
was corned beef, salt pork, and vegetables, all boiled together in
the same big iron pot hanging from the crane which was supplied
with iron hooks and trammels and swung in and out of the huge
fireplace. In the same pot with the salt pork, potatoes, turnips,
parsnips, beets, carrots, cabbage, and sometimes onions, was placed
an Indian pudding, consisting of plain Indian meal mixed in water,
pretty thick, salted and poured into a home-made brown linen bag
which was tied at the top. When dinner was ready the Indian pudding
was _first_ taken from the pot, slipped out of the bag and eaten
with molasses. Then followed the ‘pot luck.’...

“There were but few wagons or carriages in Bethel when I was a boy.
Our grists of grain were taken to the mill in bags on horseback,
and the women rode to church on Sundays and around the country
on week days on horseback, usually on a cushion called a pillion
fastened behind the saddle, the husband, father, brother, or
lover riding in front on the saddle. The country doctor visited
his patients on horseback, carrying his saddle-bags, containing
calomel, jalap, Epsom salts, lancet and a turnkey, those being the
principal aids in relieving the sick. Nearly every person sick or
well was bled every spring.

“Teeth were pulled with a turnkey, and a dreadful instrument it was
in looks, and terrible in execution....

“I remember seeing my father and our neighbors put through military
drill every day by Capt. Noah Ferry in 1814, for the war with Great
Britain of 1812–15.

“My uncles, aunts, and others, when I was a child, often spoke
about ravages of Indians from which their ancestors had suffered,
and numbers of them remembered and described the burning of Danbury
by the British in 1777....

“Esquire Tom Taylor sometimes wore white-topped boots. He was
a large, majestic-looking man, of great will-force, and was
considered the richest man in Bethel. Mr. Eli Judd was marked
second in point of wealth. Every year I took twelve dollars to
Esquire Tom Taylor to pay the interest on a two hundred dollar note
which my father owed him. I also annually carried four dollars
and fifty cents to Eli Judd for interest on a seventy-five dollar
note which he held against my father. As these wealthy men quietly
turned over each note filed away in a small package till they found
the note of my father, and then indorsed the interest thereon,
I trembled with awe to think I stood in the presence of such
wonderfully rich men. It was estimated that the richer of them was
actually worth three thousand dollars!

“Esquire Tom Taylor made quite a revolution here by one act. He got
two yards of figured carpet to put down in front of his bed in the
winter, because the bare board floor was too cold for his feet,
while he was dressing. This was a big event in the social life of
that day, and Esquire Tom was thought to be putting on airs which
his great wealth alone permitted.

“When I was but ten years old, newspapers came only once a week.
The man who brought us the week’s papers came up from Norwalk, and
drove through this section with newspapers for subscribers and pins
and needles for customers. He was called Uncle Silliman. I can
remember well his weekly visit through Bethel, and his queer cry.
On coming to a house or village he would shout, ‘News! News! The
Lord reigns!’ One time he passed our school-house when a snow storm
was prevailing. He shouted: ‘News! News! The Lord reigns--and snows
a little.’

“Everybody had barrels of cider in their cellars and drank
cider-spirits called ‘gumption.’ Professors of religion and the
clergy all drank liquor. They drank it in all the hat and comb
shops, the farmers had it at hay and harvest times. Every sort
of excuse was made for being treated. A new journeyman must
give a pint or quart of rum to pay his footing. If a man had a
new coat he must ‘sponge’ it by treating. Even at funerals the
clergy, mourners, and friends drank liquor. At public vendues the
auctioneer held a bottle of liquor in his hand and when bidding
lagged he would cry ‘a dram to the next bidder,’ the bid would be
raised a cent, and the bidder would take his boldly and be the envy
of most of the others.

“The public whipping post and imprisonment for debt both flourished
in Bethel in my youthful days. Suicides were buried at crossroads.
How blessed are we to live in a more charitable and enlightened
age, to enjoy the comforts and conveniences of modern times, and to
realize that the world is continually growing wiser and better.

“I sincerely congratulate my native village on her character for
temperance, industry, and other good qualities.

“And now, my friends, I take very great pleasure in presenting this
fountain to the town and borough of Bethel as a small evidence of
the love which I bear them and the respect which I feel for my
successors, the present and future citizens of my native village.”

Among the many ways Barnum found for making money during his boyhood,
the lottery business was his most important enterprise; from the ages
of twelve to fifteen he was a lottery manager and salesman, selling
his tickets to the workmen in the hat and comb factories near Danbury.
Lotteries at this time were permitted by the state and often indulged
in by churches and educational institutions, and in Bethel lotteries
were held for the benefit of the church, where, according to Barnum,
the minister often preached against gambling. That grandfather, Phineas
Taylor, who appears at every turn in the early career of Barnum, was
manager of a lottery, and it was by his example and with his advice
that Phineas tried this means of growing rich quickly.

In September, 1825, when Barnum was fifteen years old, his father died
insolvent. Phineas had loaned his father all his savings and held Philo
Barnum’s note for the money, but as he was a minor his debt was ruled
out, and he was compelled to serve as clerk in a store just before
the funeral in order to get money for shoes to follow the coffin to
the grave. Irena Barnum, his mother, continued to keep the tavern at
Bethel to support herself and her five children, of whom Phineas was
the oldest. Phineas soon became a clerk in the general store at Grassy
Plain, a village one mile northwest of Bethel, where he worked for six
dollars a month and his board. Here his duties were much the same as
they had been in his father’s country store at Bethel, but he showed
signs of the advertising ability and the power to attract by unusual
enterprises which were later to make him famous, when he organized at
this store in Grassy Plain a lottery for the purpose of moving his
boss’s old stock of tinware and green glass bottles. Those who won
prizes in the lottery received their choice of a tin dipper or some
green glass bottles.

It was while he was a clerk at Grassy Plain that Phineas met Charity
Hallett. Charity had visited Grassy Plain on a Saturday to buy a
hat from Aunt “Rushia,” the only milliner of the two towns. It was
Phineas’s custom to return to Bethel every Saturday night, remaining
with his mother until Monday, so that he might go to church with her.
He was told that Charity was afraid to return to Bethel alone in the
storm on this particular Saturday night. During the ride he learned
that “the fair, rosy-cheeked, buxom girl, with beautiful white teeth,”
as he later described her appearance at the time, was a tailoress in
Bethel. Her face haunted him in his dreams that Saturday night. He met
her in church the next morning, and the reality seemed to fulfil the
pictures of his imagination. But he was able to see her only in church
every Sunday that season, for they were separated by the distance
between Bethel and Grassy Plain.

As his job continued in a country store, Barnum became more inured to
the ways and means of country store success. In his autobiography he
recorded the gist of these: “It was ‘dog eat dog’--‘tit for tat.’ Our
cottons were sold for wool, our wool and cotton for silk and linen;
in fact nearly everything was different from what it was represented.
The customers cheated us in their fabrics: we cheated the customers
with our goods. Each party expected to be cheated, if it was possible.
Our eyes, and not our ears, had to be our masters. We must believe
little that we saw, and less that we heard.... Such a school would ‘cut
eye-teeth,’ but if it did not cut conscience, morals, and integrity all
up by the roots, it would be because the scholars quit before their
education was completed.” He did quit for a time and went to Brooklyn,
New York, where he was offered a position in a grocery store, but the
humdrum of this existence of petty trade was beginning to annoy him.
His disposition was speculative, and a regular salary never satisfied
him, especially since all these early salaries were small. Although he
was only seventeen years old, he was ambitious enough to want his own
business, and he opened a porter-house in Brooklyn. He soon sold it
at a profit and on the basis of his experience became a bartender in
another porter-house in New York City. While working and living in New
York, he visited the theater frequently, and soon became in his own
opinion “a close critic.”

Grandfather Phineas Taylor wrote his grandson in 1828, offering him
half of his carriage-house rent free, if young Phineas would return
from New York and establish some kind of business in Bethel. Before he
left New York Phineas made arrangements for shipments with wholesale
merchants, and upon his return to Bethel turned the carriage-house,
which was situated on the main street of Bethel, into a retail fruit
and confectionery store, where ale and oysters were also sold. Phineas
invested his entire fortune, $120, in his Bethel store, and during
the first day’s business took in $63. Grandfather Phineas Taylor was
much pleased with his boy’s success; he advised him to take the agency
for some country-wide lottery in addition to his store business, and
Barnum followed his advice. The store was the resort of the country
loungers and the town wits, and the practical jokes which were played
there, and which delighted Barnum so much that he reproduced them in
detail in his autobiography, contributed to make him what he later was.
In the autobiography he himself attributes his development in part to
the influence of these stale puns and crude practical jokes, which he
did not seem to realize, even in his middle age, were far-fetched, and
often barbaric.

When Barnum was eighteen years old, his store in Bethel was visited by
the first showman he ever met, Hackariah Bailey, not related to James
A. Bailey, who was Barnum’s partner many years later. Hackariah Bailey
was a “character.” He imported the first elephant that was ever brought
to this country and made a fortune by exhibiting it. Later he toured
with several traveling menageries, operated opposition steamboats on
the Hudson River, and finally built a hostelry in Somers, New York,
which he called “Elephant Hotel,” where a golden elephant stood on a
large stone pillar in front of the veranda as homage to the foundation
of the Bailey fortune. Young Barnum listened with great interest to the
stories of Hackariah Bailey.

Barnum made another trip to New York City in his nineteenth year to
investigate opportunities, of which he had been told, for a thriving
lottery business in Pittsburg. An agency for the whole state of
Tennessee was vacant, and the offer of it was tempting, but there was
Charity Hallett, tailoress in Bethel, and Tennessee was too far from
Bethel. The possibilities of profit in the lottery business impressed
Barnum, and he used all the time he could spare from his store in
selling lottery tickets throughout near-by Connecticut counties. He
established agents throughout the surrounding country and soon was
selling from five hundred dollars’ worth to two thousand dollars’
worth of lottery tickets each day. It was in this business that
Barnum first used advertising. He issued handbills and circulars with
extravagant language and huge pictures. Immense gold signs and posters
in many colored inks covered the front of Barnum’s lottery office, and
“home-made poetry” persuaded prospective purchasers. Oyster suppers at
his mother’s tavern followed the drawing of prizes.

Charity Hallett, the “attractive tailoress,” continued to occupy
an important place in Barnum’s mind; he was still meeting her at
church, and whenever the sale of oysters, lottery tickets, and
general merchandise permitted him spare time. In the summer of 1829,
when he was just nineteen years old, Barnum, without mentioning
his intentions to his mother, proposed marriage. Those intentions
must have been obvious, however, for some time, because in his
autobiography Barnum wrote that his mother and his other relatives
thought that his enterprise, if not his origin, entitled him to aim
higher in the social scale than a local tailoress. But there were many
impartial townspeople, said Barnum, who thought that Charity Hallett
“was altogether too good for Taylor Barnum.” They were married that
November in New York City at the house of Charity’s uncle. Barnum
went on record in his autobiography as opposed to early marriages,
but he hastily prefaced these admonitions with the statement, “had I
waited twenty years longer, I could not have found another woman so
well suited to my disposition, and so valuable as a wife, a mother,
and a friend.” Barnum’s mother was angry at his secret marriage in New
York, but, after a month of Sundays, he was invited to bring his wife
to Sabbath dinner. During the two years after his marriage Barnum
continued his country store, his lottery business, with branches in
Danbury, Stamford, Norwalk, and Middletown, and found time to engage in
religious and political controversy.

III

At this period in New England history religion was rife, and in 1831,
particularly in the section where Barnum lived and throughout the rest
of New England as well, it was also violent. Converts were being made
wholesale by means of protracted religious meetings and hortatory
witchery; some of these converts worked themselves into religious
frenzy, and suicides as well as murders in the name of God were common
occurrences. Many of the more imaginative ministers advocated a
Christian Party in politics, and were in favor of confining the right
to hold public office to those only who professed faith in God and
belief in Jesus Christ. At the age of twenty-one Barnum was sagacious
enough to realize that in spite of all his respect for clergymen and
his reliance on their work they must be kept in their proper place,
which was in church. Many persons besides himself were alarmed at the
prospect of a religious fanaticism that would conquer civil government
to the destruction of liberty. Barnum wrote several articles on the
dangers of religious usurpation, which he sent to the nearest weekly
newspaper, a Danbury publication. The editor regretted that he could
not find space for Mr. Barnum’s contributions, whereupon, like many
writers on controversial subjects, Barnum was convinced that the editor
did not dare to print his articles, and that there was no free press.
But unlike most of his rejected brethren, Barnum took action. He
purchased a press and types, and within a few weeks after the rejection
of his religious opinions began publication of his own weekly newspaper
in Danbury, Connecticut, which was called, of course, _The Herald of
Freedom_.

There are no files of this paper extant, which is unfortunate, for
they would undoubtedly reveal interesting character developments
in our hero’s history. He himself tells us that “the boldness and
vigor with which this paper was conducted soon commanded a liberal
circulation, not only in the vicinity of its publication, but large
numbers of copies were sent into nearly every State in the Union.” The
vigor and boldness are not Barnum’s exaggerations, for we know that he
was always vehement, but particularly so at this period, and it was
not long before he was sued for libel. A Danbury butcher whom Barnum
accused in his paper as a spy in the Democratic Party caucus, sued for
libel and collected several hundred dollars. But this did not deter
the twenty-one-year-old editor and publisher, and soon afterwards he
had another and more important libel suit to defend. _The Herald of
Freedom_ accused a deacon of “taking usury of an orphan boy.” Had he
called the deacon a “note-shaver” and extortioner, or merely remarked
that he was “grinding the face of a poor orphan boy,” the court would
have been lenient, but to call a deacon a usurer was ungodly, for usury
is forbidden in the Bible, and the judge, who was also a churchman,
charged the jury vigorously; and when they brought in the appropriate
verdict, he sentenced Phineas T. Barnum, editor, to sixty days in the
common jail and to pay a fine of $100.

Barnum went to jail in Danbury, where his room was papered and
carpeted, and where friends were allowed to visit him daily. He
continued to edit _The Herald of Freedom_ there, and several hundred
additional subscriptions came in during his period of servitude.
Mr. P. F. Madigan, the New York autograph dealer, recently found
the following letter from Barnum, written while he was in jail. It
was addressed to Gideon Welles, then a member of the Connecticut
Legislature, and afterwards Secretary of the Navy under President
Lincoln:

“DANBURY, ‘COMMON JAIL,’ Oct. 7, 1832.

“MR. WELLES D’r Sir:

“I am by the unhallowed decree of that lump of superstition David
Daggett sent within these gloomy walls sixty days for daring to
tell the truth!! My trial with Hanson Taylor did not come on this
term on account of the absence of witnesses; but my trial with
Seth Seelye has come and the best counsel in the country were
employed against me. Seelye testified in his own defense, and in
his testimony he contradicted four unimpeachable witnesses. Daggett
charged the jury in such a manner that many intelligent men who
were present remarked that he was the best lawyer that had pled in
behalf of the State. The bar and seat of the Judge was filled with
priests, there being no less than eight present. Brother Holly of
the _Sentinel_ will report the case at length, and I hope you will
take the trouble to read the trial and then make such remarks as
justice demands. The excitement in this and the neighboring towns
is very great, and it will have a grand effect. Public opinion is
greatly in my favor. After the judge had given his cursed charge I
was advised by many to forfeit the bonds which were but $100, but
I chose to go to prison, thinking that such a step would be the
means of opening many eyes, as it no doubt will. A number of the
Presbyterians in this town have declared it to be oppression, and
are beginning to raise their voices against it. The same spirit
governs my enemies that imprisoned Sellick Osborn and burnt to
death Michael Servetus by order of John Calvin. But the people are
more enlightened than in the days of Calvin and they will upon
reading my trial express their indignation at such oppression and
persecution. You will observe that the Democrats in this County
have a Convention at Bridgeport on Thursday next. I am constantly
writing to our friends in different parts of the country urging
upon them the importance of attending this meeting, and I think it
will be well attended and be the means of helping our party very
much in this county. Judge Wildman is so lame with the rheumatics
that he cannot walk; but he declares he will attend the convention
if he is obliged to hire men to carry him in their arms. He is a
man of spirit and sense. It is a great pity we had not about twenty
men like him in this country.

“You will observe in my paper of last week that I have engaged the
services of our friend Andrews; if you can give him a compliment
you would much oblige me, as by my copying it into my columns it
might prove of much service to my paper. Please accept my warmest
thanks and those of my wife for your assistance in recovering the
lost shawl. It came safe and my wife was thrown into ecstasies as
an offset for the tears, which (womanlike) she had shed over the
loss of it. Lest I might tire your patience too much I will draw to
a close. Please give my respects to Judge Niles and the rest of
our friends, tell them that I am suffering for daring to tell the
truth but that the kindness of friends keeps my spirits buoyed up
in this day of trial. Let me hear from you when opportunity shall
offer and believe this to be from your Ob’t servant in good spirits.

P. T. BARNUM.

“G. WELLES, ESQ.”

Barnum in his early years was a Democrat, because Grandfather Phineas
Taylor was a staunch Democrat, and his father had also voted that
ticket. If we are to judge from the above letter, written when he was
twenty-two years old, Barnum had some of the qualifications of a ward
politician. He refers several times to “our friends,” and he seems
to have believed firmly that it was a duty as well as a privilege to
attend party conventions.

The end of Barnum’s term in the Danbury Common Jail was celebrated
by indignant defenders of a free press from the surrounding country.
In the court-room where he had been convicted and sentenced an ode,
written for the occasion, was sung, and an eloquent oration on the
Freedom of the Press was delivered by the Rev. Theophilus Fiske. Both
the ode and the oration have disappeared into limbo. “A sumptuous
repast” was served to several hundred guests, and speeches and toasts
continued most of the afternoon. But the most imposing part of the
celebration was still to come. It was reported in Barnum’s paper, _The
Herald of Freedom_, for December 12, 1832:

“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 on 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 occurred to mar the festivities of the occasion.”

While he was indulging in political and religious controversy, Barnum
was also buying recklessly for his country store. In order to do
business faster than the ordinary country store, he extended credit
and soon had an accumulation of bad debts. Many of these accounts are
balanced in his old ledger: “By death, to balance;” “By running away,
in full;” “By cheating me out of my dues, to balance;” “By failing
in full;” “By swearing he would not pay me, in full.” Barnum became
disgusted and sold his interest in the store. And that year lotteries
were prohibited in Connecticut by law. _The Herald of Freedom_ was not
making money, and No. 160 of that paper was the last issue published
under Barnum’s name. He was compelled to seek new and more profitable
enterprises, and he decided to enlarge his horizon. In the winter of
1834–1835, when he was twenty-four years old, Barnum removed his wife
and daughter to New York City.

Thus ends the early Yankee influence that shaped Barnum’s character.
It made of him a creature that in its development was to become the
apotheosis of the Yankee, with all the distinguishing characteristics
of that type and some very distinctive qualities all his own. Mrs.
Trollope in her _Domestic Manners of the Americans_ characterizes the
Yankee with traits that are appropriate to Barnum’s personality as
it was bred by his early environment. “In acuteness, cautiousness,
industry, and perseverance,” wrote Mrs. Trollope of the Yankee, “he
resembles the Scotch; in habits of frugal neatness, he resembles
the Dutch; in love of lucre he doth greatly resemble the sons of
Abraham; but in frank admission and superlative admiration of all
his own peculiarities, he is like nothing on earth but himself.”
The Connecticut Yankee with his wife, Charity, and their daughter,
Caroline, left Bethel with nothing but the crafty, bold and thrifty
Yankee heritage and the practical education that were calculated to
make him preëminent if the proper outlet and channel were offered for
his energies.

CHAPTER II

GROWING PAINS

The New York to which Barnum emigrated late in the winter of 1834 is
a New York with which we must become acquainted. Its population was
slightly more than 200,000, and Mrs. Martha J. Lamb in her _History of
the City of New York_ deplored the overcrowding: “New York City by this
time appeared like a youth much overgrown for his years. It had shot up
with a rapidity that defied calculation. Wealth was increasing faster
than sobriety was inclined to measure. Swarming multitudes from every
quarter of the globe were rendering the community in a certain sense
unformed.” In contrast to this picture of wild growth we can record
that stage coaches were the only means of public conveyance, and the
newfangled horse car was forcing its clattering way up one street on a
single-tracked line, in spite of the opposition of the large majority,
who preferred their safe and sure stage coaches. Broadway, according
to Charles Dickens, who visited New York a few years after Barnum
became a resident, was “a wide and bustling street, which, from the
Battery Gardens to its opposite termination in a country road, may be
four miles long,” and in Mrs. Lamb’s opinion “Washington Square was
quite a long distance from the city.” The number of omnibuses surprised
Dickens--“half-a-dozen have gone by within as many minutes”--and he was
also impressed by the large-wheeled tilburies, the gigs, the phaetons,
and the hackney coaches, by which the upper classes were carried about
the city. But when Dickens crossed the wide and bustling street called
Broadway, he found it necessary to look out for the pigs, who trotted
clumsily behind the carriages and acted as the city scavengers.

The dress of the ladies interested Dickens just as much as it has
interested visiting authors since. “Heaven save the ladies, how they
dress!” he wrote. “We have seen more colors in these ten minutes than
we should have seen elsewhere in as many days. What various parasols!
what rainbow silks and satins! what pinking of thin stockings, and
pinching of thin shoes, and fluttering of ribbons and silk tassels,
and display of rich cloaks with gaudy hoods and linings!” Here was a
community apparently awaiting a Barnum. The gaudy hoods and linings,
the fluttering ribbons and rainbow silks and satins indicate a certain
wealth and a taste for the gay and amusing. Barnum must have been
conscious here in New York as he walked the streets and pondered how
to support his wife and baby, of an atmosphere more favorable to his
talents and their expression than the New England which he had just
left, where the “pinking of thin stockings, and pinching of thin shoes”
would have been punished by means of the whipping post, or at least
with the jealous and shocked disdain of neighbors and the exclamatory
menaces of the town clergyman. In the New York of 1835 to adorn the
body and to divert the mind were not crimes, and a corresponding share
of the trade and industry of the city were devoted to the satisfaction
of those ends. Broadway had shops that were handsome enough to impress
Mrs. Trollope, who found most of America new, brazen, and boring when
it was not offensive. She also admired the uniform houses in the
residential sections of the city where neat iron railings and pretty
green blinds gave an impression of ease and luxury that she found
nowhere else in the United States.

That New Yorkers of 1835 could be unrestrained in their enjoyments
when the occasion was presented we know from the many accounts of the
nature of New Year celebrations. James Gordon Bennett, the elder, wrote
in the _New York Herald_: “We were sorry to see so much intoxication
in our streets ... and it even extended into the Mayor’s office. In
consequence of the improper behavior of many of his visitors, by which
the carpets were completely ruined, he was compelled to close up and go
home at one o’clock, and deprived many of the pleasure of seeing him.”

Soon after Barnum arrived in New York the city was almost destroyed
by the largest fire in its early history. The fire started on a cold
day, December 16, 1835, and burned steadily for three days because
there was no efficient water supply, and the water available froze in
the pipes. More than seven hundred buildings were turned to ruins,
and almost all the insurance companies went into bankruptcy. Many
mercantile establishments were forced out of business, and the banks
suspended payment. It was during this fire that the _New York Herald_,
founded in that same year by James Gordon Bennett, became popular.
Cross-eyed James Gordon Bennett, owner, editor, and reporter for his
new enterprise, went through the ruins of the fire with a note-book and
gave New York its only vivid account of the results and causes of the
disaster. This kept the _Herald_, which both in friendship and enmity
was such a potent advertising medium for Barnum for many years, from
almost certain bankruptcy, because the demand for the paper during the
fire did not fall off afterwards, and a large advertising contract from
Dr. Brandreth’s pills kept it alive. Times were hard, but the fire made
them worse, and during the first five years of Barnum’s residence in
New York the city, as well as the rest of the country, suffered great
financial distress. President Jackson’s famous “specie circular” caused
the government treasury to gather in all the gold of the country, and
the result was a drastic panic, from which Barnum’s efforts must have
suffered a severe check. In April, 1837, more than two hundred and
fifty large New York business houses suspended payments, and every bank
in the city did the same.

Barnum had no money worth mentioning when he arrived in New York. In
Connecticut he had made large sums of money for his age and for his
environment, but he had also spent large sums without any anxiety
about his ability to continue to earn then. He sought in New York for
an opportunity with a business organization, where he could share in
the profits rather than work for a fixed salary. Business was bad,
opportunities were limited, and Barnum found nothing to his taste. His
money began to disappear, and his family was in ill health; in order
to relieve immediate needs, he became a “drummer” in a cap store and
watched the “Want” advertisements in _The Sun_. In his mind was the
fixed idea that if he could get something to exhibit to the New York
amusement-loving public, he would succeed. But, meanwhile, he answered
advertisements of inventors and adventurers, always to discover that
they wanted money immediately in order to produce it in the future.
Barnum’s present was immediate in its demands, and he could not afford
to consider a vague future, but his self-confidence in the face of
hardship was great enough to enable him to refuse to bind himself for
three years when he applied to William Niblo, proprietor of Niblo’s
Garden, for the position as bartender at that establishment. Barnum did
not get the position, for William Niblo, who was later one of Barnum’s
good friends, insisted that his bartender must contract for three
years of service. During the entire winter of 1834 he could find no
work, except as commission agent for the cap store, which was not very
profitable. In the spring of 1835 he received several hundred dollars
of the debts owed to him in Bethel for groceries and lottery tickets,
and with the money he opened a private boarding house at 52 Frankfort
Street. The Connecticut transients stopped at Barnum’s when in New
York, and soon Barnum and his wife had enough trade to enable him to
capitalize his spare time by purchasing an interest in a grocery store.

Mr. Coley Bartram, of Redding, Connecticut, called at Barnum’s grocery
store in July, 1835. He mentioned to Barnum that he had just sold
his interest in an extraordinary negress, and he handed him a copy
of _The Pennsylvania Inquirer_ for July 15, 1835, with the following
advertisement:

“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
Gen. 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
evidence 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. Coley Bartram told Barnum that this extraordinary slave was now
owned by R. W. Lindsay, who was exhibiting her in Philadelphia, but who
did not have much ability as a showman and was therefore anxious to
sell his purchase and return to his home in Jefferson County, Kentucky.
Barnum was excited. He had read short paragraphs about this negress in
the New York newspapers, and he had been interested, but this detailed
description of her superb qualifications for his purposes enthralled
him. He hurried to Philadelphia to look at Joice Heth, and he was
“favorably impressed with the appearance of the old woman,” who “might
almost as well have been called a thousand years old as any other age.”
She was lying on a lounge, her lower extremities doubled up. She could
move one of her arms, but the other was stiffly clasped to her breast,
and both legs were completely beyond her control and could not be
straightened. She was blind, and she had no teeth. Thick, bushy, savage
gray hair added to her value as a monstrosity. The nails of her left
hand, which lay immovable across her breast, were four inches long,
and as the fingers were helplessly turned down, the nails extended
above the wrist; her toe nails were equally large.

Joice Heth was sociable, and she could talk intelligibly with any one
who would talk with her. She referred to George Washington as “dear
little George,” swore that she was present at his birth, and that
she was the first person to put clothes on the future father of his
country. “In fact,” she told Barnum, and it was one of her favorite
expressions, “I raised him.” Mr. Lindsay showed Barnum the bill of sale
from Augustine Washington, George Washington’s father, dated February
5, 1727, by which Augustine Washington deeded to his sister-in-law and
neighbor, Elizabeth Atwood, “one negro woman, named Joice Heth, aged
fifty-four years, for and in consideration of the sum of thirty-three
pounds lawful money of Virginia.” Five years later, when George
Washington was born, Joice Heth, being an old family nurse, was called
in to assist at his arrival and in his subsequent education, according
to her story.

All this seemed plausible to Barnum, and the bill of sale did look
creased, fragile, and old. Barnum asked how such an old woman with
such historic associations had only then come to the public attention,
why she had never aroused the curiosity of showmen and audiences
before; but when it appeared that she had lived in an outhouse on
the Kentucky estate of the Bowling family, the respectable family of
the advertisement, Barnum was contented that she was authentic. The
discovery of the bill of sale in the Virginia record office by one of
the Bowling sons made the family realize the value of its property,
Barnum was told. He asked how much a piece of property like Joice
Heth might be worth, and the answer was three thousand dollars. At
the time he possessed five hundred dollars of his own. He persuaded
Lindsay that one thousand dollars was enough, and, returning to New
York, he borrowed an additional five hundred dollars and sold his
interest in the grocery store. By his contract with Lindsay Barnum
came into “the possession of the person of the African woman, Joice
Heth,” and Lindsay offered to continue his exhibitions in Philadelphia
while Barnum made preparations for her reception in New York. He
called upon William Niblo, who did not recognize him as the young man
who a few months before had applied for the position of bartender at
Niblo’s Garden. Niblo agreed for one-half the receipts of Joice Heth’s
exhibition to allow Barnum the use of a room near his saloon, and also
paid the expense of whatever printing and advertising was necessary.
Levi Lyman, whom he characterized as a “shrewd, sociable, and somewhat
indolent Yankee” lawyer of Penn Yan, New York, was engaged by Barnum
as his assistant. Lyman wrote a memoir of Joice Heth, and Barnum
distributed throughout the city small handbills and posters announcing
his phenomenon. The newspapers printed advertisements on the day of
her début, written by Barnum, and containing the following partial
descriptions of her attractions:

“She is cheerful and healthy, although she weighs but forty-nine
pounds. She relates many anecdotes of her young master; she speaks also
of the red-coats during the Revolutionary War, but does not appear
to hold them in high estimation. She has been visited by crowds of
ladies and gentlemen, among whom were many clergymen and physicians,
who have pronounced her the most ancient specimen of mortality the
oldest of them has ever seen or heard of, and consider her a very
great curiosity.” And again: “Joice Heth is unquestionably the most
astonishing and interesting curiosity in the world. She was the slave
of Augustine Washington (the father of George Washington), and was
the first person _who put clothes on the unconscious infant_ who was
destined in after days to lead our heroic fathers to glory, to victory,
and to freedom. To use her own language when speaking of her young
master, George Washington, ‘she raised him.’” (Italics are _always_
Barnum’s.)

The newspapers took up Joice Heth readily. The _New York Evening Star_
wrote: “Her appearance is much like an Egyptian mummy just escaped from
its sarcophagus.” And the _New York Daily Advertiser_ said of her:
“Ancient or modern times furnish no parallel to the great age of this
woman. Methuselah was 969 years old when he died, but nothing is said
of the age of his wife. Adam attained nearly the age of his antiquated
descendant. It is not unlikely that the sex in the olden time were like
the daughters at the present day--unwilling to tell their age. Joice
Heth is an exception; she comes out boldly, and says she is rising
160.” Joice Heth was an habitual smoker of a corn cob pipe, and when
a reporter of the _Evening Star_ asked her how long she had smoked
a pipe, she answered glibly, “One hundred and twenty years.” Barnum
acknowledged in his autobiography that Joice Heth taught him many facts
about the Washington family which he never knew before.

The gross receipts in New York for the Joice Heth exhibition were
$1,500 each week. Visitors continued for some weeks to come to Niblo’s
Garden, asked her questions about the Washington family, listened to
her sing hymns and discuss theology, and departed satisfied as to her
age and previous condition of servitude. After the New York public had
paid all the tribute it was likely to pay, Barnum toured New England
with his slave, exhibiting at Providence, Boston, and other large
cities. In Boston he met Maelzel, who was then exhibiting his automaton
chess-player. Barnum enjoyed many conversations with this inventor and
showman, whom he regarded as the father of public entertainers. Maelzel
told Barnum that he would succeed as a showman, “because you understand
the value of the press, and that is the great thing. Nothing helps the
showman like the types and the ink.” “When your old woman dies,” he
added, “you come to me, and I will make your fortune.”

Barnum kept up a steady stream of publicity concerning Joice Heth,
and when the Boston audiences began to decrease in numbers, a notice
appeared in one of the newspapers signed, “A Visitor,” in which it
was stated that Joice Heth was a humbug, that she was made of india
rubber, whalebone, and hidden springs, and that the exhibitor was a
ventriloquist, which accounted for her powers of conversation. The
presence of Maelzel’s automaton in the same city, in fact, in the same
hall, made this announcement more interesting to the public. Those
who had not seen Joice Heth went to see the ingenious mechanism, and
those who had seen her went again to satisfy themselves that she was
not alive. Barnum thus created controversy, which he realized from the
beginning of his career was the life of trade in the show business.

While he was exhibiting Joice Heth in Albany, New York, Barnum met a
“Signor Antonio,” who balanced crockery and guns with bayonets on his
nose, a feat which was a novelty in this country at the time. Signor
Antonio told Barnum that he was an Italian by birth, that he had sailed
from England to Canada, and that Albany was the first city in the
United States where he had ever exhibited his talents in public. Barnum
engaged him for one year to perform anywhere in the United States at
a salary of $12 per week and his expenses. When Antonio, Joice Heth,
Levi Lyman, and Barnum returned to New York, Barnum insisted that
Antonio submit to two indignities: first, he must be thoroughly washed,
and secondly, he must change his name to Signor Vivalla. A notice
soon afterwards appeared in the newspapers that Signor Vivalla, who
could do wonders with his nose and on stilts, had just arrived from
Italy, and Barnum sent copies of these notices to all the theatrical
managers in New York City. The manager of the Franklin Theater called
and was favorably impressed with the artist Mr. Barnum said he had
just imported from Italy, and a contract was made for the performances
of Signor Vivalla in the Franklin Theater at $50 per week. Although
Vivalla had spent much time in England, Barnum always refused to allow
him to speak English and accompanied him upon the stage to assist him
and to explain the tricks to the audience, this being Barnum’s first
appearance on any stage. During the second week of Signor Vivalla at
the Franklin Theater, he was so popular that Barnum received $150 for
his services, and he then took his juggler and balancer to Boston and
Washington. Meanwhile, Levi Lyman was exhibiting Joice Heth in New
England for Barnum. A snow storm caused bad business for Vivalla’s
exhibitions in Washington, and Barnum was forced to pawn his watch and
chain for thirty-five dollars in order to get money enough to proceed
to Philadelphia. By arousing a controversy there concerning Signor
Vivalla’s ability, and by organizing a defiant contest with another
performer, whom he paid, Barnum created enough excitement to yield
large profits.

In February, 1836, Barnum’s brother sent a message to the boarding
house in New York, which Mrs. Barnum was still operating, that Joice
Heth, who had been resting at Bethel after an illness, was dead. The
body was sent to Barnum in New York. He called upon a well-known New
York surgeon, who had once expressed a desire to hold a post-mortem
examination of Joice Heth, if she should not prove to be immortal. The
body was dissected before a large and distinguished company of doctors,
clergymen, and editors, and the operating surgeon found an absence of
ossification of the arteries in the region of the heart, leading him to
the opinion, he told Barnum and Levi Lyman privately, that Joice Heth
was probably not more than eighty years old. Thus with a few strokes
of a surgeon’s knife were dispelled all the eye-witness stories of the
birth and youth of George Washington, and apparently the surgeon did
not keep his opinion private, for _The Sun_ on the day following the
operation printed the story of the dissection and accused Barnum of
fraud in Joice Heth’s age. Levi Lyman, interested in playing jokes on
editors, then called upon James Gordon Bennett, and told him that as
a matter of fact Joice Heth had never died, that she was still living
in Connecticut, and that the dissection had been performed on the
body of an old Harlem negress. Bennett was thankful for the story and
printed these revelations in full. When his story was emphatically
denied by the surgeon, Levi Lyman offered to give the editor the real
inside history of Joice Heth. He told Bennett that Barnum had invented
Joice Heth’s background and had taught her the hymns and instructed
her in the George Washington family history. Bennett printed this
account, and that story was generally accepted thereafter as the
truth about Joice Heth. Barnum himself never denied any of these
stories until twenty years later, when in his first autobiography he
told the facts as they have been presented here. Barnum inaugurated
then a policy which he maintained throughout his long public career,
namely, never to contradict any implication, nor to protest against
any epithet. When people read that Joice Heth was a fraud perpetrated
upon their credulity by Barnum, what must have impressed them most in
the controversy was Barnum’s cleverness, and it was for the general
propagation of this impression that he was striving always. “... Never,
until the present writing,” he said in his autobiography, “have I said
or written a word by way of contradiction or correction. Newspaper
and social controversy on the subject (and seldom have vastly more
important matters been so largely discussed) served my purpose as ‘a
showman’ by keeping my name before the public.” Joice Heth was buried
respectably at Bethel, Connecticut. She must be regarded as one of
the most interesting of Barnum’s ventures, not only because she was
the first of her kind, but because of his unique exploitation of
her repulsive qualities, even though in the fullness of his mature
notoriety he grew to be ashamed of her and of his own lowly origin in
the field of showmanship; he referred to her in the last edition of his
autobiography as “the least deserving of all my efforts in the show
line....”

Some years after the death of Joice Heth, R. W. Lindsay, who sold
Barnum the negress, lost all his money and became ill. Barnum wrote the
following letter, which throws interesting light upon the Joice Heth
episode, and still more interesting light on Barnum’s character:

“MR. BAKER:

“Dear Sir.--Yours of the 3rd inst. has been forwarded to me.
Please read and then seal the enclosed to Lindsay. I send along
$100, which I wish you to use in the best possible manner for _his
benefit_. I really expect that if he had the money himself, he
would lay it out foolishly, and that if a little pains was taken
to get him into a Hospital in Boston or elsewhere that money, or
less, would procure for him a _permanent cure_ and then leave him
in health to look out for himself. If he is allowed to _live out_
this $100 in food and clothing he will soon be begging again and
the relief will be but _temporary_. I earnestly trust that you
will try to have this prove a _real_ benefit to him. On reflection
perhaps he had better not receive my letter, nor know that you
have got my check, until you have got it cashed, and looked about
and determined how it is best to use it. His assertions that I
understand he has made to others that I am under obligations to
him are _ridiculously false_. I never had anything to do with
him except to buy from him in _perfect good faith_ and pay him
the money for an old _negress_, which he falsely represented as
the ‘Nurse of Washington’ and which he imposed on me as such,
by aid of a _forged Bill of Sale_ purporting to have been made
by the _father_ of George Washington. I honestly _believed_ all
this and exhibited accordingly as Lindsay had done for months
previous--finally she died and the imposition became manifest,
and _I_ have ever since borne the stigma of _originating_ that
imposture. I never denied it before--but I might have done so
truly. This is all the ‘obligation’ I am under to Lindsay, but he
is a poor devil, and I hope to see him recover. Please take his
receipt or some acknowledgment when he receives the benefit of this
sum if convenient--if not--no matter. I would be pleased to hear
from you at Charleston, S. C. Truly yours,

“P. T. BARNUM.”[2]

If Barnum would have us believe that he bought Joice Heth “in _perfect
good faith_,” that he “_believed_ all this,” he must convince us that
suddenly at the age of twenty-five his mind developed an artlessness
and gullibility which it had never had even during his boyhood, and
which it did not manifest during his later career.

III

Barnum and his Italian continued to travel about New England, New
York, and New Jersey, but with poor success, for juggling, balancing
crockery, and walking on stilts were as nothing compared to just being
161 years old, and the public were more interested in the family
history of George Washington than in feats of skill and accuracy; there
is also reason to believe that Signor Vivalla’s skill was not vastly
entertaining.

In April of 1836 Barnum met Aaron Turner, one of the early circus
proprietors of America. They formed a partnership by which Barnum
became ticket-seller, secretary, and treasurer of Turner’s traveling
circus at $30 per month and twenty per cent. of the net receipts. He
was also to receive $50 per month for the services of Signor Vivalla.
Charity and their small daughter Caroline returned to Bethel, and
Barnum toured the country with Turner’s circus, traveling in New
England, the middle Atlantic states, and some of the South.

Turner may be regarded as one of Barnum’s masters, in so far as he
had any at all. Barnum listened with approval as Turner told him and
the rest of the company that any man of health with common sense was
capable of making a fortune. “Who am I?” he used to say. “I don’t know
who I am, or where I came from. I never had father or mother that I
know of.... What little I can read I picked up myself after I was
eighteen years old; and as for writing I used at first to make my mark,
but being a poor devil I had to give my note so often that I finally
learned to write my name.”

Turner was another active practical joker, and Barnum once more found
himself in an atmosphere where that type of humor won great applause.
Upon one occasion a joke of Turner’s endangered Barnum’s life. The
company was in Annapolis, Maryland. The murder in Rhode Island of a
Miss Cornell had aroused the entire population of the eastern states
against the accused, the Rev. Ephraim K. Avery, who had been acquitted
in the face of general conviction of his guilt. Turner pointed out
Barnum to some of the loungers in the bar-room of the Annapolis hotel
as the Rev. Ephraim K. Avery, incognito. The bar-room was quickly
emptied as the righteous Maryland townsmen started after Barnum with
the intention of taking the Rhode Island law into their own hands. He
was roughly seized and informed of the intention of the mob to tar and
feather him, which process was to be followed by a regulation lynching.
When Barnum protested that he was Barnum, the name being then unknown,
the outraged citizens refused to listen. It was only with great
difficulty that he persuaded these enraged advocates of direct action
to return with him to the hotel and confront Aaron Turner with his own
hoax. Turner told the mob, which had been increased by fifty or sixty
persons as Barnum was marched up the main street to the hotel, that
“he believed there was some mistake about it. The fact is my friend
Barnum has a new suit of black clothes on, and it makes him look so
much like a priest I concluded it must be Avery.” The mob, appreciative
of Turner’s joke, dispersed, but Barnum was left with his new coat torn
off his back and his other clothes damaged from the rolling in the dirt
which he had received at the hands of the mob. When he became angry
with Turner, the showman said: “My dear Barnum, it was all for our
good. Remember, all we need to insure success is _notoriety_. You will
see that the whole town will be talking about the trick played by one
of the circus managers on the other, and our pavilion will be crammed
to-morrow night.” The pavilion was crammed the next night, but Barnum
was incapable of considering impersonally the value of such dangerous
personal publicity.

The character of Aaron Turner was the most important early influence
that shaped Barnum’s own methods, excepting his own boyhood environment
in Connecticut. Turner’s procedure in the face of difficulties, his
insane love of a practical joke, his insistence upon notoriety at any
cost, gave Barnum the first lessons in the school of which he himself
was to become the master. Upon one occasion the company arrived at
Hanover Court House, near Richmond, Virginia, during a storm. It
was impossible to give the show, and Turner purposed to move on to
Richmond, but the landlord at Hanover Court House insisted that since
an agent of the circus had engaged rooms and three meals for the entire
company of thirty-six, he must be paid for those conveniences whether
or not they were used. This argument arose just before the noon meal.
Turner tried persuasion, but the landlord was firm. He therefore
ordered dinner, which was promptly eaten by the whole company. As
soon as the table was cleared, supper for thirty-six was ordered for
half-after noon. After the thirty-six had eaten as much as possible
of the supper, Turner ordered lighted candles for every member of the
company, and directed that they all go to their rooms and get into bed
at one o’clock in the afternoon. Half an hour later they dressed and
went down to breakfast, which Turner had ordered for two o’clock sharp.
They ate as much as possible under the circumstances, and at half-past
two the company left for Richmond. Turner insisted upon carrying
out this program with due solemnity in spite of the protests of the
landlord and the convulsive mirth of his own performers.

Barnum, having received $1,200 as his share of the profits, separated
from his partner after a few months, and organized his own traveling
circus, consisting of Vivalla, musicians, and a negro singer and
dancer. With these performers, his horses and wagons and a small canvas
tent, Barnum started on a tour of the South. On this tour he exhibited
a personal versatility that is interesting in the light of the later
triumph of his personality. When his company reached Rocky Mount Falls,
North Carolina, on a Sunday, Barnum delivered an inspiring sermon
before the population of the town, after its regular clergyman had
finished his services. He assured the congregation, “We cannot violate
the laws of God with impunity, and he will not keep back the wages of
well-doing.... Diamonds may glitter on a vicious breast, but the soul’s
calm sunshine and the heartfelt joy is virtue’s prize.” In Camden,
South Carolina, the negro singer, Sandford, left Barnum without notice,
just before the show. The audience must not be disappointed, and so the
Barnum who had played the clergyman the previous Sunday blacked his
face thoroughly and sang the songs advertised, including “Zip Coon,”
“The Raccoon Hunt, or Sitting on a Rail,” and “Gittin’ Up Stairs.” Many
of the congregation came up after the prayer meeting to congratulate
the impromptu preacher, some even to take down his name; and the coon
songs were encored vigorously.

Aaron Turner disbanded his circus soon after Barnum left him, and
Barnum bought some of its equipment for his own show. He also hired
another negro singer to relieve him of the part, which he had taken
every day since the departure of the original, giving the impression
successfully to most of his audiences in Southern territory that he
was a real negro. Barnum added Joe Pentland, clown, ventriloquist,
comic singer, and legerdemain artist, to his company, and the enlarged
show was known as “Barnum’s Grand Scientific and Musical Theater,”
the first traveling show to carry the name of P. T. Barnum. In May,
1837, Barnum’s company disbanded at Nashville, Tennessee, because of
poor business. After a short trip to New York, he took his circus
into Kentucky and down the Mississippi, to New Orleans, where it was
finally disbanded; Barnum returned to New York, disgusted at the lack
of opportunities to make money with a traveling show.

Barnum advertised in the New York newspapers that he had $2,500 to
invest in a reliable business and wanted a partner with such an
organized business. He received ninety-three answers, one third from
saloonkeepers and the rest from interesting miscellaneous promoters.
One man was a counterfeiter and needed Barnum’s $2,500, he admitted,
to purchase paper, ink, and new dies. Finally Barnum entered into
partnership with Proler, a German manufacturer of water-proof blacking
for boots, Cologne water, and bear’s grease. Proler took charge of the
factory, and Barnum opened a store on the Bowery, where he sold the
products of the factory. Their capital, that is, Barnum’s money, was
soon absorbed, and Barnum sold his interest to his partner, taking
Proler’s note for $2,600. Before his note came due, Proler sailed for
Rotterdam, and Barnum was left with nothing for his $2,500 but four
recipes, one for bear’s grease, which grew hair on a bald head, one for
Cologne water, one for blacking, and one for water-proof paste.[3]

Without money again, Barnum was also without employment in the spring
of 1840. He hired the saloon of Vauxhall Garden in New York and offered
a variety performance, in which Mary Taylor, later one of the country’s
favorites, first appeared in New York. Jack Diamond, the first, and for
a long time the most popular, dancer of negro dances in this country,
also performed under Barnum’s management. But the Vauxhall Garden
venture did not make money, and after less than two months Barnum was
forced to close his show. He hated the thought of once more becoming
a traveling showman, separated from family, but he had just enough
money left for one more trial at this business, and he took Master Jack
Diamond, the dancer, a fiddler, and a delineator of Yankee characters
on a tour of Canada, New York State, and the Northwest. They finally
reached New Orleans, and Barnum had $100. He had left New York with
that amount, so that his four months’ tour had yielded nothing but
expenses. In New Orleans the receipts were good, but Master Diamond,
who had borrowed large sums from Barnum, absconded, and Barnum returned
to New York in April, 1841, determined never to leave it again in the
capacity of traveling showman.

He was thirty-one years old, and had had varied experiences, but no
success. The foundation of his subsequent career was being laid, but up
to this time the small accident which starts one on the way to partial
realization of dreams had not yet happened to him. Barnum had tried
vigorously to contribute by his enterprise to his success, but the
financial depression that reigned throughout the country during this
period, together with losses sustained by the duplicity of a partner,
or the state of the weather, caused him to find himself at the age of
thirty-one in the same financial position he had occupied upon his
arrival in New York five years before.

On his way back to New York Barnum read in a Pittsburg newspaper an
advertisement for _Sears’ Pictorial Illustrations of The Bible_, and
three days after his return to the city he called upon Robert Sears,
its publisher. For $500 Barnum received 500 copies of the book and
received the agency for its sale in the United States. He opened an
office in New York, advertised widely, and in six months he had sold
several thousand copies of the book; but he had appointed agents and
sub-agents in other cities, who cheated him of all his profits and
also of his capital. For the third time he was swindled because of his
trust in other people. Only after serious financial losses, and not
until late in life, did Barnum learn to question the integrity of those
he was forced to trust. It is doubtful if he ever gave up an implicit
faith in man’s innate righteousness, for a skeptical opinion of
mankind, although it might be justified by his continual experiences,
would clash with his sincere piety, and his earnest belief that the
dead shall be raised. Virtue, to him, undoubtedly bore its own reward,
and he seldom guarded against the attempt to cheat him out of it.

Soon his funds were completely exhausted, and Barnum sought any
kind of employment and found none that was lucrative. At the age of
thirty-one, with a wife and two daughters to support, and a third
daughter in prospect, he was compelled to grasp at straws, and he
wrote advertisements for the Bowery Amphitheater at four dollars per
week. He added to this by means of occasional articles which he wrote
for the Sunday newspapers. Heretofore theatrical managers had most
of them contented themselves with announcements in the newspapers
of the names of their plays and the names of their performers, and
Barnum was one of the first men in the United States to realize the
power of the paid adjective in advertising theatrical attractions.
Adjectives were lavished at this time on patent medicines, and the
advertising columns in the newspapers of the day were made up largely
of extravagant praise of pills by their makers. Theaters were sparing
in their advertisements. His daily visits to the newspaper offices for
the purpose of inserting his advertisements made him acquainted at this
time with those persons who were to contribute so much to his success
during the rest of his life by advertising his wares, not least of
which was his personality.

CHAPTER III

BARNUM’S AMERICAN MUSEUM

When, in his thirty-second year, Barnum was “at the foot of fortune’s
ladder,”--his own description of his position as a writer of
advertisements and newspaper articles--he learned that Scudder’s
American Museum was for sale. Scudder’s American Museum had been
founded in 1810, and it had gradually risen in the estimation of the
population, so that in 1840 it was New York’s greatest storehouse
of curiosities, natural, theatrical, and unnatural. Scudder, its
founder, had spent more than $50,000 on the collection, and for many
years the profits had kept him comfortable. When he died he left a
considerable fortune and the Museum to his daughters; but ladies in
1840 were neither permitted by custom nor fitted by education to manage
a museum, and the Scudder establishment had been losing money since
the death of its founder, because of lack of proper administration.
Barnum had visited the American Museum many times, and he coveted the
opportunity to exercise his energy in such a fertile field, so suited
to his talents and previous experience. The price asked for the Museum,
however, was $15,000, and Barnum was forced to admit to himself that
his dreams were presumptuous. But he never admitted that to himself for
long; he preferred to act on the assumption that anything was within
his grasp, materially and intellectually, and to consider difficulties
later. When he discussed his intentions with a friend who knew his
circumstances, the friend said, “You _buy_ the American Museum? What
do you intend to buy it with?” “_Brass_,” said Barnum, “for silver and
gold I have none.”

The building of the American Museum at the corner of Broadway and Ann
Street was owned by Francis W. Olmsted, a retired merchant, and the
Museum collection was owned by the estate of Scudder, administered for
Scudder’s daughters by John Heath. Barnum’s first step was to approach
Mr. Olmsted, but he did not know that gentleman, and he knew no one
who did. He dared not visit this important person, who had a suite of
rooms in Park Place. In a letter he told Mr. Olmsted that he wished to
buy the Museum collection, and though he had no money, he knew that by
devotion to business, and because of his past experience as a showman,
he would be able to make it successful, if it could be purchased on
reasonable credit. In his letter Barnum asked Mr. Olmsted to purchase
the Museum collection in his own name from the Scudder estate, and
to give him twelve dollars and a half per week out of the profits to
support his family. All the rest of the profits were to be Olmsted’s
until the cost of the collection and the rent of the Museum building
were paid. Barnum only asked in addition for an agreement in writing
that the Museum would be his property as soon as he had made all the
payments to Mr. Olmsted. If Barnum failed to meet any instalments,
the property reverted to Mr. Olmsted, Barnum would forfeit all his
payments to date, and withdraw from the management. His letter ended
with this earnest appeal: “In fact, Mr. Olmsted, 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 either do so or forfeit all the labor and
trouble which I may have incurred.” Barnum added that by means of his
plan Mr. Olmsted would have a permanent tenant for his Museum building,
while the present indications were that the Museum would fail and the
building would become vacant.

Barnum did not trust the mail. He took his letter personally to Mr.
Olmsted’s door and left it with the servant. Soon he received an
appointment for an interview, in the course of which he persuasively
explained to Mr. Olmsted his past experience with Vauxhall Garden, the
traveling circus, and Joice Heth, and gave as references William Niblo,
Aaron Turner, Moses Y. Beach, of _The Sun_, and many other showmen
and newspaper men. He made arrangements for some of these men to call
on Mr. Olmsted the next day, and when Barnum saw his prospective
landlord again, Mr. Olmsted said, “I don’t like your references, Mr.
Barnum. They all speak too well of you. In fact, they all talk as
if they were partners of yours and intended to share the profits.”
Barnum was delighted. Mr. Olmsted then said that he was thinking of
carrying out Barnum’s scheme, and insisted that he must have the right
to appoint, at Barnum’s expense, a ticket-seller and accountant. It
was also agreed that Barnum should take an apartment for his wife and
children in the building adjoining the Museum for an additional rent
of $500 a year, making his total rent $3,000 each year, on a lease
of ten years. Mr. Olmsted was about ready to conclude the agreement.
There was only one small matter to settle; did Mr. Barnum own any small
piece of unencumbered real estate which he could offer as security?
Barnum thought of all his small holdings in Connecticut, but every
one that was worth anything was mortgaged to the extent of its value.
He saw his dream slipping away; and then he thought of Ivy Island. He
hesitated; Ivy Island was surrounded and largely covered with water,
and its main product was stunted ivies. The temptation was great. Mr.
Olmsted was already amply secured, in Barnum’s opinion, for Barnum
was confident of his ability to make the Museum a great success; why
shouldn’t he offer Ivy Island as security? He told Mr. Olmsted that he
had five acres of land in Connecticut free from all mortgages, but he
omitted to mention that no one would have given a mortgage on them. Mr.
Olmsted asked how much Barnum had paid for his land. It was a present
from his grandfather, Phineas Taylor, for taking his name. Mr. Olmsted
supposed that Barnum would be reluctant to part with such a piece of
property, because of its fond associations, and Barnum replied that he
did not expect to part with it, for he intended to make his payments
punctually. The security was accepted.

Barnum’s next step was to interview John Heath, the administrator of
the Scudder estate, and make him an offer for the Museum collection in
the name of Mr. Olmsted. Twelve thousand dollars was agreed upon as
the price, and Barnum was to take possession of the American Museum on
November 15, 1841. A day was appointed to draw up the agreements with
Mr. Olmsted, and on that day Heath appeared and informed Barnum that
he must decline his offer, since he had meanwhile sold the collection
to the New York Museum Company for $15,000 and had accepted an advance
payment of $1,000. Barnum appealed to Heath’s honor, but Heath replied
that he had not put it in writing, and that he was obliged to do the
best he could for Scudder’s orphan daughters. Mr. Olmsted was perfectly
satisfied with the new arrangements, for he would now have a permanent
tenant for his Museum building, and Barnum was disregarded and
forgotten.

But he was not inactive. He gathered information about the company
known as the New York Museum Company. The chairman of the board of
directors, he learned, was the ex-president of an unsuccessful bank,
and the other directors were stock speculators. Barnum discovered that
their scheme was to purchase the American Museum, join it to Peale’s
Museum, which the chairman of the board of directors of the New York
Museum Company already owned, and to issue stock to the public to
the amount of $50,000. Then the directors planned to appropriate
$30,000 and allow the stockholders to take care of themselves on the
principle of _caveat emptor_. Barnum visited his newspaper friends,
Moses Y. Beach, Major M. M. Noah, and several other newspaper owners.
He told them his troubles and explained the plans of the New York
Museum Company. He asked for the use of their columns “to blow that
speculation sky-high,” and they agreed with him that it was a public
duty as well as a personal favor. Barnum wrote daily editorial notes
for almost every newspaper in New York warning the public not to buy
stock in the New York Museum Company. He described the board of
directors as broken-down bank directors engaged in the exhibition
of stuffed monkey and gander skins, and he cited the instance of
the Zoölogical Institute, which had failed because of just such a
financial plan as that proposed by the New York Museum Company. He
branded the Peale speculation as more fantastic than Dickens’s “Grand
United Metropolitan Hot Muffin and Crumpet-Baking and Punctual Delivery
Company.”

After planning his press campaign against the New York Museum Company,
Barnum called upon Heath and asked when the company of speculators was
to pay the additional $14,000 and take over the Museum. He was told
that December 26 was the day agreed upon, and he assured Heath that
the stock speculators would never pay the $14,000 on that day. With a
disinterested air, he announced his intention of traveling in the South
with his circus, and said that unless he could purchase the Museum on
December 27, if the New York Museum Company should forfeit its option,
he would never buy the Museum at any price, because of his other
interests. He agreed to postpone his trip to the South until December
27, but not a day later, and this time the agreement of sale was put
in writing. This agreement, Barnum insisted, must be kept strictly
confidential, and he told all his friends who inquired that he had lost
the chance to buy the Museum.

Meanwhile Barnum kept up his stream of publicity against the bogus
stock company. On December 1 he was asked to call upon the board of
directors of the New York Museum Company, in order to learn something
to his advantage. The directors offered Barnum the position as manager
of the new combined museums at his own price of $3,000 a year. He
stipulated that his duties and salary were not to commence until
January 1, 1842. As he was leaving the directors’ room, the chairman
remarked with a smile that, of course, the newspaper paragraphs would
now cease. Barnum replied that he always tried to serve the interests
of his employers; Barnum loved ambiguity and a pun. In order that the
public might forget Barnum’s paragraphs, the directors determined to
withdraw their stock-selling advertisements until after January 1.
They forgot completely about December 26 and their promised payment in
full, knowing that no one but Barnum wanted to purchase the Museum; and
did they not have him in their employ? On the morning of December 27
Barnum and his lawyer met Heath and Mr. Olmsted at Mr. Olmsted’s suite
in Park Place. At two o’clock in the afternoon he was in possession of
the American Museum, and his first official act was the dispatch of the
following letter:

“AMERICAN MUSEUM, New York, Dec. 27, 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 further
notice.

P. T. BARNUM, Proprietor.”

The amusements of New York were somewhat limited in their number and
rather crude in their character when Barnum bought the American Museum.
New York had its native favorites and its imported celebrities in the
persons of Edmund Kean, Junius Booth, Edwin Forrest, Tyrone Power,
William Macready, and Charlotte Cushman, but the opportunities offered
to see these and their less talented contemporaries were not many,
for the God-fearing section of the population were certain that the
theater was under the management of the devil, and there was an even
larger number who did not care whether it was or not, so that between
indifference and straight-laced morality theatrical property suffered
from a general depression.

There were only three theaters in New York that were recognized by
those who guarded their human contacts carefully, so that they might
always be fit to associate with each other. These theaters were the
Park, the Bowery, and Mitchell’s Olympic. The Park Theater was the
theater of fashion, and the Bowery was just a grade lower, although
the circumspectly critical Mrs. Trollope called it “as pretty a
theater as I ever entered.” At the Park during the season of 1841
Fanny Elssler began an engagement in “The petite comedy of ‘The Dumb
Belle.’” Edwin Forrest was playing at the Bowery Theater one night in
“Metamora! The Last of the Wampanaogs,” an Indian play, and the next
night, October 13, in “Damon and Pythias.” The Chatham Theater, which
was out of bounds for fashionable society, offered “The Six Degrees of
Crime, or Wine, Women, Gaming, Theft, Murder, the Scaffold.” It was
in this theater, where she went in spite of the warnings and pleas of
her New York society friends, that Mrs. Trollope saw a woman in one
of the boxes “performing the most maternal office possible” during
the intermission. Mitchell’s Olympic presented on Friday evening,
December 17, 1841, “Why Did You Die, after which Tableaux Vivans.” (The
spelling of _vivants_ is Mitchell’s.) “Jonah, or a Trip to Whales,”
ran for several nights at the Bowery Theater, and Niblo’s Garden,
adhering to its policy as a summer garden, offered during the summer
of 1841 “Godenski, or The Skaters of Wilna, a pantomimic ballet.” The
attraction in the hall of the American Museum just before Barnum took
charge was “Love and Physic.” Dickens described the Bowery and Park
theaters as “large, elegant, and handsome buildings, and are, I grieve
to write it, generally deserted.”

While the theater generally suffered from a bad reputation among
classes of the community that adhered sternly to conventions and
propriety, many of the establishments catered to those classes which
did not. The gallery of each theater was reserved almost exclusively
for prostitutes and negroes, and was known familiarly as “the third
tier.” No woman without an escort was allowed in either the orchestra
or the balcony seats, and the gallery readily became a place of
assignation for the young bloods and their accompanists. Those who
frequented the theaters were not usually scrupulous in their efforts
to impress their neighbors by their manners, and in her _Domestic
Manners of the Americans_ Mrs. Trollope referred to the practice of the
men in the balcony, who were in the habit of placing their feet on the
brass rail in front of the first row, slouching into their seats, and
exposing their hind quarters to the patrons of the orchestra. For some
years after the publication of Mrs. Trollope’s book, this practice was
greeted with shouts from orchestra audiences of “Trollope! Trollope!”

Barnum’s American Museum, on Broadway at Ann Street, was in the heart
of the New York of its day. Opposite was the hotel of best repute,
the Astor House; four blocks north was the city’s best restaurant,
Delmonico’s; between the two was The Park, that is, City Hall Park.
St. Paul’s Church was across the street, and Trinity Church was five
minutes’ walk from the Museum. The _Tribune_ and _Herald_ offices were
near by, and the other newspapers were published in the same district.
No Metropolitan Museum of Art offered free exhibitions of pictures,
and no American Museum of Natural History educated the public in real
natural life; Barnum’s Museum was therefore patronized by those who
to-day would patronize the Zoölogical Gardens and the American Museum
of Natural History for satisfaction of their generic curiosity, as
well as by those who enjoyed freaks. The curiosities in the Museum
when Barnum purchased the collection included relics sent in from all
over this country by those who found them, and curiosities brought in
by sea captains who had made voyages to China, Siam, and other distant
places. Among its main attractions under Scudder’s management were the
stuffed animals, a live anaconda, a tame alligator, and the gallery of
paintings, supposed to be national portraits.

III

One of Barnum’s first acquisitions was a model of that object of
national pride, Niagara Falls. The falls were eighteen inches high,
and everything else in the model was in proportion. Into this model
Barnum arranged to have water pumped, and he advertised widely “The
Great Model of Niagara Falls, With Real Water,” and many couples who
could not afford a honeymoon visited the Museum instead, attracted by
Barnum’s promise of real water. Soon after his advertisements appeared
in the newspapers Barnum was ordered to come before the Croton Board
of Water Commissioners. In that year, 1842, water first flowed through
the Croton Reservoir, for after the great fire of 1835 the citizens
were aroused to the necessity for a sufficient supply of water, and the
Croton Reservoir was the result. It was opened on the Fourth of July,
1842, and a seven-mile parade, with red-shirt firemen, torch lights
and the other paraphernalia of a monster procession commemorated the
occasion. The president of the Board of Water Commissioners informed
Barnum that the city could not furnish him with water for a Niagara
Falls at twenty-five dollars a year. Barnum asked the president not to
believe all he read in the newspapers and showbills and offered to pay
one dollar a drop for all the water he used more than one barrelful
for his Niagara Falls; he explained the operation of the pump behind
the scenes, and the water commissioners enjoyed the deception. In
his autobiography Barnum thought it necessary to excuse himself by
means of the argument that if visitors found his Niagara Falls “small
potatoes” they had the rest of the magnificent Museum for twenty-five
cents admission. It was always his opinion that any misrepresentation
was justified if he gave patrons what they had not come for after they
entered his Museum. Another of Barnum’s early improvements of such a
nature was what he advertised as an “aerial garden,” which consisted of
two cedar plants, ten pots of wilted flowers, and several small tables,
located on the roof of the Museum building, where ice cream was served.

But Barnum’s activities were not confined to such minor improvements.
He opened the Museum on January 1, 1842, under his own management, and
on July 4, 1842, Bennett’s _Herald_ referred to him as “the Napoleon
of public caterers.” Besides the experiments in animal magnetism,
which were popular before Barnum became proprietor, he introduced a
classic scene by Mr. Bennie, entitled “Il Studio or Living Statues.”
A splendid attraction for one week only was the family of Industrious
Fleas. “These insects,” Barnum advertised, “have been taught by a
gentleman from Germany, and rendered so docile as to be harnessed
to carriages and other vehicles of several thousand times their own
weight, which they will draw with as much precision as a cart horse.”
Jugglers, albinos, educated dogs, automatons, rope-dancers, dioramas
of The Creation, The Deluge, and A Storm at Sea, fat boys, giants,
gipsies, ventriloquists, knitting machines, models of Dublin, Paris,
and Jerusalem, and examples of fancy glass-blowing were a few of the
attractions at the Museum for twenty-five cents admission, children
half-price. The first Punch and Judy Show ever exhibited in this
country was one of Barnum’s early attractions.

Barnum’s aim was to make the Museum the talk of New York, and he used
for this purpose every available means of advertising, creating means
when they were not available. A man came to the box-office of the
Museum one morning and asked for money. Barnum inquired why he did not
work, and, after buying him a breakfast, employed him at $1.50 for the
day. The man’s job was to place a brick at the corner of Broadway and
Ann Street, another brick at the corner of Broadway and Vesey Street,
another in front of the Astor House, and another in front of St. Paul’s
Church. This brick-layer was to hold a fifth brick in his hand, and he
was to continue from brick to brick, exchanging the brick in his hand
for the brick on the walk, without talking to any one en route. At
the end of every hour of this work, he was to present a ticket at the
Museum, walk through the building and pass out to continue solemnly
his brick work. Half an hour after the man began his rounds five
hundred men and women were watching him, and trying by conjecture and
questions to solve the mystery of his purpose. Solemn and taciturn, he
went from brick to brick, ignoring the comments and questions of the
crowd, and at the end of the first hour the streets surrounding the
Museum were filled with people. Whenever he entered the Museum, people
bought tickets and followed him, hoping that inside was the solution to
the riddle of his strange actions. After several days of this walking
advertisement, the police interfered and insisted that Barnum must
withdraw his man because of the congestion of traffic he caused, for
the crowds practically closed all streets near the Museum. But Barnum’s
bricks were discussed for several weeks and received due newspaper
notice.

The ordinary devices of showmen were used by Barnum on his own
exaggerated scale. Huge posters outside announced the contents of
the Museum, and long descriptive advertisements in the newspapers
heralded new attractions. On a balcony which circled the outside of
the Museum building, a band of music played all day long, and a huge
poster announced, “Free Music for the Million!” Barnum took care,
he confessed, to choose the worst band he could find, on the chance
that the discordant notes would drive the crowd into the Museum. This
appears a far-fetched method of advertising, but he assured the readers
of his autobiography that it was profitable. Powerful Drummond lights,
the first New York saw, shone from the top of the Museum and lighted
Broadway from the Battery to Niblo’s Garden. Barnum planned in advance
to dispose of the entire profit of the first year in advertising, and
the profits came in so fast that he had difficulty devising enough
media. Paintings of strange animals were made for Barnum in panels
and attached to the entire outside surface of the Museum. The work of
putting up the paintings was performed in one night without advance
notice, and the next morning when New York saw its popular landmark, it
looked as if it had broken out into a huge rash. The changed appearance
caused people to hurry inside to see if corresponding changes had been
made there. Barnum estimated that these gaudy pictures increased his
profits by one hundred dollars a day, and they never fell back after
the novelty had become a tradition; it may be that it was impossible
to grow accustomed to Barnum’s animals, and undoubtedly they always
attracted the streams of immigrants and Western visitors ever flowing
into New York City.

It was the world’s way, Barnum wrote, “to promise everything for
next to nothing,” and he confessed that he fell rapidly into that
way and excelled in it. This, he insisted, was not because he was
less scrupulous, but because he was more ingenious and energetic than
his competitors. However, there were instances of deception in which
Barnum allowed the association of ideas to work to his advantage. He
promised nothing, but allowed an innocent observer to jump to his own
conclusions, contributing by his advertisements a slight shove in the
wrong direction. The best of these was Barnum’s exploitation of a negro
violinist. He engaged this negro artist, who had a foreign musical
education and a reputation in musical circles, to play at the Museum,
and he advertised the negro widely, but the public did not appear
to be interested. The receipts did not increase, and Barnum issued
instructions for the large colored posters, showing the negro violinist
in action, to be posted on the boards upside down. This was no sooner
carried out than the Museum was crowded, on the assumption that the
negro violinist played the violin while standing on his head. It was a
source of great disappointment to many when they only heard him play
the violin right side up, but, said Barnum, never mind, they had the
Industrious Fleas and the Albinos for their money.

Barnum’s first object was publicity for the Museum and for the name of
P. T. Barnum, and he went to any lengths to carry out those purposes.
He soon succeeded in making his Museum and his personality the talk
of New York, and it was then his ambition to make them national
institutions. In his use of the newspapers, which seemed in those days
to be naïve in the extreme, he was indefatigable. Many years later
Barnum told a reporter for the _Indianapolis Journal_: “In the old
Museum days ... night after night at the midnight hour, and later, I
crawled up these several newspaper staircases to put in these journals
some fresh and startling announcement about my business. I even did
this after the editor had gone home, but the foreman in the composing
room had some authority then and would often put the matter I offered
in type or make an announcement for me.” Barnum added, “If I am ever
profoundly thankful for any instrumentalities, it is for the editor
and his paper. They furnish the wind for my sails.” Barnum owed this
debt of gratitude, but he must be given credit as the inventor of
steam navigation in the seas of publicity.[4] The editors of the day
were not philanthropists, and Barnum worked in devious ways for his
notoriety. It was his genius that he realized the value in dollars and
cents of his name and his activities and at the same time attached
no estimable value to the character he might establish in the world.
Charlatan, humbug, mountebank, and impostor were names he delighted in
and conjured with, and it was possible for him to do so because his
character was a composite of Baron Munchausen and Pecksniff, with an
intensely practical turn of mind. He was the father of publicity in
a country where it may be said to have grown to be a monster akin to
Frankenstein’s, and his child supported him in luxury for many years.
He combined with a genial temperament that would not allow him to worry
about details a rhinoceros hide that refused to allow the slings and
arrows of outraged editors and citizens to penetrate to his heart; his
disposition was such that it was inevitable that he should succeed as
an exploiter of monstrous hoaxes or legitimate extravaganzas.

The greatest of Barnum’s early curiosities, if we are to judge from
the controversy caused by its exhibition, was The Fejee Mermaid. In
the summer of 1842 the proprietor of the Boston Museum, Moses Kimball,
brought to Barnum a figure supposed to be a preserved mermaid. Kimball
had purchased it from a sailor, whose father, the captain of an
American ship, bought it in Calcutta and honestly believed it to be a
preserved mermaid found by Japanese sailors off the coast of Japan. The
captain thought so highly of this mermaid that he appropriated $6,000
of the ship’s funds in order to purchase it. His employers did not
think so highly of his purchase, and the captain was forced to serve on
his ship without pay until he had made up the misappropriation. He died
in that service, leaving to his son nothing but the mermaid.

Barnum wrote that he was much impressed with the genuineness of this
article of his commerce, but he did not trust his own judgment alone.
He consulted his favorite naturalist, who had advised him on other
phenomena. The naturalist, after a careful examination, admitted
that he could find no sign of joining or other traces of artificial
manufacture, but he shook his head dubiously and said that he had never
seen a monkey with such strange arms and teeth, nor a fish with such
queer fins. Barnum asked why he should assume that it was manufactured.
“Because,” answered the naturalist, “I don’t believe in mermaids.”
Barnum thought that was bad logic; he preferred for the purposes of the
occasion to believe in mermaids, and he hired this one. But to believe
in mermaids yourself, and to make the public believe in mermaids, are
not synonymous. However, Barnum’s confidence in the general credulity
of his patrons was not unfounded upon both precedent and his own
experience. He had learned much from Joice Heth, and this same mermaid
had been exhibited in London twenty years before by the sea captain who
owned it, and according to the London _Times_ of the period every day
three hundred persons paid a shilling each to see it.

Soon after the mermaid came into Barnum’s possession, a news letter
appeared in the _New York Herald_ from Montgomery, Alabama. It told
of the state of trade, the condition of the crops, the political
situation, and mentioned near the end that a Dr. Griffin, of the
Lyceum of Natural History, London, who had but recently returned from
Pernambuco, had in his trunk a most remarkable curiosity, a real
mermaid, found by Chinese in the Fiji Islands, preserved by them, and
purchased by Dr. Griffin for the London Lyceum of Natural History.
One week later another news letter, this time from Charleston, South
Carolina, telling the same story, was published in another New York
newspaper. A third letter, mailed from Washington to another New
York newspaper one week after the second news letter, announced the
mermaid and mentioned that Dr. Griffin was soon to visit New York en
route to London, and expressed the hope that New Yorkers would have
the opportunity to see this extraordinary curiosity. Several days
after the Washington letter, Levi Lyman, Barnum’s assistant in the
business of Joice Heth, registered at a Philadelphia hotel as Dr.
Griffin, of Pernambuco and London. He remained there several days,
and, just after paying his bill, he thanked the landlord for his
constant courtesy and attention, and offered to show him, in gratitude
for the excellent treatment he had received at the hostelry, a unique
curiosity. The landlord gazed in wonderment at a real mermaid, and
asked for permission to invite a few friends to see it. The doctor said
that he did not suppose that it would do the Lyceum of Natural History
of London much harm if a few of the landlord’s best friends saw the
mermaid; the Philadelphia newspapers for the next day and several days
later commented at length on the great natural phenomenon.

[Illustration: THE MERMAID IN HER NATURAL ELEMENT

From _The Sunday Mercury_]

Finally Dr. Griffin arrived in New York and registered at the Pacific
Hotel. Reporters soon learned that the mermaid was in town, and the
polite and genial agent of the Lyceum of Natural History allowed them
to look at his curiosity. Barnum had meanwhile prepared illustrations
of the mermaid and printed 10,000 copies of a pamphlet describing
it. These were stored in the Museum until the time came to use them
publicly. Barnum, of course, had written the three news letters and
sent them to friends in Montgomery, Charleston, and Washington, who
could be trusted to mail them from those cities; the newspapers of
the day were not particular about the source of their news, if it was
news. Barnum called upon the editors of the _Herald_, the _Mercury_,
and the _Atlas_, with his engravings of the mermaid. He told them that
he had hoped to use these engravings when he exhibited the mermaid at
the Museum, but that Dr. Griffin had decided that as agent for the
Lyceum of Natural History it would be quite impossible for him to
exhibit his curiosity in public anywhere except in London. Therefore,
Barnum magnanimously offered his engravings, now worthless to him, for
the editors to print. They thanked him, and the following Sunday each
newspaper printed a different picture of the mermaid, and each editor
realized Barnum’s deception only when he saw the rival newspapers.

[Illustration: CAPTURE OF THE FEJEE MERMAID

Inserted by Barnum in _The Sunday Atlas_]

The public was now interested in the mermaid. Most newspaper readers
had seen at least one illustration or one of Barnum’s out-of-town
letters. The 10,000 pamphlets were turned over to newsboys to sell at
a penny each in all the hotels, stores, and public places. Then Barnum
hired, through an agent, Concert Hall on Broadway, and the newspapers
printed advertisements which announced that Dr. Griffin, because of the
solicitations of gentlemen of science, had consented to exhibit his
mermaid for one week only at Concert Hall. Dr. Griffin would also show,
for one week only, the other scientific specimens he had collected for
the London Lyceum of Natural History, including the Ornithorhinchus,
or the connecting link between the seal and the duck; two distinct
species of flying fish, one from the Gulf Stream and one from the West
Indies, which undoubtedly connected the bird and the fish; the Paddle
Tail Snake of South America; the Siren, or Mud Iguana, a connecting
link between reptiles and fish; the Proteus Sanguihus, a subterraneous
animal from Australia; “with other animals forming connecting links
in the great chain of Animated Nature.” Darwin did not publish _The
Origin of Species_ until seventeen years after Barnum’s unique natural
specimens were exhibited in New York.

[Illustration: THE CORRECT LIKENESS OF THE FEJEE MERMAID

From _The Sunday Herald_]

There was no indication in the Fejee Mermaid of a junction between the
fish body and the monkey head. The spine extended unbroken to the base
of the skull. The shoulders were covered with animal hair, and under
a microscope fish scales were visible beneath the hair. The face was
of a monstrous ugliness, and the whole specimen, which was three feet
long, was dried up and black. The misshapen arms, with their hideous
long fingers on the ends of distorted hands, were turned up, and the
right hand covered the right side of the face. The mouth was wide
open, revealing bestial teeth, and the whole expression of the face
gave the vivid impression that the animal had died in an extreme agony,
which had been carefully preserved by its embalmers. It was Barnum’s
private opinion, which he did not express until many years later, that
The Fejee Mermaid, as he spelled it, was made in Japan, China, or
India, and that it was probably an object of worship in one of those
countries. Profoundly religious himself, in a Christian way, Barnum
always enjoyed attributing hideousness to so-called pagan faiths. He
found in Dr. Ph. Fr. von Siebold’s _Manners and Customs of the Japanese
in the Nineteenth Century_ an account of a Japanese fisherman who
joined the upper half of a monkey to the lower half of a fish so deftly
that the joint could not be detected. The Japanese then announced to
his fellow-countrymen that he had caught the object in his net, and
that it had died soon after its capture. The mermaid was exhibited in
Japan, and its Japanese owner maintained that it had spoken a few words
before it died, in which it had predicted some years of fertility,
to be followed by years of a fatal epidemic, the only remedy against
which would be the possession of the prophet’s likeness. The sale
in Japan of crude pictures of the animal was great, and the figure
itself was finally sold to Dutch traders, who carried it to Batavia,
“where,” according to Dr. von Siebold, “it fell into the hands of a
shrewd American, who brought it to Europe, and there, in the years
1822–23, exhibited his purchase as a real mermaid, at every capital,
to the admiration of the ignorant, the perplexity of the learned, and
the filling of his own purse.” Barnum was convinced that this was his
mermaid, and this its origin, and he hailed the Japanese fisherman
as one of his brothers under the skin, who by his scheme for selling
pictures and attracting crowds to the mermaid was entitled to occupy a
throne along with Barnum as a Prince of Humbugs.

Concert Hall was crowded as soon as The Fejee Mermaid moved in. Levi
Lyman, as Dr. Griffin, told the audiences of his travels and adventures
in far-off places in search of unnatural curiosities. Barnum was
afraid that some of those who visited Concert Hall might recognize Dr.
Griffin as the Levi Lyman who had accompanied Joice Heth, but Joice
Heth had been dead six years, and no one doubted Dr. Griffin; he looked
scientific. He was dignified and polite, and he explained with great
pains and patience the science and natural history of the connecting
links by which he was surrounded. After one week at Concert Hall,
Barnum announced that at last, after much trouble and expense, he had
induced Dr. Griffin to exhibit The Fejee Mermaid at Barnum’s American
Museum, where it could be seen daily, along with the other curiosities,
without extra charge. Barnum designed an enormous flag, representing a
mermaid eighteen feet long, which, when it was unfurled, covered the
front of the Museum. This was too much, even for Lyman, who protested
against such a colossal deception: The Fejee Mermaid was only three
feet long. Lyman indignantly told Barnum that the public would not
swallow such a difference between its expectations and the reality, and
he insisted that the flag be taken down. Barnum answered that he had
paid seventy dollars for that flag, and it must remain in front of the
Museum. “Well, Mr. Barnum,” Lyman answered, “if you like to fight under
that flag, you can do so, but _I_ won’t.” Barnum could not dispense
with Professor Griffin, and the flag was hauled in. It is strange that
Lyman should choose this flag as an issue, and Barnum does not explain
it, but it was likely that Lyman was having considerable difficulty
satisfying many disappointed visitors with his wizened mermaid, and
could endure no further difficulties. Lyman later went to Nauvoo,
Illinois, where he became an influential Mormon.

In later years, and in the last editions of his autobiography, Barnum
did not give the details of The Fejee Mermaid with so much pride in
his own ingenuity. He wrote in the 1888 edition of his autobiography,
published three years before his death: “I used it mainly to advertise
the regular business of the Museum, and this effective indirect
advertising is the only feature I can commend, in a special show of
which, I confess, I am not proud. Newspapers throughout the country
copied the mermaid notices, for they were novel and caught the
attention of readers. Thus was the fame of the Museum, as well as the
mermaid, wafted from one end of the land to the other. I was careful
to keep up the excitement, for I knew that every dollar sown in
advertising would return in tens, and perhaps hundreds, in a future
harvest, and after obtaining all the notoriety possible by advertising
and by exhibiting the mermaid at the Museum, I sent the curiosity
throughout the country, directing my agent to everywhere advertise it
as ‘From Barnum’s Great American Museum, New York.’ The effect was
immediately felt; money flowed in rapidly, and was readily expended in
more advertising.”

While The Fejee Mermaid was on exhibition at the Museum, one of the
visitors said to Barnum, “I lived two years on the Fiji Islands, and
I never heard of any such thing as a mermaid.” “There’s no accounting
for some men’s ignorance,” was Barnum’s answer. But most of the public
seemed satisfied, and apparently sent their friends, for during the
first four weeks of the mermaid’s exhibition at the Museum the receipts
were $3,341.93. During the four weeks preceding its arrival the
receipts had been only $1,272.

The Museum was now well on its way to financial success. Barnum and
his family had lived on the $600 a year allowed him out of the profits
until the Museum was paid for. Six months after he had purchased the
Museum, Mr. Olmsted found him in the ticket office one day eating his
dinner of corned beef and bread. “Is that the way you eat your dinner?”
he asked. “I have not eaten a warm dinner since I bought the Museum,
except on the Sabbath,” Barnum answered, “and I intend never to eat
another on a week day until I am out of debt.” Mr. Olmsted was much
pleased, clapped Barnum on the shoulder, and assured him that he was
a safe investment. The assertion that he ate only one hot dinner a
week is possibly a Barnumization of the truth, for it is this type of
statement Barnum was most likely to exaggerate in his autobiography,
and which in some instances can be proved untrue. But in less than one
year after he arranged for its purchase, Barnum owned the American
Museum in his own name and had paid his rent out of the profits. The
profits for the year 1842, according to Barnum’s account books, were
$27,912.62. For the year before he became its proprietor, the profits
had been $10,862.

The bogus New York Museum Company sold Peale’s Museum to Henry Bennett,
who created publicity by parodying Barnum’s attractions. When Barnum
exhibited The Fejee Mermaid, Bennett advertised a “Fudg-ee Mermaid,”
and when Barnum advertised a family of singers as the “Orphean Family,”
Bennett presented the “Orphan Family.” The novelty of this opposition,
however, did not pay expenses, and Barnum soon bought out Bennett,
but he hired Bennett as manager of his own museum and instructed him
to continue the opposition and the parodies, which created publicity
for the American Museum. At the end of six months the collections were
combined.

Within a year, by means of ingenious, and sometimes unscrupulous,
advertising, Barnum’s American Museum became New York’s most popular
place of amusement. For New Yorkers it was a place of regular resort,
and families brought their lunches and ate them in the Museum rooms so
that they might spend the whole day among the curiosities. The Museum
was known throughout the country, and visitors to New York, who arrived
early in the morning, often visited Barnum’s before they went to their
hotels or to their breakfast, for the Museum was opened every morning
at sunrise. Barnum once compared the number of visitors to his Museum
with those of the British Museum, which, of course, was free of charge,
and found that his patrons were more numerous.

Besides his notorious curiosities, Barnum enlarged the Lecture Room of
the Museum, and presented regular dramatic performances there. He felt
that what he called the “Moral Drama” would pay better than anything
that was attractively immoral; and the “Moral Drama” was more palatable
to his own conscience, for from childhood until his last year he had
a sincere religious fear of impropriety in public presentation. The
greatest manifestation of Barnum’s genius for theatrical management in
this country was his instinctive realization that the largest part of
the community is eminently respectable in public, and it was what, more
than anything else, contributed to his financial success, that Barnum
catered to the reputable who still retained vestiges of curiosity. Many
persons who would not be seen in a theater visited regularly the Museum
Lecture Room--Barnum would never consent to calling it a theater--where
the moral dramas of “Joseph and His Brethren,” “Moses,” and “The
Drunkard” were performed. One afternoon a New England lady walked into
Barnum’s office and sat down on the sofa. She examined Barnum curiously
for a minute, and then remarked that he looked “much like other common
folks, after all.” “Mr. Barnum,” she said “I never went to any Museum
before, nor to any place of amusement or public entertainment, except
our school exhibitions; and I have sometimes felt that they even may
be wicked, because some parts of the dialogue seemed frivolous; but I
have heard so much of your ‘moral dramas,’ and the great good you are
doing for the rising generation, that I thought I must come here and
see for myself.” At that moment the gong announcing the beginning of
the show in the Lecture Room rang. The lady jumped from the sofa. “Are
the services about to commence?” she asked anxiously. There was the
noise of shuffling feet as the crowd hurried to the seats. “Yes,” said
Barnum, “the congregation is now going up.” Barnum wrote concerning his
moral performances: “I resolved, as far as possible, to elevate and
refine such amusements as I dispensed. Even Shakespeare’s dramas were
shorn of their objectionable features when placed upon my stage.”

E. A. Sothern, Tony Pastor, and Barney Williams received their first
stage training on the stage of Barnum’s Lecture Room. On holidays
performances were given every hour throughout the afternoon and
evening, and Barnum is given credit in histories of the theater for
originating the continuous performance, which has since proved so
popular in vaudeville.

These continuous programs on holidays were very popular, and on the
first Fourth of July of Barnum’s management of the Museum so many
people visited the building that the sale of tickets was stopped. This
Barnum described as “exceedingly harrowing to my feelings.” He noted
sadly that thousands were waiting outside to purchase tickets, and
that those inside did not seem in a hurry to leave. Barnum ordered
his carpenter to build a temporary flight of stairs at the rear of
the building, which opened out into Ann Street. At three o’clock that
afternoon this exit was opened, but much money had been lost. When, on
the next St. Patrick’s Day, Barnum was informed in advance that the
Irish population intended to visit the Museum in large numbers, he
opened the rear exit again. Before noon the Museum was crowded, and the
sale of tickets had to be stopped. Barnum rushed to the rear exit and
asked how many hundreds had passed out that way. He was told that three
persons had used it during the whole morning, for the visitors had
brought their dinners and intended to remain in the Museum all day and
night. Barnum hurriedly called his sign painter and ordered a sign in
large letters

☞ TO THE EGRESS.

This was nailed over the rear door. Some of the Irish visitors spelled
out the sign, “To the Aigress,” and many remarked, “Sure, that’s an
animal we haven’t seen,” and found themselves on Ann Street, with no
chance of re-entering the Museum.

It was on his first Fourth of July in the Museum that Barnum exhibited
another instance of his ingenuity in the face of a difficulty. In
order to make the most of the holiday by utilizing the publicity value
of the American flag, Barnum fastened a string of large flags across
Broadway, tying one end to the Museum and the other to a tree in St.
Paul’s Churchyard. Several days before Independence Day Barnum had
visited the vestrymen of St. Paul’s and requested permission to use
the tree in the churchyard, but they called his request insulting and
talked of sacrilege. On the Fourth of July he gave orders for the flags
to be attached, as he had originally planned. The flags attracted huge
crowds, and at half-past nine in the morning two indignant vestrymen
entered Barnum’s office and demanded that they be detached from their
church immediately. Barnum answered pleasantly that he would go into
the street with them and see what could be done. He looked at the flags
and remarked solemnly that they were a beautiful sight. He argued with
the vestrymen that he always had stopped his Free Music for the Million
when they held their services, and he merely requested this favor in
return. One of the vestrymen lost patience and shouted that unless
Barnum took down the flags within ten minutes he would _cut_ them down.
The crowd was attracted by the angry gestures. Barnum suddenly took
off his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and shouted in his sonorous
voice, tinged with anger, loudly enough for all in the crowd to
overhear, “I should 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,
but I’ll show you a thousand pairs of Yankee hands in two minutes, if
you dare to take down the stars and stripes on this great birthday
of American freedom.” In a moment the vestrymen were surrounded by
several heavy, angry men, who threatened varied punishment. The poor
bewildered vestrymen disappeared quietly from the crowd, and Barnum
with obsequious smiles enjoyed his triumph.

Barnum was apparently indefatigable in his personal interest in the
Museum and in his personal efforts to make it ever more popular. He
often appeared before his audiences with stunts or speeches, because
he knew he could entertain them, and because he liked to think that
they were interested in him. When Peale, of Peale’s Museum, presented
an actor who pretended to conduct experiments in Mesmerism, Barnum
personally conducted his own experiments in Animal Magnetism from the
stage of the Moral Lecture Room. A young girl, carefully trained in
advance, sat on the stage. Barnum made a few passes with his hand in
front of her, and she was then under his control; she raised her hands
when he requested her to do so, grimaced when he put tobacco in his
mouth, and smiled when he ate candy. Then it was his practice to turn
to the audience and offer to forfeit fifty dollars if he could not
put any member of the audience in the same state within five minutes.
At the end of three minutes the volunteer was, of course, wide awake.
Barnum would look at his watch, remark that he had two minutes, which
was plenty of time, and offer to demonstrate to the audience that a
person mesmerized was a person insensible to pain, by cutting off
one of the fingers of the small girl, who was still asleep. He would
take out his knife, feel the sharp edge, and turn towards the girl,
who had meanwhile fled behind the scenes in a fright that delighted
the audience. Barnum would say in an astonished tone of voice, “Then
she was wide awake, was she?” His volunteer from the audience usually
answered, “Of course she was, she was wide awake all the time.” “I
suppose so,” was Barnum’s answer, “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.” This type of trick
never seemed to anger, rather than to amuse, the audiences.

No such trickery was too much for Barnum, and he carried out a similar
deception on a public scale with no harm to his reputation and no
qualms of conscience. In June of 1843 he attended the Bunker Hill
celebration, where Daniel Webster delivered a stirring oration, but
Barnum was just as interested in an old canvas tent near the Bunker
Hill Monument as he was in the ceremonies of the day. He found in
that tent a herd of fifteen one-year-old calf buffaloes, which he
immediately purchased for $700; a scheme by which he could utilize
these buffaloes had hatched in his mind almost as soon as he saw them.
The animals were docile and tired, for they had been driven east from
the western plains. At Barnum’s order they were brought to New York and
then transported to a New Jersey barn near Hoboken. Barnum hired their
former owner, C. D. French, to take care of the animals for thirty
dollars per month, because French understood the lasso. The newspapers
shortly afterwards announced that a herd of wild buffaloes, captured
in the Rocky Mountains, was passing through New York soon on its way
to Europe, in charge of the very men who had captured the animals, and
during the next few days suggestions appeared in the newspapers that
it would be a fine thing for New York if the owners of these buffaloes
could be induced to present a buffalo chase on a race course near New
York, demonstrating to the eastern population the use of the lasso and
the ferocity of the buffalo. One of the correspondents expressed it
as his sincere opinion that it would be worth a dollar to see such a
sight, and that he for one would be willing to pay that amount. Another
estimated that no less than fifty thousand persons would be interested
in a buffalo chase without the danger but with the thrills, and other
obliging correspondents suggested places for the hunt, including the
race course at Hoboken, New Jersey. Before long advertisements appeared
in all the newspapers, and handbills were circulated throughout New
York announcing that there would be a “Grand Buffalo Hunt, Free of
Charge--At Hoboken, on Thursday, August 31, at 3, 4, and 5 o’clock
p. m. Mr. C. D. French, one of the most daring and experienced hunters
of the West, has arrived thus far on his way to Europe with a Herd
of Buffaloes, captured by himself, near Santa Fé. He will exhibit a
method of hunting the Wild Buffaloes, and throwing the lasso, by which
the animals were captured in their most wild and untamed state. This
is perhaps one of the most exciting and difficult feats that can be
performed, requiring at the same time the most expert horsemanship and
the greatest skill and dexterity. Every man, woman, and child can here
witness _the wild sports of the Western Prairies_, as the exhibition
is to be free to all, and will take place on the extensive grounds
and Race Course of Messrs. Stevens, within a few rods of the Hoboken
Ferry.” The public was further assured that, “No possible danger need
be apprehended, as a double railing has been put around the whole
course, to prevent the possibility of the Buffaloes approaching the
multitude.”

These announcements mystified and delighted New York. Who was the
city’s anonymous benefactor? Who supplied such entertainment free
of charge and kept modestly in the background? Barnum meanwhile had
purchased the rights to the receipts of all the ferry boats which
crossed between New York and Hoboken on August 31, 1843, and extra
ferry boats were provided for the day. The weather was clear, and the
boats, under the administration of Captain Barnum, were crowded to
the railings with adventurers. Twenty-four thousand people went to
Hoboken that day. They stood on the railings and clutched the awnings
to support themselves, and each paid six and a quarter cents going and
the same to return.

When the crowds arrived in Hoboken, they waited in the arena for the
wild buffaloes, who finally appeared in reluctant and tame parade of
their alleged ferocity. The animals were thin and pale from lack of
nourishment during their first master’s patronage, and although they
had been crammed with extra rations of oats for several days they
refused at the outset to be wild. C. D. French, “one of the most daring
and experienced hunters of the West,” dressed and painted as an Indian,
poked his wild buffaloes with a goad, but the most they would do for
the twenty-four thousand interested spectators was to trot. There
was much laughter and shouting at their recalcitrance, and the noise
made by the crowd frightened the nervous buffaloes so much that they
galloped from the enclosure in terror and threw the spectators, who
believed that they had actually grown wild, into a panic. The buffaloes
took refuge from their oppressors in a near-by swamp, and all that
C. D. French could do would not persuade them to return to the Race
Course. He finally lassoed one of them, and entertained the crowd with
this beast, and with exhibitions of lassoing on horses and horsemen. No
one suspected the ferry boat arrangement, and no one suspected Barnum.
It was after midnight when the last of the crowds succeeded in getting
home from Hoboken, but, apparently, a good time was had by all, for
there were no riots, and the receipts of the ferry boats turned over
to Barnum amounted to $3,500. After the exhibition Barnum sent his
buffaloes to Camden, New Jersey, where they attracted Philadelphia
crowds in the same manner. Some of the herd then went to England and
were sold, while the others were fattened on a farm and sold for
buffalo steak in Fulton Market at fifty cents per pound. In order that
the Museum might profit by the advertisement, Barnum made public his
responsibility for the Great Buffalo Hunt.

Some time after his success with the buffaloes, Barnum presented the
first Wild West Show New York had seen. He engaged a band of Indians
from Iowa, among whom were impressive men, beautiful squaws, and two
or three papooses. The Indians appeared on the stage of the Moral
Lecture Room in real war dances, which they performed with all the
vigor and realistic interpretation of their savage origin. In fact, it
was necessary to rope them in, for fear that in their frenzy towards
the end of a dance they might forget that they were merely players, and
make for members of the audience; for Barnum’s Indians had never before
seen a railroad or a steamboat, and scalps were not yet obsolete in
their minds. They seemed thoroughly under the impression that they were
not acting but living, which in one particular caused the proprietor of
the American Museum some expense. After a week of war dances, Barnum
suggested a change of program, including an Indian wedding dance. The
interpreter explained, and the chief agreed. On Monday afternoon when
the first change to the wedding dance was to take place, Barnum was
informed by the chief that he must supply a red woolen blanket as a
wedding present for the bridegroom to give to the father of the bride,
an inviolable Indian custom. After each performance the chief insisted
that he must have another new blanket for the next performance, and
when Barnum attempted to explain that the wedding was only “make
believe,” the chief gave forth an ugly “Ugh!” terrifying Barnum into
spending $120 for twelve red woolen blankets for the rest of the week.

These special exhibitions were supplemented by flower shows, dog shows,
and poultry shows at the Museum, and Barnum, soon after he became
manager, decided that he must have a baby show. He organized such an
exhibition with graduated scales of prizes for triplets, the fattest
baby, the most beautiful baby, and the handsomest twins. The main
prize of $100 for the most perfect baby was a source of considerable
difficulty. Barnum thought that it would be a fine thing for him to
award this prize himself, a fine thing in publicity for himself, and
also for the baby, who could say in later years that he had been
personally selected as unique by P. T. Barnum. In later years he did
meet many men and women who claimed that honor, but at the time of the
awards the defeated mothers stormed about Barnum, and their indignation
could not be appeased until he announced that he would award a second
prize of $100 to the baby selected by a committee of mothers. Whereupon
each mother became the enemy of every other, and Barnum’s $100 was
safe. In deciding future baby contests, however, he sent in written
reports and was not to be disturbed for the rest of the day.

In November, 1842, Barnum stopped one night at the Franklin Hotel
in Bridgeport, Connecticut, which was kept by his brother, Philo F.
Barnum. His brother mentioned that there was a dwarf in Bridgeport,
who played daily in the streets, and was accepted by the rest of the
population as a natural curiosity. Barnum asked his brother to bring
the child to the Franklin Hotel, and as soon as he saw this dwarf he
realized that here was a natural curiosity who could be transformed
by instruction and publicity into a unique and profitable one. The
child was the smallest Barnum had ever seen, and was in excellent
health, without any deformities. He was two feet, one inch in height
and weighed fifteen pounds. His hair was flaxen, and his eyes dark;
his cheeks were pink and his whole appearance gave the impression of
health, symmetry, and whimsical charm on a lovely, diminutive scale.
He was very bashful, and Barnum only learned after difficulty that his
name was Charles S. Stratton, and that he was five years old. Barnum
visited Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood E. Stratton, the child’s parents, and
after some persuasion they consented to exhibit their son at Barnum’s
Museum for three dollars per week and board for himself and his mother.
Barnum hired him for four weeks only, because at the time he was
doubtful whether a five-year-old child who was only two feet in height
might not grow before long to a normality that would make him mediocre.

The dwarf and his mother arrived in New York on Thanksgiving Day, 1842,
and Barnum had something to be thankful for that day. Mrs. Stratton
was astonished and somewhat annoyed when she noticed that her son was
announced in large handbills as “General Tom Thumb, a dwarf eleven
years of age, just arrived from England.” The “just arrived from
England” was the first instance of a method Barnum often repeated.
He realized early in his career the love of the American mind for an
importation, and he never advertised anything as domestic if he could
possibly deceive his patrons into believing that he had incurred much
trouble and expense by importing it from abroad, where its popularity
was always stupendous. He hoped, patriotically, in his autobiography
that such deception might check “our disgraceful preference for
foreigners.”

Barnum made his dwarf eleven years old for fear that the public might
not believe that a child five years old would not grow beyond his
present height. In the various pamphlets concerning the life of General
Tom Thumb, which were sold at his exhibitions, it is recorded that when
he was born he weighed nine pounds, two ounces, more than the average
weight of a new-born baby, and that at five months he had ceased to
grow and weighed only fifteen pounds. His weight of fifteen pounds and
his height of two feet, one inch, were said to have remained unchanged
from the age of five months until the age of five years and for many
years thereafter.

The change of name from Charles S. Stratton to General Tom Thumb was
a stroke of Barnum’s inspiration, and it contributed largely to the
General’s subsequent success. Tom Thumb is the most appropriate name
a dwarf ever had, and besides it possessed the advantage of some
familiarity from the story of the legendary Tom Thumb, of whom it will
be remembered:

“In Arthur’s court Tom Thumbe did live,
A man of mickle might,
The best of all the table round,
And eke a doughty knight;
His stature but an inch in height,
Or quarter of a span;
Then think you not this little knight
Was prov’d a valiant man?”

According to nursery lore, the legendary Tom Thumbe was swallowed by a
cow when he crossed the cow’s blade of grass but was soon delivered up
again from the cow’s stomach, only to meet his death by a bumble bee
after a series of valiant adventures. Barnum’s addition of “General” to
Tom Thumb enriched the name by a pompous mockery that was more valuable
because of its incongruity.

General Tom Thumb was soon domesticated to the ways of public
exhibition. Barnum taught his pupil day and night new jokes and old
rôles, which he learned quickly, for the child, according to Barnum,
had a love of the ludicrous and a humorous charm. When he was ready to
make his début, Barnum took General Tom Thumb first on a tour of the
newspaper offices, and even invaded the home of one newspaper editor,
who happened to be eating dinner. Tom Thumb danced between the tumblers
and hopped over the roast. James Gordon Bennett wrote in the _Herald_
on December 15, 1842: “We were visited yesterday by the comical little
gentleman who is at present holding nightly levees at the American
Museum. He is certainly the smallest specimen of a man we have ever
seen.”

The General’s popularity was immediate, and after the first four-weeks’
engagement was finished, Barnum reëngaged him for one year at seven
dollars a week, with a bonus of fifty dollars at the end of the
engagement. It is clear that neither General Tom Thumb nor his father
had any idea of the value of a dwarf, and Barnum took advantage of the
age of the boy and the ignorance of his father. Barnum also retained
the privilege of sending the General on a tour of the country. Before
the end of the year Barnum increased Tom Thumb’s salary to twenty-five
dollars per week, and he assures us that the General deserved the
raise. Besides exhibiting frequently at the Museum, where he sang
songs, danced, and told stories in the pert and saucy manner of people
who are too small to be slapped, General Tom Thumb was sent to other
cities, where he made money for Barnum and advertised the American
Museum.

At the same time as the exhibition of General Tom Thumb in New
York, Barnum presented at the Museum two famous giants, M. Bihin,
the tall, thin French giant, and Colonel Goshen, a portly Arab. The
giants were amiable enough, but jealous of each other’s success,
and quarreled furiously one day when the Arab called M. Bihin “a
Shanghai” and M. Bihin called the Arab “a nigger.” They seized clubs
and medieval swords on exhibition in cases, and made for each other,
until Barnum interfered. He informed them that he had no objection
to their fighting, maiming or killing each other, but they were both
under engagement to him, and if there was to be a duel, it must be
duly advertised and 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,” Barnum assured
them. The giants enjoyed the humor of the situation, and lived in peace
until the end of their engagement.

After the contract with General Tom Thumb expired, Barnum engaged him
for another year at fifty dollars per week and all his expenses, with
the right to exhibit him in Europe. The Museum was so successful and
operating with so little friction after less than three years that
Barnum was looking for new worlds to conquer, and he took his General
under his arm and went to Europe. Passage was booked on the packet
ship _Yorkshire_ for Liverpool, and General Tom Thumb, his father and
mother, the General’s tutor, Professor Guillaudeu, and Barnum made
ready to sail on January 18, 1844. Barnum made use of the General
at the Museum until the last moment before sailing. Advertisements
appeared in the newspapers of the day announcing that the opportunity
to see General Tom Thumb was rapidly slipping away. When the boat was
delayed by adverse winds and tides, the General remained another day
at the Museum, and thousands of people visited him in a desperate
attempt to get a last look. _The Evening Post_ announced as an item
of news on January 16, 1844: “A few hours more remain for General Tom
Thumb to be seen at the American Museum, as the packet in which he has
engaged passage to England does not sail to-day, in consequence of the
easterly winds now prevailing. He may be seen throughout the entire day
and evening; and at three and seven o’clock p. m. there will be grand
performances; at each of which the General appears on the stage in the
same characters which have excited so much admiration and applause
of late.” The next day the weather was still bad, and people stormed
the Museum. On the day of sailing, January 19, General Tom Thumb was
on exhibition until eleven o’clock in the morning; the boat sailed at
noon. He was escorted to the dock by the municipal brass band, and more
than 10,000 persons saw him off. It was estimated that more than 80,000
persons had visited General Tom Thumb at the Museum.

CHAPTER IV

TRAVELS WITH A MIDGET

After a long and stormy passage of nineteen days, during which Barnum
entertained the passengers with choice samples of practical jokes, the
packet _Yorkshire_ arrived at Liverpool. A crowd was waiting on the
docks to look at General Tom Thumb, for it had been announced that
he would arrive on the _Yorkshire_, and the fame of his popularity
in America had spread to England even before Barnum had decided on
the venture abroad. But Mrs. Stratton managed to smuggle her little
treasure ashore without attracting notice.

For the first time in his life as a showman, except in the early
days of his struggle for opportunities, Barnum was deeply depressed
at his prospects. After he had been in Liverpool only a few days,
disheartening and panicky sensations overcame his natural exuberance.
He was among strangers, and he was homesick; everything appeared
different, and the foreign atmosphere took on the shape of a ghostly
hostility in Barnum’s mind. He tells us that as the boat was leaving
the dock in New York, he was in “the melting mood,” and soon after
his arrival in Liverpool this thirty-three-year-old showman, whose
reputation for bold enterprise had already spread throughout a large
part of the United States, sat down in his dismal hotel room and had
a good cry. The cause of this dejection was doubt of his ability to
succeed in different surroundings, and regret that he had so hastily
made the attempt. These in turn were caused by several encounters and
predictions of his first days in England. The proprietor of a Liverpool
waxworks called at the hotel; he had heard of the arrival of General
Tom Thumb, and he was anxious to add this unique curiosity to his
collection of waxworks at ten dollars per week for both the curiosity
and the manager. Soon afterwards Madame Céleste, who was performing
at the Theater Royal in Williamson Square, presented her compliments
to Mr. Barnum and invited him to use her private box. In the box
adjoining were a dignified lady and gentleman, who looked with approval
at General Tom Thumb, partly hidden from the audience by his tutor’s
cloak. They became interested in the General as soon as they learned
who he was and urged Barnum to exhibit him in Manchester, where they
lived. Barnum asked how much they thought he could charge for admission
in Manchester, and the lady answered that since the General was such
a decided curiosity, she thought twopence for each person would not
be too much. But her husband cried nonsense, remarked that women knew
nothing of such things, and assured Barnum that one penny was the usual
price for seeing giants and dwarfs in England, and that the public
would never pay more. It was this conversation more than anything
else that caused Barnum to wish he were in New York, where admission
was twenty-five cents, children half-price, and he swore solemnly to
himself that General Tom Thumb should never be seen for less than a
shilling a head.

It had been Barnum’s plan to proceed at once to London, but he
learned that the royal family was in mourning because of the death
of Prince Albert’s father, and he had made up his mind before he had
been in England one week to present General Tom Thumb at Buckingham
Palace, which, he naïvely admits, he intended to appropriate as his
headquarters. Meanwhile, he presented his letters of introduction in
Liverpool, and was induced by friends to hire a hall and give a few
exhibitions. Mr. Maddox, of the Princess’s Theater, London, visited
Liverpool incognito with the special purpose of sizing up Tom Thumb and
possibly proposing an engagement to Barnum. An arrangement was made for
three appearances at the Princess’s Theater, for Barnum was unwilling
to contract with another showman for any long engagement, and he
consented to the exhibition at the Princess’s only for the purposes of
advertisement.

To his first three performances in London General Tom Thumb attracted
large crowds, and Barnum once more felt sanguine. He declined an
offer for a reëngagement and prepared to exploit his prodigy on a
grand scale. He hired Lord Talbot’s mansion in Grafton Street, where
Lord Brougham was one of his neighbors, and from this house he sent
invitations to the nobility and the editors to visit General Tom Thumb.
They came in large numbers and told their friends about the General.
The friends, who were not invited, also came in large numbers, and were
turned away by the butler. Barnum was in England, and he planned to do
what no English showman would have dared to do: he treated himself,
unobtrusively, as an equal of every one from the Queen to the coster.
But he also catered to their opinions of themselves. He realized that
he must maintain a dignity, if he was to receive upper-class patronage,
and he instructed the servants to admit no one to the private at-homes
of General Tom Thumb without a ticket of invitation. But he was
always careful to send invitations the next day to all those who had
not been admitted. The premonitions of failure which he had suffered
in Liverpool made Barnum certain that the only way to establish Tom
Thumb financially in England was to make him the darling of fashion;
the common people could be trusted to follow in the tracks of their
betters. And Barnum knew also that the one road to sure success lay in
the direction of approval by Her Majesty the Queen. He therefore turned
all his persistent and cunning attention towards this consummation.

Since the Court was in mourning, it was extremely doubtful that he
could be received, but as it was not impossible, Barnum refused to
relinquish the hope. Horace Greeley, one of Barnum’s best friends and
an adviser to whom he always listened attentively, had given him a
letter of introduction to Edward Everett, American Minister to the
Court of St. James’s, and Barnum admitted that “to that letter, perhaps
more than to anything else, I was indebted for my first introduction
to Her Majesty.” It was fortunate for Barnum that he had such a letter
of introduction, if we are to take the word of a keen observer of
the times on the personality of Edward Everett. Maunsell B. Field,
whose book, _Memories of Many Men and Some Women_, is one of the most
interesting American books of reminiscences, visited Edward Everett
at the American Ministry about the same time as Barnum. Field was
then a young man traveling for his education; later he became one of
New York’s eminent lawyers and the partner of John Jay, but Edward
Everett could not be expected to foresee that. “I found Mr. Everett,”
Field wrote, “as frigid as an iceberg. He was as polished as his own
writings, but equally cold. To a young man just out of college, this
sort of reception operated like a wet blanket. After my first call,
I never ventured upon him again. I feared taking cold.” But Everett
was quite different with Barnum. During his first week in London the
American Minister called and was delighted with General Tom Thumb. They
dined with the Minister next day, and the Everett family gave Tom Thumb
many presents. Mr. Everett promised to use all his influence at the
Palace to insure a presentation before Queen Victoria.

Meanwhile, the Baroness Rothschild sent her carriage for General Tom
Thumb and his guardian. Barnum and his tiny ward passed a cordon
of liveried servants and walked into a brilliant hall, lined with
statuary. They ascended a flight of magnificent marble stairs and were
announced by an elegant servant. The Baroness was seated on a “gorgeous
couch,” and lords and ladies everywhere were sitting on gold chairs
that looked to Barnum like solid gold, “except the bottoms, which were
rich velvet.” Ebony, pearl, and gold dazzled Barnum’s eyes wherever
he looked, and when they were about to leave after a session of two
hours, a fat purse was quietly slipped into Barnum’s hand. That, too,
contained gold. Other receptions at the homes of other bankers and
members of the nobility followed, and they invariably ended with some
one slipping a fat purse into Barnum’s hand.

Barnum thought that the time had now come for a public exhibition. It
was true that he had not yet seen the Queen, or, rather, the Queen
had not yet seen him and his child wonder; but he must not wait
longer and lose the shillings per head that were ripe and ready to
drop into his purse. There was also danger that the _haut ton_ would
monopolize General Tom Thumb, and the shillings of the multitude were
more valuable in Barnum’s eyes than the generous admiration of lords
and ladies of fashion. He engaged Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly, and the
élite flocked to the exhibitions, followed by enough of the common
people to pay large profits.

One morning at breakfast at the house of Edward Everett, Barnum met Mr.
Charles Murray, the Master of the Royal Household, who had visited the
United States and written a book about them. Barnum happened to have
read the book, and he assured Murray how much he admired the opinion
of the Master of the Royal Household on the American people. He also
hinted that he intended to take General Tom Thumb over to Paris to see
Louis Philippe. Mr. Murray felt sure that Queen Victoria would want
to see the General before Louis Philippe; and he was correct. Soon
afterwards a handsome member of the Life Guards brought Barnum a note
inviting General Tom Thumb and his guardian, Mr. Barnum, to appear
at Buckingham Palace. Mr. Murray called the same day and told Barnum
that it was Her Majesty’s command that General Tom Thumb should appear
before her as he would appear anywhere else; she did not want him
primed with etiquette, she wished to see him in his natural state.

On the night of the appointment at the Palace, Barnum placed a placard
on the door of Egyptian Hall, reading: “Closed this evening, General
Tom Thumb being at Buckingham Palace by command of Her Majesty.” When
they arrived at the Palace, Barnum was told by a Lord-in-Waiting that
he must answer all questions addressed to him by Her Majesty through
the Lord-in-Waiting, and under no circumstances must the Queen be
addressed directly. He was also told that in leaving the presence of
the Queen he must “back out,” so that the Queen always saw his face;
and the Lord-in-Waiting illustrated his instructions by a few steps in
the proper direction.

Everything was then quite clear, and the party was conducted up a
marble staircase to the Queen’s picture gallery, where Her Majesty,
Prince Albert, the Duchess of Kent, and about twenty of the nobility
were waiting. General Tom Thumb strutted proudly up the long gallery
towards the end of which the royal party was standing, and as soon as
he came within speaking distance, bowed deeply and said in his high
treble voice, “Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen.” Every one laughed
merrily at the dwarf’s simplicity, but the dwarf did not mean to be
facetious; he thought they _were_ ladies and gentlemen. Queen Victoria
took his hand and led him about the picture gallery, asking him many
questions, and his answers caused her to laugh continually. He informed
the Queen that her picture gallery was “first-rate,” one of his common
expressions of approval, and he expressed a desire to see the Prince
of Wales. But the Queen regretted that the Prince of Wales was in bed,
and invited General Tom Thumb to call again, when he would see him.
The General sang and danced for the company, and after conversations
with Prince Albert and other members of the party, lasting more than
an hour, Barnum and General Tom Thumb made ready to leave the royal
presence.

Barnum had been talking with the Queen while General Tom Thumb was
entertaining Prince Albert. After two or three questions, put through
the Lord-in-Waiting and answered via that official, Barnum began to
feel uncomfortable, and he entered directly into conversation with the
Queen. The Lord-in-Waiting was shocked, but Victoria did not seem
to object, for she immediately entered into direct conversation with
Barnum.

The time for backing out arrived, and Barnum mollified the
Lord-in-Waiting by following carefully his instructions and example.
But General Tom Thumb’s legs were short, and he found his manager and
the Lord-in-Waiting were retreating towards the door more rapidly
than he could step backwards. The General turned and ran a few steps,
then faced again towards the Queen and respectfully bowed and walked
backwards, continuing this method of catching up whenever he found
himself behind in the race for the door. The royal party found these
antics of the little General delightful, and Barnum said that the
spectacle of Tom Thumb’s little feet running through the room and then
solemnly stepping backwards was a performance funnier than any he had
ever seen the General give. Barnum, six feet two in height, and General
Tom Thumb two feet one in height, bowing respectfully as possible under
the circumstances, was assuredly a sight to set before a Queen; the
droll contrast of the dwarf and his manager should have been enough
to make even Prince Albert giggle. The sight was not displeasing to
the Queen, but it was to her poodle-dog, who barked sharply at General
Tom Thumb and made for his legs. The General, frightened out of all
propriety, raised his little cane and attacked the poodle, causing more
merriment than ever. When they finally arrived in the ante-room, an
attendant hurried after them to ask in the name of the Queen whether
the General had been injured.

In another room refreshments were served, but Barnum could not enjoy
them; he was thinking of something else. He asked who edited the
Court Circular and was told that the gentleman happened to be in the
Palace at the time. He was sent for, and Barnum asked if it would be
possible for him to have more than a mere mention of the audience.
The editor was quite willing to give Barnum a favorable notice and
asked him to write out what he wished printed. Barnum did so, and,
much to his delight, his own words were printed the next day in all
the newspapers. The Court Circular said in part: “His personation of
the Emperor Napoleon elicited great mirth, and this was followed by a
representation of the Grecian Statues, after which the General danced a
nautical hornpipe, and sang several of his favorite songs.”

The audience with the Queen, and the newspaper notices of it, caused
such a demand for a sight of General Tom Thumb that Barnum was forced
to engage a larger room in Egyptian Hall. A second visit to the Queen
soon followed, and this time the General was received in the Yellow
Drawing Room, draped entirely in yellow satin damask, with sofas and
chairs of the same material, “surpassing in splendor and gorgeousness
anything of the kind” Barnum had ever seen. As Barnum and General
Tom Thumb entered the room, the Queen and her suite were leaving the
dining-room. The General remarked familiarly that he had seen her
before, and praised the Yellow Drawing Room enthusiastically. “I think
this is a prettier room than the picture gallery; that chandelier is
very fine,” he said.

He was introduced by the Queen to the Prince of Wales. They shook
hands cordially, and General Tom Thumb measured his height against
that of the Prince, remarking, “The Prince is taller than I am, but
I _feel_ as big as anybody.” Then he strutted up and down the room
in mock pride, to the delight of the audience. The Queen introduced
the Princess Royal, and Tom Thumb led her immediately to a sofa built
for his size, which Barnum had brought along, and chatted familiarly
with her tête-à-tête. The Queen then handed the General a souvenir
made expressly for him, an elegant ornament of mother-of-pearl set in
emeralds and enameled with the General’s coat of arms, although what
that was would be interesting to discover, for Barnum advertised Tom
Thumb as the son of a carpenter. General Tom Thumb told the Queen that
he was very much obliged and would keep her souvenir as long as he
lived. The Queen of the Belgians was present at this second visit, and
on a third visit to Buckingham Palace which they paid soon afterwards,
King Leopold was also present.

It was on this third visit that General Tom Thumb noticed a Shetland
pony, belonging to the Queen, outside the Palace. It was just suited to
Tom Thumb’s size, and he coveted it. When they came before the Queen,
she asked the General to sing his favorite song, and he sang “Yankee
Doodle,” causing much merriment by his controversial choice. But the
General was not thinking of the Revolutionary War; he was thinking of
the pony, which he dared not ask for. While singing “Yankee Doodle” to
the Queen, he pointed his finger significantly at her when he came to
the line, “Yankee Doodle, Yankee Doodle, riding on a pony,” but the
Queen either did not take the hint, or did not understand it, and the
General had to be content with the gold pencil case which he received
on this occasion. After every visit at Buckingham Palace, a large sum
of money was sent to Barnum by command of the Queen.

Since Queen Victoria had received General Tom Thumb three times, it
was almost an act of disloyalty for any of her subjects in London
to neglect to visit him. At a country fair Barnum heard the English
proprietor of a small collection of waxworks, whose articles of trade
were beginning to turn yellow with neglect, say to some of his fellow
craftsmen: “Tom Thumb has got the name, and you all know the name’s
everything. Tom Thumb couldn’t never shine, even in my van, ’long
side of a dozen dwarfs I knows, if this Yankee hadn’t bamboozled our
Queen--Gawd bless her--by getting him afore her half a dozen times.”
“Yes, yes--that’s the ticket,” another agreed, “our Queen patronizes
everything _foreign_, and yet she wouldn’t visit my beautiful
waxworks to save the crown of _H_ingland.” This recommendation of his
publicity skill must have pleased Barnum, but his lowly rivals were
not accurate, for, as much as General Tom Thumb owed his success to
Barnum, the manager had good raw material with which to work; it was
General Tom Thumb’s pert and whimsical charm that won the Queen after
Barnum gained the audience. Her subjects were equally enthusiastic, and
the receipts from March until July of 1844 for the public exhibitions
averaged more than $500 each day. Carriages lined up outside Egyptian
Hall as if for a command performance at the opera, and portraits of
the General appeared in all the illustrated newspapers. The Duke of
Wellington called frequently at Egyptian Hall, and on one occasion
the Duke was delighted with the General’s costume and imitation of
Napoleon. When Wellington asked the miniature Napoleon on what he
was pondering so deeply, Tom Thumb, retaining his sober expression,
said that he was thinking of the loss of the Battle of Waterloo. This
obvious display of wit delighted the Duke and was published all over
England, thereby increasing Barnum’s receipts.

Besides their public exhibitions Barnum and his midget visited the
houses of the nobility three or four nights each week and gave private
exhibitions at ten guineas each. They often visited two parties in an
evening. The Dowager Queen, Adelaide, invited General Tom Thumb to
Marlborough House and gave him a watch and chain made for his size;
she also gave him moral advice, which he promised to observe carefully
when he grew up. The Duke of Devonshire presented him with a gold and
turquoise snuff-box.

While Barnum and General Tom Thumb were in London, the Emperor of
Russia visited Queen Victoria, and the two popular Americans were
present at the grand review of British troops held by the Duke of
Wellington in honor of the Emperor Nicholas. They also visited the King
of Saxony and Ibrahim Pasha, who were guests in London. Sir Robert
and Lady Peel, the Dukes and Duchesses of Buckingham, Bedford, and
Devonshire, Count D’Orsay, Daniel O’Connell, Lord Chesterfield, and
Mr. Joshua Bates, of Baring Brothers, were especial friends of General
Tom Thumb. He and Barnum enjoyed the freedom of all the theaters and
public places of entertainment, as well as the hospitality of private
residences. But Barnum never neglected the larger rewards from the
populace in favor of the perquisites of the nobility and royalty. The
General appeared at the Lyceum Theater in a play written for him by
Albert Smith, called “Hop o’ My Thumb.” Songs were sung in London music
halls in honor of Tom Thumb, music was dedicated to him, and polkas
were named after him.

In the management of this English engagement Barnum proved himself a
perfect showman, readily adaptable to changed conditions. He believed
that when in London he must do as the toffs did, if he was afterwards
to attract the crowds who believed in the nobility of their constituted
betters. A method that would have earned him an injurious reputation
as a snob in this country caused the London aristocracy to storm his
mansion and the mass of the people to crowd Egyptian Hall. After a
tour of the provinces that was as successful as the London engagement,
preparations were made for General Tom Thumb’s appearance in Paris.

Barnum had preceded Tom Thumb to Paris, where he met Dion Boucicault,
who was living there at the time. Boucicault gave Barnum much valuable
advice and spent a day with him looking for a suitable exhibition hall.
They finally selected the Salle Musard in the Rue Vivienne as the
General’s French headquarters. Barnum issued preliminary paragraphs
in the newspapers concerning “Le Général Tom Pouce” and returned to
London to get the littlest star. Before his departure from Paris he
called upon William Rufus King, American Minister at the Court of
France, who assured him that after his success with Queen Victoria
there would be no difficulty with Louis Philippe, the affable King,
who was distinguished by his green umbrella when he walked unattended
through the streets of Paris. Barnum returned to Paris with his entire
party and the day after his arrival received a command to appear at the
Tuileries on the following Sunday evening. When they arrived at the
Palace, Barnum and General Tom Thumb were received by Louis Philippe,
the Queen, and the Princess Adelaide, the Duchess d’Orléans and her
son, the Count de Paris, Prince de Joinville, the Duke and Duchess
de Nemours, the Duchess d’Aumale, and the editor of the _Journal des
Débats_, the official journal. After his quaint performances, Louis
Philippe presented Tom Thumb with an emerald and diamond brooch.

The King was so genial that Barnum, who later wrote that he felt quite
at home in the royal presence, decided to ask a favor. The Longchamps
celebration, one of the gala days of fête and display for the new
court and society, was to take place within a few days after Barnum’s
arrival. He asked Louis Philippe if General Tom Thumb’s carriage might
appear in the avenue reserved for the court and the diplomatic corps,
for he feared that unless this favor was granted the small carriage
with its tiny ponies would be crushed and the General hurt. The King
arranged this small matter with one of his officials and told Barnum
to call upon the Prefect of Police the next day for a permit. Other
members of the court gave General Tom Thumb presents, and after a
visit of two hours the entertainers left. The Queen had asked Tom
Thumb how he spent his spare time. He answered, “I frequently draw and
do it pretty well,” meaning that he drew audiences to his exhibition
halls, but Her Majesty was not accustomed to Yankee puns, and several
days later a mahogany paint box with a silver plate on which were the
General’s initials was sent to him with the compliments of the Queen.

On the day of the Longchamps celebration General Tom Thumb in his
little carriage with four ponies, and a coachman and footman powdered
and in livery, rode up the Champs Elysées with the ambassadors to
the Court of Louis Philippe. The General’s coach had been built in
England. It was twenty inches high and eleven inches wide. The body
was an intense blue and the wheels were blue and red. On the inside
it was richly upholstered. On the doors were the General’s coat of
arms, conferred upon him for the occasion by Barnum: Britannia and the
Goddess of Liberty, supported by the British lion and the American
eagle. The crest was the rising sun and the British and American
flags. Underneath was the motto, “Go Ahead!” The same crest was on the
body of the coach and on the harness. The coachman’s box was of red
velvet, embroidered with a silver star and flowers of red and green.
The equipage was drawn by Shetland ponies, and two small boys acted
as coachman and footman. These equerries wore sky-blue coats trimmed
with silver lace, and aiguillettes tipped with silver. Their breeches
were red, with silver buckles and silver garters attached, and they
wore cocked hats and wigs. The footman also carried a cane. The cost of
this imposing advertisement was between three hundred and four hundred
pounds.[5] As this carriage, with the tiny General bowing from right to
left and left to right, proceeded in the line of court equipages along
the Champs Elysées, thousands cheered enthusiastically for “Le Général
Tom Pouce.”

This exclusive advertising swelled the profits at the first public
exhibition. The receipts on the first day were 5,500 francs and were
limited to that amount because no more people could possibly be
accommodated in the large Salle Musard. Performances were given every
afternoon and evening, and seats were reserved two months in advance.
Barnum’s profits were so heavy that, he tells us, he was compelled to
take a cab every night to carry his francs. Tom Pouce became the rage
of Paris, and he attained cosmopolitan fame when at the age of six a
boulevard café was named after him. He was visited and kissed by the
leading actresses of Paris and also by the ladies-in-waiting to the
Queen. Louis Philippe asked for two more audiences with General Tom
Thumb, and he received a special invitation to the King’s birthday
party. On the last visit to the King at St. Cloud, Louis Philippe
asked specially to see the General in his impersonation of Napoleon
Bonaparte. This costume had been carefully kept in the bottom of a
trunk while Barnum was in Paris, but he granted the King’s request, and
the newspapers were careful not to mention the sacrilege to Napoleon’s
memory.

Every member of the royal family bore a gift for General Tom Thumb,
and none of the ladies of the royal household missed an opportunity to
kiss his pink cheeks. A quaint history of General Tom Thumb written for
young children and published at Philadelphia in 1849 made this comment
on the reception at the Court of Louis Philippe: “Other and valuable
presents were heaped upon the little traveler by the royal family. How
the world changes! Louis Philippe has, since that time, been driven
from his throne, and with his wife and children is in England; and it
is very likely that the money which the gifts were worth, which were
given to the little dwarf, would have been many times within the last
year [1848] very acceptable to the dethroned monarch. Tom Thumb is Tom
Thumb still, but Louis Philippe is a king no longer.”

In Paris Barnum picked up a bargain, which pleased him so much that he
mentioned it in all the editions of his autobiography. The effects of
a Russian prince were sold at auction, and Barnum bought among other
things a gold tea-set and a silver dining-service. What delighted him
most, however, was that the initials of the nobleman were engraved on
the plate, and that therefore it was sold for its weight value; and the
initials were “P. T.,” which needed only an addition of “B” to make
them appropriate for Phineas’s and Charity’s table.

After a long engagement in Paris, Barnum and General Tom Thumb visited
with great financial success Rouen, Orléans, Bordeaux, Brest, Toulon,
Montpellier, Nîmes, Marseilles, Nantes, and other cities. Barnum had
turned his acquisition into something of an actor, for throughout
France he appeared in a comedy called “Petit Poucet,” and the revenue
authorities recognized the General’s histrionic ability by classifying
him officially as subject to only the theatrical tax of eleven per
cent. instead of the twenty-five per cent. tax for natural curiosities.

General Tom Thumb visited Spain, where he was received by Queen
Isabella, with whom he attended a bull fight. On his return trip to
France, many European newspapers of the day report, he was held up
by brigands, one of whom mounted the box of the coach and drove off
rapidly with his prize. It was rumored, according to the _Illustrated
London News_ for September 20, 1845, that “a lady, from excess of
fantasy, has eloped with him to the neighborhood of Guilligomach.” The
fact that seemed certain to the _Illustrated London News_ was that
the General had not been seen or heard of since his departure from
the Spanish border. Possibly this was Barnum’s foreign publicity, but
he neglects to say so, and if it were an example of his successful
cunning, he would have mentioned it in his autobiography.

At Brussels Barnum and Tom Thumb spent the day after their arrival at
the palace of King Leopold and the Queen, where they entertained the
children of royalty and distinguished guests. After this engagement
and several exhibitions at other cities in Belgium, Barnum brought his
party back to London, where they appeared again with great success in
Egyptian Hall. The triumphant tours of France and Belgium had increased
General Tom Thumb’s popularity, and the London receipts were larger
than during the first engagement. In October, 1844, Barnum returned
to New York in order to renew the lease of the American Museum and to
bring his wife and daughters back to London. He left General Tom Thumb
under the management of his father, Sherwood Stratton, a shrewd Yankee.
Upon Barnum’s return the party toured England, Scotland, and Ireland.
At Oxford the students of the University came in large numbers and
paid their admission in farthings, forty-eight to the shilling, arguing
that the smallest curiosity should be paid for in the smallest coin,
to the exasperation of Sherwood Stratton, who besides being the father
of General Tom Thumb was also ticket seller at all the exhibitions.
Stratton was often pointed out by Barnum to visitors at the exhibitions
as the normal father of a subnormal celebrity, which caused the father
to become a notoriety himself, for people surrounded him at the box
office and asked many questions about the birth and early life of his
boy. Upon one occasion a dowager said to Stratton, who was Yankee in
habits of speech as well as in character, “Are you really the father
of General Tom Thumb?” “Wa’al, I have to support him,” answered the
ticket-seller.

At the end of the tour of Great Britain Barnum returned to London
again, and General Tom Thumb appeared once more at the Egyptian Hall.
This time he impersonated Cupid with wings and quiver, Samson carrying
away the gates of Gaza, the Grecian Statues, the Fighting Gladiator,
the Slave whetting his knife, Ajax, Discobolus, Cincinnatus, Hercules
with the Nemean Lion, Napoleon, and Frederick the Great.

A few days before Barnum brought Tom Thumb back to the Egyptian Hall,
Benjamin Robert Haydon, the historical painter, had taken another
room in the hall to exhibit his latest painting, “The Banishment of
Aristides,” together with his “Nero Playing His Lyre While Rome Is
Burning.” Haydon depended upon this exhibition to relieve him from
debt. He wrote in his now famous diary, “I fear nothing on earth but
my banker, where I have not five shillings on account, and have a bill
coming due and want help.” Haydon’s two paintings were part of a series
he planned for the decoration of the House of Lords, but Sir Robert
Peel, who was one of his patrons, told Haydon he feared the House would
not accept the works. Haydon was the personal friend of Keats, who sent
him his poems for criticism as he wrote them, and also of Wordsworth,
who sent his sonnets, “piping hot from the brain,” as one of the poet’s
letters expressed it.

When Haydon exhibited at Egyptian Hall, he was sixty years old, and
worried almost to frenzy by the struggles of those years. He trembled
in fear of the debtor’s prison, which he had already experienced
once. His father had been a printer and bookseller, and Haydon had no
means but his art. His independent spirit and lack of patience with
ignorance caused him to upbraid for their stupidity those patrons he
was lucky enough to get. William Michael Rossetti wrote that he was
vain and combative, and _Blackwood’s Magazine_ had nicknamed him “The
Cockney Raphael.” Haydon’s grand conception was a series of historical
paintings to adorn England’s public buildings. He had already painted
“Solomon,” “Jerusalem,” “The Banishment of Aristides with His Wife and
Children,” “Nero Playing His Lyre While Rome Is Burning,” and he was at
work on “Alfred and the First Jury,” when General Tom Thumb moved into
Egyptian Hall. Haydon’s scheme for a series of historical paintings had
been taken up with George IV, but that king was always more interested
in private affairs than in public works.

Haydon had married a widow with children, and although this marriage
added materially to his burdens, his diary is filled with praises of
their loveliness. He wrote in the diary: “I sat all day and looked
into the fire.... A man who has had so many misfortunes as I have had
gets frightened at leaving his family for a day.” On Easter Monday,
1846, he wrote: “O God, bless my receipts this day, for the sake of my
creditors, my family, and my art. Amen.” The receipts that day were
only one pound, two shillings. Later he wrote: “Tom Thumb had 12,000
people last week. B. Haydon, 133½, the ½ a little girl. Exquisite taste
of the English people.” The next entry reads: “They rush by thousands
to see Tom Thumb. They push, they fight, they scream, they faint, they
cry help and murder! and oh! and ah! They see my bills, my boards, my
caravans and don’t read them. Their eyes are open, but their sense is
shut. It is an insanity, a _rabies_, a madness, a _furor_, a dream. I
would not have believed it of the English people.” Haydon’s exhibition
brought in 17 pounds, 13 shillings after Tom Thumb came to Egyptian
Hall, and Tom Thumb took in 600 pounds a day. The deadly contrast,
coupled with his seemingly illimitable woe, caused Haydon to go home in
despair. His diary reads: “Cleared out my exhibition. Next to victory
is a skilful retreat, and I marched out before General Tom Thumb, a
beaten, but not conquered exhibitor.” But he was also conquered, if
not by Tom Thumb, then by circumstances. His wife was going to visit
friends in the country, and he embraced her fervently. An hour later
his daughter walked into the studio and found her father lying on the
floor. There was a deep gash in his throat; a blood-stained razor and
a small pistol, with which he had blown out his brains, lay beside
his body. Above him was the easel with the unfinished “Alfred and the
First Jury.” He had but a few minutes before written in his diary a
will in which he appointed friendly administrators of his debts, and
the journal of his life closed with the harrowing words, “Stretch me no
longer on this rough world.”

Tom Thumb cannot be said to have caused Haydon’s death, he was merely
the last straw. A large conclave followed the body to its grave, and
among the mourners were Wordsworth and Sir Robert Peel.

III

In February of 1847, after having been abroad with General Tom Thumb
for three years, punctuated by two short trips to New York, Barnum
returned to this country. He had renewed the lease of the American
Museum for ten years at a rental of $10,000 a year, and taxes; he also
leased the adjoining buildings and enlarged the Museum and the Lecture
Room. The news of Barnum’s triumphs on the continent as well as the
receptions of the Connecticut Yankee at the Court of Queen Victoria had
been copied by the New York newspapers from the foreign journals, and
after Barnum’s return the Museum was more popular than ever. In Europe
he had kept it constantly in mind, and he made many purchases for the
ever-increasing collection. Models of machinery and duplicates of the
dissolving views which were so popular in London, were shipped to the
Museum.

[Illustration: BARNUM’S AMERICAN MUSEUM

From “Gleason’s Pictorial Drawing Room Companion”

_Westervelt Collection_]

[Illustration: GENERAL TOM THUMB

An engraving made in England during his first appearance, 1844

_Houdini Collection_]

Barnum also made an offer for Shakespeare’s home, which he knew would
never be permitted to leave England, but which he planned to remove in
sections to his Museum, if he could get away with it, for he admitted
to his own mind no impossibility until everything had been tried in
an endeavor. Barnum’s designs became public in London, Englishmen
interfered, and the Shakespeare home was purchased by the Shakespearean
Association. “Had they slept a few days longer,” Barnum wrote of this
project, “I should have made a rare speculation, for I was subsequently
assured that the British people, rather than suffer that house to be
removed to America, would have bought me off with twenty thousand
pounds.”

He made an offer of 500 pounds for a tree on which Lord Byron had
carved his name, and which was then growing on the poet’s English
estate. Colonel Wildman, who had bought Byron’s estate and cherished
it, flew into a military rage of great proportions at the indignity of
Barnum’s offer.

In London Barnum also made complete arrangements for the transfer of
Mme. Tussaud’s famous Waxworks to New York, but after the papers were
drawn up the enterprise was canceled by the English owners. In Paris
Barnum purchased Robert Houdin’s automatic writer, which had won the
gold medal at the Quinquennial Exposition. Barnum visited Robert Houdin
at his home, and was delighted with the mechanical conveniences and
contrivances of the magician’s residence. Instead of a butler, a slot
for a visiting card greeted Barnum after he rang the bell. Doors opened
apparently by their own volition, and luncheon was served when Houdin
pressed a button that caused the dining table to rise from the floor.
Barnum also purchased in Paris a diorama of Napoleon’s funeral, showing
all the processional details from the embarkation of the body at St.
Helena to its entombment in the Invalides.

Barnum met at Liverpool by appointment a troupe of Lancashire Bell
Ringers, who were then enjoying popularity throughout the United
Kingdom. He hired them for a tour of the United States and an
engagement at the Museum, on condition that they would consent to a
change of name to the “Swiss Bell Ringers” and would also consent to
allow their mustaches to grow and to dress in Swiss costumes. When they
objected that they spoke only English, Barnum assured them that if they
kept their Lancashire dialect unspoiled by purer accents the American
people would never know that they were not talking Swiss.

In order to compensate the English people for the loss of some of their
curiosities, Barnum sent to England a party of American Indians, who
were exhibited successfully throughout Great Britain. He also sent
Professor Faber’s automaton speaker, a machine he had obtained while in
New York on one of his short trips. When played upon with proper piano
keys, this mechanical figure spoke English and German.

During the last two years of their tour abroad Barnum had taken General
Tom Thumb, through the agency of his father, into partnership, and the
profits of the successful tour were divided equally between them after
the first year. A London newspaper on September 18, 1847, reported that
Tom Thumb’s secretary had furnished one of the American newspapers with
a statement of his receipts in Europe, which were said to be more than
£150,000.

A few days after their arrival in New York Barnum put General Tom Thumb
on exhibition at the Museum. He advertised in the New York newspapers
of February 25, 1847:

GENERAL TOM THUMB, The Smallest man in Miniature in the known
world, weighing only FIFTEEN POUNDS, who has been patronized by
all the CROWNED HEADS of Europe, and been seen by over 5,000,000
persons, has returned to America, in the packet ship _Cambria_, and
will make his GRAND DEBUT at his former headquarters in this city,
the American Museum, where the most extensive preparations have
been made to receive him.

He will be seen this MORNING FROM 11½ to 1 O’CLOCK. On the platform
in one of the main halls of the Museum, in his extraordinary and
popular performances, including his CITIZEN’S DRESS, in which he
will relate his History, Travels, &c., sing a variety of songs,
dance the Polka, Sailor’s Hornpipe, give representations of
NAPOLEON, FREDERICK THE GREAT, GRECIAN STATUES, &c., &c. He will
also appear in his magnificent COURT DRESS Presented him by Queen
Victoria, of England, and worn before all the principal Courts of
Europe. After which he will appear in his BEAUTIFUL SCOTCH COSTUME,
in which he will dance the HIGHLAND FLING, &c.

THE MAGNIFICENT PRESENTS received from Queen Victoria and the
principal Crowned Heads of Europe will be exhibited in the
afternoon from 3 to 5 o’clock, and in the evening from 7½ to 9
o’clock.

The Little General will appear in various Costumes and Performances
on the Stage.

In the Lecture Room, in connection with other splendid
performances, including ETHIOPIAN MINSTRELS OR SERENADERS, the
Panoramic Representation of the

WAR IN AFGHANISTAN, GREAT WESTERN, the Yankee Comedian.

MISSES WHEELER AND JULIEN.

LIVING OURANG OUTANGS to be seen at all hours.

TWO MONSTER SNAKES, 20 feet long.

ANATOMICAL VENUS, to be seen at 1s. extra.

MADAME ROCKWELL, Fortune Teller.

It appears that some one had been converting the Moral Lecture Room
into a popular medical laboratory during Barnum’s absence abroad,
if the Anatomical Venus, to be seen at one shilling extra, is any
indication of a change of policy.

The crowds that welcomed General Tom Thumb home were larger than the
Museum had ever previously accommodated. His European reputation had
increased his popularity, and Barnum exploited it fully. It seems
that other showmen exploited it also. W. C. Coup, who many years
later became associated with Barnum in the circus, wrote in his book
of circus life, _Sawdust and Spangles_, of an enterprising circus
crier, who, many years after General Tom Thumb had ceased to exhibit,
announced a small boy as General Tom Thumb. He had a coach and ponies
for his exhibition, and the barker shouted:

“Ladies and Gentlemen: We have little Tom Thumb inside. More than
this, we have the carriage which was presented to him by her
Majesty, Queen Victoria, of England. Ladies and gentlemen, Queen
Victoria gave this superb outfit to him with the words: ‘Here, Tom
Thumb, is the little carriage, together with the horses, together
with the harness--here, Thomas, take it. Take these to America;
show it to your countrymen. Tell the people of America that it cost
three thousand pounds in our money or $15,000 in their money. Take
it, Thomas; take it.’”

In April, 1847, Barnum and Tom Thumb’s parents toured the United States
with their foreign and domestic celebrity. They visited all the large
cities of the East and many New England towns. In Washington they
were received at the White House by President Polk and Mrs. Polk. In
Philadelphia the receipts for twelve days were $5,594.91, and for
the entire tour the receipts averaged $500 a day, the expenses being
twenty-five dollars a day for the party. Barnum once said, pointing to
General Tom Thumb, “That is my piece of goods; I have sold it hundreds
of thousands of times, and have never delivered it.” In November they
exhibited in the South and also visited Havana, Cuba, where they found
it difficult to get a good meal but received large amounts of money
from the excited population for a sight of General Tom Thumb and his
autograph. The General’s tiny autograph was always in demand, and he
sold it often, but sometimes he gave it away and with it interesting
sentiments. He wrote at this time the following letter on his small
stationery in his tiny handwriting, to a clergyman who had requested
his autograph:

“CONGRESS HALL, ALBANY, July 22d, ’47.

“RESPECTED SIR:

“In accordance with your request, I send you a _little_ note. My
travels have thus far been chiefly in England, Scotland, Ireland,
France, Belgium, Spain, and a portion of the United States.

“I was born in Bridgeport, Ct., the 11 of January, 1832. I have
traveled fifty thousand miles, been before more crowned heads than
any other Yankee living, except my friend Mr. Barnum, and have
kissed nearly Two Millions of ladies, including the Queens of
England, France, Belgium, and Spain.

“I read the Bible every day, and am very fond of reading the New
Testament. I love my Saviour and it makes me happy. I adore my
Creator and know that He is good to us all. He has given me a small
body, but I believe he has not contracted my heart, nor brain, nor
_soul_. I shall praise his name evermore.

“Time compels me to make this note _short_ like _myself_.

“I am, my dear sir,

“Truly yours,
“CHARLES S. STRATTON,
“known as
“GENERAL TOM THUMB.[6]

“To Rev. Dr. Sprague, Albany.”

While Barnum was traveling in this country with General Tom Thumb in
the summer of 1848, he saw in Cincinnati what was to become one of his
best known curiosities and shams. A woolly horse was announced for
exhibition in Cincinnati, and Barnum, ever on the alert for Museum
material, inspected the freak of nature. He was a small, well-formed
animal with no mane and very little hair on his tail, but the body and
legs were completely covered with a natural growth of curly, thick
hair, similar to sheep’s wool. Barnum saw excellent possibilities in
this animal, if he was properly exploited by opportune publicity. He
purchased the woolly horse and sent him to Bridgeport, to be kept
in strict retirement until the proper occasion for his début should
present itself. Barnum knew that a woolly horse exhibited at the Museum
would be nothing but another curiosity, and his unfailing instinct for
appropriate publicity told him that if The Woolly Horse were to become
a phenomenon, he must be tied to a public event.

Not long after Barnum bought The Woolly Horse, Colonel Frémont was lost
in the Rocky Mountains. The whole country was interested in his fate,
and news of his expedition was telegraphed everywhere every day. It
was feared that he and his party had died during the severe winter in
the mountains. Finally, after weeks of public anxiety, news of Colonel
Frémont’s safety came from the West and was telegraphed throughout the
country. The public was relieved, and thankful for a new hero.

Barnum saw his opportunity. The Woolly Horse was led out of the
Bridgeport barn, covered with blankets and leggins to conceal his
unique features, and shipped to New York, where he remained in an
obscure livery stable until Barnum’s publicity was ripe. The next
despatches to the New York newspapers from the West announced that
Colonel Frémont had captured near the Gila River a most extraordinary
animal, who had no mane and no hair on his tail, but whose body was
covered with a thick coat of wool. The despatches added that the
Colonel had sent the animal to the United States Quartermaster General
as a token of his esteem. Two days later this advertisement appeared in
the New York newspapers:

“COL. FREMONT’S NONDESCRIPT OR WOOLLY HORSE will be exhibited for
a few days at the corner of Broadway and Reade Street, previous
to his departure for London. Nature seems to have exerted all
her ingenuity in the production of this astounding animal. He
is extremely complex--made up of the Elephant, Deer, Horse,
Buffalo, Camel, and Sheep. It is the full size of a Horse, has the
haunches of a Deer, the tail of the Elephant, a fine curled wool
of camel’s hair color, and easily bounds twelve or fifteen feet
high. Naturalists and the oldest trappers assured Col. Frémont that
it was never known previous to his discovery. It is undoubtedly
‘Nature’s last,’ and the richest specimen received from California.
To be seen every day this week. Admittance 25 cents; children half
price.”

This was the third time that Barnum had used the same method with
different curiosities. He had been successful in this anonymous manner
of presentation with The Fejee Mermaid and the Buffalo Hunt of Hoboken,
and there was no suspicion of Barnum in this third venture. Pictures of
Colonel Frémont and his brave soldiers chasing Barnum’s Woolly Horse
through the Rocky Mountains were posted about New York, and the public
rushed to see the curiosity, for it was avid of concrete evidence of
Colonel Frémont’s expedition, which was thrilling because it had almost
been tragic. No one questioned the authenticity of The Woolly Horse;
Colonel Frémont had not yet come out of the West, and there was no one
else interested enough to deny with authority the animal’s relations
with the Colonel.

After New York had more than paid for the expenses of The Woolly Horse,
Barnum sent the animal to several other large cities, enjoying equal
success. Finally, he appeared in Washington, where Barnum planned, as
he expressed it, “to pull the wool over the eyes of the politicians.”
He was successful in this endeavor for several days, and then Colonel
Benton, who was senator from Missouri, and who was the father-in-law
of Colonel Frémont, saw The Woolly Horse, and denied publicly and with
emphasis that his son-in-law had ever seen the animal. Colonel Benton
instituted a suit against Barnum’s agent for obtaining twenty-five
cents from him under false pretenses. At the trial the senator
testified that he had received many letters from his son-in-law since
Colonel Frémont had come out of the mountains, and that no mention had
ever been made of The Woolly Horse; he was sure that Colonel Frémont
had never seen the animal. But the court was not so sure, for it was
decided that the evidence against Barnum’s agent was not substantial
enough, and Colonel Benton’s case was dismissed. The publicity of the
trial caused an increase in the receipts, and Barnum kept The Woolly
Horse in Washington only long enough to satisfy public curiosity
without turning his discovery from a joke into an outrage in the public
mind. The horse was sent back to Bridgeport, where he was turned loose
in a field adjoining Barnum’s new home, and served as an advertisement
for P. T. Barnum and his Museum, because every one who passed
Bridgeport in the trains saw The Woolly Horse eating Barnum’s grass.

This deception enraged the newspaper editors, who had been fooled by
it, and delighted the public, who enjoy being fooled at a moderate
sum so long as they have plenty of company. It was referred to for
many years, along with The Fejee Mermaid, by hostile editors, and
particularly by James Gordon Bennett, whenever they wanted to write
against Barnum. And he himself grew rather ashamed of it, as he did of
Joice Heth and The Fejee Mermaid, for it is only in the first edition
of his autobiography that he mentions this deception.

CHAPTER V

HIS BROTHER’S KEEPER

Upon his return to New York from Europe, Barnum found that he had many
new friends. “I could hardly credit my senses,” he wrote in a newspaper
article at the time, “when I discovered so many wealthy men extending
their hands to me and expressing their delight at seeing me again, who
before I left New York would have looked down on me with disdain had
I presumed to speak to them. I really forgot, until they forced the
truth upon my mind, that since I left them I had accumulated a few more
dirty dollars, and that now therefore we stood on equal ground! On the
other hand, I met some honest friends in humble circumstances, who
approached me with diffidence never before exhibited--and then again
I felt ashamed of human nature. What a pitiful state of society it is
which elevates a booby or a tyrant to its summit, provided he has more
gold than others--while a good heart or a wise head is contemptuously
disregarded if their owner happens to be poor.

“This coat, I am sorry to say, will fit many of my acquaintances in New
York. I beg them, for their own sakes and for mine, to wear it. I wish
_them_ and all the world to know that my father was a _tailor_, and
that I am ‘_a showman_’ by profession, and all _the gilding_ shall make
nothing else of me....”

This is the first proud public utterance of an attitude Barnum seems
to have retained fervently throughout life; he was ostentatiously
unpretentious. This sort of speech, and the continual parade of one’s
lack of pride, was likely to appeal strongly to the great public whose
motto was “I’m as good as him, and better”; it was not an attitude
that could have hurt Barnum’s business, for his public was the large
public, whose great pride was its mediocrity. But Barnum meant what
he wrote; it was his sincere belief that all men are created equal, a
misconception that he shared with some of the more distinguished and
less disinterested demagogues of his period. Barnum merely failed to
appreciate what he should have accepted as a commonplace: that there
are levels which we cannot bridge, and which must be recognized. In
simple fashion he grandly denies the existence of differences, but
he himself would not have found much in common with Edgar Allan Poe,
one of his most distinguished contemporaries, or, on the other hand,
with the bartender across the way from the Museum. Barnum would have
been at a bewildering loss to understand Poe’s melancholy outlook and
cynical distrust of a world that had not trusted in his ability; and
his temperance views, which will be discussed in this chapter, would
have separated him to some extent from sympathetic association with a
bartender. The social levels which Barnum wished to remove with one
glorious gesture of democracy save most people much valuable time by
relieving them of the necessity for establishing a minute and general
interest in all the various specimens of mankind. But it was just
that interest, curiosity, and concern in the welfare of his fellowmen
that always entertained Barnum, for he had something in his character
of the Y. M. C. A. worker, but not enough to mar his appreciation of
the desires of a vast proportion of his prospective patrons. He never
catered down to a particular public, nor, except in some things that
were most dear to his deepest convictions, did he try to raise them up.
His was the curiosity of most of his patrons, and he had in his own
mind an almost infallible test of what his public would want. But there
is such a thing as being proud of one’s lack of pride, and it was this
type of militant modesty which Barnum possessed.

In 1846 Barnum found that his personal fortune was large. What it
amounted to he does not say, contenting himself with the statement in
his autobiography that fortune continued to smile upon him. Five years
of sensational popularity had turned the Museum into a gold mine, and
the Tom Thumb tour had yielded a large capital both to General Tom
Thumb and to his promoter. The time had come for Barnum to choose a
residence, where at some time in the near future he could live in the
bosom of his family and forget the details of showmanship forever. It
was always Barnum’s intention to retire, and almost his last words as
he lay dying were an inquiry about the day’s receipts at the circus.
Retirement to such a character, fed on notoriety, was as impossible as
it would have been for Hercules to settle down as the instructor of a
gymnasium.

Barnum and Mrs. Barnum selected Bridgeport, Connecticut, as a place
to live, for Bridgeport is on Long Island Sound, which gives it an
expansive view across the waters, is in the state of their nativity,
and is only a short distance from New York City, where Barnum’s
activities were always centered. He purchased seventeen acres of land
one mile from the center of Bridgeport and prepared to build.

When he was in England, Barnum visited Brighton and was impressed by
the Brighton Pavilion, the gorgeous memorial to his extravagance built
by Queen Victoria’s wicked uncle, George IV. This was one of the first
examples of Oriental architecture in England, and one of the most
hideously uncomfortable buildings of which any king could boast. Barnum
engaged a London architect to furnish him with plans and drawings in
the style of the Brighton Pavilion; its spires and minarets appealed to
his spectacular imagination.

On one of his short trips to this country from England, he began
negotiations with architects for the erection of such a building on his
Bridgeport property, and while he was touring the United States with
General Tom Thumb, “Iranistan,” the name he gave his Oriental palace,
was completed. It was a combination of Byzantine, Moorish, and Turkish
architectures. There were three stories, with broad piazzas, and large
arched window-ways. Minarets and spires stood up all over the building
in logical but profuse style, and domed conservatories bulged at either
end. A large iron fence enclosed the extensive grounds, and fountains
were scattered lavishly about. Reindeer and elk pranced through the
park. The whole, Barnum assures us, was built regardless of expense,
and he had no desire to ascertain the cost. He had his money’s worth
in detail, at least, and it was undoubtedly satisfying for him to live
in a house that must have been constantly mistaken for the Museum.
He admitted that in deciding upon the type of home he needed, he
considered convenience and comfort and had no desire for style, but he
felt that it must at the same time be unique; in this he had an eye
for business, “for I thought that a pile of buildings of a novel order
might indirectly serve as an advertisement of my various enterprises.”
His purpose was eminently successful; no one could pass “Iranistan” in
the train without, at least, inquiring what it was.

The interior was correspondingly ornate. A large winding staircase,
probably something in the style of those staircases in the mansion
of Baroness Rothschild and the palace of Queen Victoria, led up from
the main hall, and along its luxurious way marble statuary abounded.
The panels of the drawing-room walls represented the four seasons,
and the ceiling was white and gold. Pier glasses and mirrored folding
doors added to the drawing-room’s glamor. The dining-room walls were
richly paneled with figures representing Music, Painting, and Poetry. A
Chinese library with Chinese landscapes in oils and Chinese furniture,
where there was a tortoise-shell table with brass trimmings, adjoined
the dining-room. The walls in Barnum’s private study were brocaded
with rich orange satin, and adjoining the study was a bathroom, with
a shower of hot and cold water. An enthusiastic New York visitor to
“Iranistan” said that inside it was “as elegant as a steamboat.”

In November, 1848, the family moved in, and a housewarming at which
one thousand guests participated took place soon afterwards. Barnum
stocked “Iranistan” with fancy poultry and varied live stock, and in
1848 he was elected president of the Fairfield County Agricultural
Society, where he often made homely speeches. Soon afterwards he was
chosen president of the Pequennock Bank, and his prosperity became an
established and recognized part of his fame. In 1849 Barnum extended
his activities to Philadelphia, where he opened another museum.

III

When he first built “Iranistan” Barnum was proud of his wine cellars,
but it was not long before he was ashamed of them. In the fall of 1847
he visited Saratoga Springs with General Tom Thumb. The New York State
Fair was in progress, and Barnum saw so much intoxication among men
of wealth and distinction that he was constrained to think about his
own soul. Seldom do we find a prohibitionist so frank and naïve in his
objection to spirits as was Barnum. He wrote in his autobiography: “I
saw so much intoxication among men of wealth and intellect, filling the
highest positions in society, that I began to ask myself the question,
What guarantee is there that _I_ may not become a drunkard? I reflected
that many wiser and better men than myself had fallen victims to
intemperance; and although I was not in the habit of partaking often
of strong drink, I was liable to do so whenever I met friends, which
in my travels occurred every day. Hence I resolved to fly the danger,
and I pledged myself at that time never again to partake of any kind of
spirituous liquors as a beverage.”

Barnum kept his pledge, which did not include light wines and beer,
and he felt himself out of danger. He went about among his friends and
urged them to follow his example, to give up whisky. Later he arranged
public lectures in Bridgeport, and his friend, the Rev. E. H. Chapin,
one of the leading temperance orators of the country, spoke in the
Bridgeport Baptist Church at Barnum’s request.

The Rev. Mr. Chapin dwelt on the risks which moderate drinkers imposed
upon themselves, and the moderate drinker’s evil influence upon the
community, for it is the example of the man who knows when he has had
enough that the young man emulates when he first takes up a glass of
liquor. “If you say that you can drink or let it alone, that you can
quit it forever without considering it a self-denial, then I appeal to
you as a man, to do it for the sake of your suffering fellow-beings,”
was Mr. Chapin’s exhortation. If a man was a public character, he
said, this act of self-denial was a duty, and Barnum felt that he was
assuredly a public character, an example of success. Another of Mr.
Chapin’s arguments that appealed strongly to Barnum, perhaps more even
than the first, was this: “If, on the other hand, you say that you
like to indulge moderately in the use of intoxicating drinks, and that
it would be a self-denial on your part to abandon the practice, then,
sir, I warn you in the light of all human experience, that you are
_in danger_, and should give it up _for your own sake_. When appetite
has so far got its hold upon you as to make the thought of abandoning
strong drink uncomfortable, I tell you that the chances are strongly
in favor of your dying a drunkard, unless you renounce the use of
intoxicating beverages altogether.”

It was the force of this possibility that he would die a drunkard
which worried Barnum most. He returned home from the lecture terribly
impressed and went to bed, but not to sleep. He was awfully conscious
of having throughout his life pursued a course of wrongdoing,
pernicious in its effect not only on himself but also on the community.
“I arose from my bed,” he wrote afterwards, “and feeling that as a man
I could not persist in a practice which I could not conscientiously
and logically defend, I took my champagne bottles, knocked off their
heads, and poured their contents upon the ground. I then called upon
Mr. Chapin, asked him for the teetotal pledge, and signed it.”

After he returned from his wine cellar, having knocked the heads off
his champagne bottles, Barnum informed his wife of what he had done.
The tears streamed down Charity’s face. Many weary nights of weeping
had she spent, she said, in fear for his strength of character and
powers of resistance to the temptation constantly offered to the
moderate drinker to become an habitual drunkard. Barnum reproached her
for not telling him of her fears, but she replied that she also feared
her warnings would be received in anger. Barnum’s was a frank admission
of the personal lack of self-control which drinking men have often
charged against prohibitionists, and he was human enough to confess
the personal element in his attempted conversion of mankind. For he
did not rest with himself. “I now felt I had a great duty to perform,”
he wrote. “I had been groping in darkness, was rescued, and I knew it
was my duty to try and save others. The morning I signed the pledge I
obtained over twenty signatures in Bridgeport.” He talked temperance
wherever he went, and toured New England with a lecture on the subject.
Soon what had at first appealed to him as a personal concern became a
national issue, a cause, and his most significant admission of this
process of thought was his statement: “We had become convinced that it
was a matter of life and death; that we must _kill_ Alcohol, or Alcohol
would kill _us_; or our friends.”

From an advocate of personal redemption and a propagandist in fear
of his soul, Barnum soon became a temperance orator extraordinary,
and he was able in his pseudo-public capacity to contribute largely
to the cause. Before long he must have been a crank on the subject,
for he never missed an opportunity to urge temperance in his personal
conversations, and he was always ready to deliver a lecture on the
subject. A deep sense of mankind’s obligation to him and a just
satisfaction in his accomplishment caused Barnum to tell in his
autobiography of the people he saved from themselves and their ruin. In
Philadelphia a man came to him to offer thanks for his salvation and
brought his partner along. “This gentleman,” said the convert, pointing
to his partner, “is my partner in business, and I know that he is glad
I have signed the pledge to-night.” “Yes, indeed, I am, George, and it
is the best thing you ever did,” replied the frank partner, “if you’ll
only stick to it.” “That will I do till the day of my death; and won’t
my dear little wife Mary cry for joy to-night when I tell her what I
have done!” “At that moment,” wrote Barnum, “he was a happy man--but he
could not have been more so than I was.”

Soon after he was convinced of the advantage of temperance, Barnum
became a prohibitionist and advocated prohibiting by law the sale of
liquor. In 1853 the _New York Illustrated News_, a weekly newspaper in
which Barnum owned a third of the stock, reported the following meeting:

“P. T. Barnum, Esq., lately addressed a very large Temperance
meeting at Metropolitan Hall, New York. In the course of his
speech, he said that Intemperance was the cause of an annual
expenditure or loss of two hundred and fifty millions of dollars in
this nation. In this city he estimated that there were 7,000 grog
shops, and allowing that the expenditure in each averaged $10 per
day, the aggregate in one year’s time would be $25,550,000 besides
the wholesale business. He offered, if the city would give him
that sum and stop liquor-selling for one year, to pay all the city
taxes, amounting to about four millions, send every child to a good
school, present every family with a library of one hundred good
books, three barrels of flour, and a silk dress to every female,
old or young, a suit of broadcloth to every male citizen, old or
young, and an admission to each to the Museum.”

Barnum never forgot to advertise the Museum.

And the Museum was also devoted to Temperance. A pamphlet called
_Sights and Wonders of New York, including a description of the
miracles, marvels, phenomena, curiosities, and nondescripts, contained
in that great Congress of Wonders, Barnum’s Museum_, which is an
account of the trip of a supposititious uncle and his nephews through
the Museum, gave the following evidence of the extension of Barnum’s
temperance activities to the Museum:

“Mrs. Pelby’s celebrated groups of wax figures then came in for a
share of deep and thoughtful consideration by the whole party.

“And first, the Intemperate Family. The group composes one family:
the old man at the table, with the bottle in his pocket, is the
father of the dying man; both are drunkards. The fruits of the
poisonous bottle are too clearly depictured in the misery, poverty,
and wretchedness, around the unfortunate group. ‘Look well, my
boys, on that picture of woe--remember an uncle warns you--see
that you touch not, taste not, handle not, the contents of the
intoxicating bottle, lest your condition should be as unfortunate
as the one you are now gazing upon.’ They shuddered, and passed on
to the other side, to the groups representing the last Supper of
our Lord with the disciples.

“Uncle Find-out informed his nephews that the moment selected by
the artist was where Jesus says--‘One of you shall betray me.’ He
then drew their attention to the countenances of the disciples, and
requested them to point out the one that appeared the most faithful
delineation of the betrayer of Jesus. In a few minutes the two
boys recognized Judas, and each exclaimed, ‘That, uncle, is the
man!’--and he quietly nodding assent, they pressed on to the groups
representing the trial of Jesus before Pontius Pilate.... Here
Uncle Find-out purchased for six cents a pamphlet describing all
the wax statuary, and also containing a copy of the Death Warrant
of Our Saviour.”

For many hundreds of performances Barnum presented in his Moral Lecture
Room, “The Moral, Domestic Drama of The Drunkard, or the Fallen Saved.”
In the first act of this drama, which was more popular than any play
Barnum ever presented in the Museum, we see The Moderate Drinker. “In
the second act we have his progress, step by step, to ruin,” read the
newspaper advertisement, “his increased appetite for strong drink; the
distress of his relations; the embarrassments of himself and family.
In the third act we have his Drunken orgies in Broadway, his bar-room
debauchery, the degradation of himself and vileness of his associates,
loss of time, &c. In the fourth act we have Despair and Attempted
Suicide, and in the fifth act his restitution to sobriety and society
by the aid of a Temperance Philanthropist.” There is no record that
Barnum took the last part himself. The advertisements said, “It is a
most thrilling and affecting performance. The whole drama is relieved
with lively sparks of wit and humor, and the comic characters, funny
scenes, country dances, songs, choruses, &c., serve to render the piece
as _amusing_ as it is instructive.”

After performances of “The Drunkard” it was announced from the stage
that all those who wished to sign the teetotal pledge could do so at
the box office. Barnum wrote that “almost every hour during the day and
evening women could be seen bringing their husbands to the Museum to
sign the pledge.” No bar was allowed on the Museum premises, and when
Barnum discovered that men were in the habit of going out for a drink
between the acts of “The Drunkard” he refused to give return checks.
“The Loan of a Lover” was the attraction in the Lecture Room during the
afternoon, while “The Drunkard” was performed at night.

Horace Greeley’s _Tribune_ was delighted with the success of Barnum’s
“Drunkard.” Horace Greeley probably wrote the editorial himself which
said: “When Barnum presents his reformatory piece of ‘The Drunkard’
night after night to two or three thousand persons at a time; when we
hear his stage manager, as in his speech Monday evening, speak of his
‘present proud position’ as Director of Amusements, tending, not to
debase, but to elevate the moral tone of the community; when we see
three Theaters in this vicinity, and Theaters in other places, dropping
their customary performances, and hastily getting up this same drama of
‘The Drunkard’ and boasting of its wholesome effects, we may think what
we please of the inconsistency of these copyists, and admire, if we
choose, the course of the original, but we _must_ feel gratified at the
evidences which all present of the emancipation of the public mind from
the shackles of prejudice and its restoration to a sound and promising
condition of moral healthfulness on the subject of Temperance.” And the
_Tribune_ continued: “When the Theater,--which for years has attracted
by its artful disguise of vice the youthful mind, has excited by its
_double entendres_ and indelicate allusions, the youthful mind, then
tempted by its showy bar-rooms to a grosser abandonment, and completed
by its third tier its course of iniquitous fascinations,--when the
Theater really commences to hold the mirror up to nature, and paint the
blackness of that very vice a taste for which it has ever done so much
to cultivate, we may hope for reform indeed.” It is doubtful whether
there is reason in such acclaim of the substitution of slush for smut.
It is still a question, awaiting scientific research, whether in both
the long and the short run, tawdry, false, and stultifying intellectual
sentiments passed out over the stage are more harmful to the formation
of the mind of the race than obscenities which assuredly seem to wear
off sooner.

Barnum became by his success with “The Drunkard” something of a
dictator of public amusements, as well as a caterer. But he would not
have been permitted to exercise any autocratic powers. “The Drunkard”
was successful, in fact, it became a mania, because it satisfied a need
of the moment, and Barnum had been the first to recognize that vice
dramatized in lurid enough colors could support a very thick coating of
moralic acid.

CHAPTER VI

JENNY LIND

The conceit that to induce Jenny Lind to sing in this country would
add to his reputation and fortune and to her fortune and reputation
came to Barnum in October, 1849. He had been resting, as much as he
ever rested, at “Iranistan,” and was devoting his leisure to schemes
for the improvement of his Museum and his dignity. He considered a
Congress of Nations, an exhibition to excite the admiration and awe of
the United States and Europe, which would consist of a man and a woman,
the most perfect specimens available, from every accessible country
in the civilized and savage world. He sent an agent abroad to scout
for the appropriate types, but the project was one that required large
financial outlay and considerable time for its proper execution, and in
the meantime Barnum became interested in Jenny Lind.

He had never heard Jenny Lind sing, and he had never even seen her,
since she arrived in London a few weeks after he left there with
General Tom Thumb; but he had heard of her singing and her personality,
for both were objects of universal admiration abroad. In Europe she was
the idol and the ideal of the moment, and whatever people she visited
readily accepted her as a genius whose gifts they were happy and
privileged to enjoy. In this country she was unknown to all except the
few transatlantic travelers and those who read the musical notes from
abroad.

For several days after he thought of importing Jenny Lind Barnum made
calculations on the backs of envelopes, and all his calculations led
to what seemed to him the inevitable result of a properly executed
conception: immense success. He realized that his work would not be
easy, in fact that it would be more speculative and more exacting
than anything he had ever previously attempted. But Barnum’s two
conclusions were, in his own words: “1st. The chances were greatly
in favor of immense pecuniary success; and 2d. Inasmuch as my name
has long been associated with ‘humbug,’ and the American public
suspect that my capacities do not extend beyond the power to exhibit
a stuffed monkey-skin or a dead mermaid, I can afford to lose fifty
thousand dollars in such an enterprise as bringing to this country,
in the zenith of her life and celebrity, the greatest musical wonder
in the world, provided the engagement is carried out with credit to
the management.” To this second consideration Barnum attached great
importance, for it is clear that his Congress of Nations was conceived
with the same purpose, which was a desire to show America that he was
a man of esteem as well as an amusing and extraordinary character,
and that his mind worked along high lines for the edification of
his countrymen. Although the term “humbug” was self-imposed, and
fruitful of publicity, there was no getting away from its reproachful
implications, and Barnum sometimes rankled under its insinuations of
guilt; though he was too wise to deny them as just, he aimed to prove
them unjustified. Jenny Lind, he knew, would transform him from a
showman into an impresario, and he also expected that if her tour was
properly managed it would make both of them more wealthy than they had
ever been.

Barnum looked about for an agent to entice her to the United States by
means of stupendous bait, and he found him in the person of John Hall
Wilton, an Englishman who was visiting this country with The Sax-Horn
Players. In a few minutes’ conversation Barnum and Wilton agreed that
if Wilton secured Jenny Lind’s services for Barnum he was to have a
liberal commission, and that if he was not successful he would receive
only his expenses and a small sum for his time. There is some reason to
believe that Wilton suggested the Jenny Lind project to Barnum in the
first place. Barnum’s letter of instruction to Wilton begins, “In reply
to _your proposal_ to attempt a negotiation with Mlle. Jenny Lind to
visit the United States professionally.” As we shall see later, Barnum
often omitted credit in his autobiography where it was due, preferring
to take the admiration of his readers for his own perspicacity in
many instances of conceptions which originated in the minds of other
men. Wilton left for Europe on November 6, 1849, carrying letters of
instruction from Barnum and letters of introduction to his bankers,
Baring Brothers. His instructions were to engage Jenny Lind on the
basis of a share in the profits of the concerts, if possible, and
if that was not possible, to engage her at $60,000 for one hundred
concerts, or, if absolutely necessary, to offer her $150,000 for one
hundred and fifty concerts. Wilton was also empowered to engage an
orchestra conductor and another singer.

Wilton visited London, where he discovered that Jenny Lind was resting
at Lübeck in Germany. He wrote to her and learned that one of her
stipulations for an American tour, to which she was not averse, was
that she be accompanied to the United States by Julius Benedict,
afterwards Sir Julius Benedict, the composer, pianist, and orchestra
director, and by Giovanni Belletti, an Italian baritone. Wilton engaged
both these artists in London and proceeded to Lübeck. Jenny Lind told
him during their first interview that she had offers from several
persons for a tour of the United States. One of these was from the
famous Chevalier Wyckoff, who had toured this country as the manager
of Fanny Elssler, the danseuse, with great success. Wyckoff was an
American, who was well known for many years at the courts of Europe,
and who had attained notoriety by a speculative marriage with a titled
lady and by the account which he later wrote of his love affairs.
Chevalier Wyckoff told Jenny Lind when she happened to mention Mr.
Barnum that Barnum was a mere showman, and that in order to make money
out of her he would put her in a box and exhibit her about the United
States at twenty-five cents admission. This prediction had frightened
her, and she wrote to Joshua Bates, of Baring Brothers, at whose London
house General Tom Thumb had performed; he had reassured her that if she
dealt with Barnum she would not be dealing with an adventurer.

There were two other things that attracted Jenny Lind to Barnum: he
was the only manager who did not ask her to share in the losses as
well as the profits, and she liked the picture of “Iranistan” that was
engraved on Barnum’s letterhead. After she came to this country and
stayed a night at “Iranistan,” she said to Barnum: “Do you know, Mr.
Barnum, if you had not built ‘Iranistan,’ I should never have come
to America for you? I had received several applications to visit the
United States,” she explained, “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 addressed me was written on 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’!” Which
was a confirmation of Barnum’s already firm conviction that it pays to
advertise.

However, the story is not so simple as Jenny Lind made it. As her
letters and her biographers show, she had been considering a tour of
the United States for some time. In 1849 she was at the height of her
popularity, and in that year she had abandoned forever the medium
through which she had gained that popularity, the opera. After much
profound feeling, rather than thought, on the subject, she had come to
the conclusion, induced by the influences surrounding her throughout
her life, that to sing in opera was immoral, that the stage was
immoral, and that opera was merely drama set to music. The dangers and
pitfalls surrounding a virtuous prima donna, as well as the innuendoes
and implications, were not, in the opinion of Jenny Lind, worth the
adulation she received everywhere. She had determined never again to
sing in opera as long as she lived, and she kept to that determination.
But she had another profound desire: she wanted money, not for herself,
but in order to endow a hospital for poor children in Stockholm, where
she was born. Before her American tour she had enough money to use for
her own comfort for life, but she did not have enough for her hospital,
and she could never be thoroughly happy without the great sense of
personal satisfaction which her charities gave her. In order to carry
out this desire, she was considering a Russian tour, at the invitation
of royal personages, when Barnum’s offer came. She did not much like
the idea of a Russian tour, because Josephine, her constant companion
and religious mentor for many years, Mlle. Josephine Åhmansson, was ill
and could not tour Russia in comfort. There is also in Jenny Lind’s
correspondence the hint of another reason, always powerful with her.
Russia was too much like France, which she hated and never had visited
professionally since the days of her education, because France was
immoral. Barnum’s offer was larger than any she had received to sing
anywhere. In the Hotel du Nord at Lübeck, with no one but Josephine
Åhmansson and the Swedish consul to advise her, Jenny Lind signed
the Barnum contract. She had been accustomed to take much advice and
counsel before making any professional or business decision, but here
she acted quickly and without any of her usual hesitation and nervous
distrust of herself and the world. The Barnum contract meant two things
for her: she would never be compelled to sing in opera again, and she
could afford to build her hospital in Stockholm, and those were all she
wanted at the time.

Barnum’s contract with Jenny Lind provided that she was to sing
under his management in one hundred and fifty concerts or oratorio
performances, distributed over a period of one year, if possible,
or at most eighteen months from the date of her arrival in New York,
the concerts to take place in the United States and Havana, Cuba. She
was to have control of the number of concerts to be given each week,
providing that there should be no less than two in each week, and there
was a special provision that never was she to be required to sing in
opera. Barnum in consideration for these services agreed to furnish
her with a maid, a male servant, and place at her disposal a carriage
and horses with the necessary attendants in every city visited; to pay
the traveling and board expenses of Jenny Lind, her companion, and her
secretary; and to pay her $1,000 for each concert and oratorio in which
she sang. It was also provided that if, after seventy-five concerts,
Barnum should have realized a clear profit of $75,000 for himself,
then Jenny Lind was to receive, in addition to her $1,000 a night,
one-fifth of the net profits of the remaining seventy-five concerts.
If, on the other hand, the receipts fell short of expectations after
fifty concerts, the agreement was to be revised. Barnum also agreed to
pay Julius Benedict $25,000 for his services as musical director of the
concerts, and Signor Giovanni Belletti, the baritone vocalist, $12,500.
A clause was added to the effect that Jenny Lind was always at liberty
to sing for charity, providing only that the first and second concerts
in each city should not be for any charity. The contract required that
before Jenny Lind, Julius Benedict, and Signor Belletti left Europe,
Barnum must place the entire sum of $187,500 in the hands of Baring
Brothers, as security for his fulfilment of the terms of the agreement.

Barnum scraped together all his resources and made efforts to raise
$187,500 in cash. He visited Wall Street and offered the president of
his bank some second mortgages as security for a loan; he suggested
that the Jenny Lind contract be made over to the bank, which was to
appoint a receiver of all profits exceeding $3,000 a concert. The
banker laughed 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 three thousand dollars
at a single concert.” Barnum was angry; he answered that he would
not take $150,000 for his contract, but upon further inquiry in Wall
Street he discovered that nobody was willing to offer anything for it.
Finally, John L. Aspinwall, of the reputable banking firm of Howland
& Aspinwall, gave him a letter of credit on Baring Brothers for a
large sum on his mortgages. He then sold some of his real estate and
discovered that with all his efforts he was still $5,000 short of the
required sum. He knew no way of getting it. He happened to mention his
predicament to the Rev. Abel C. Thomas, a good friend, who was one of
the leading Universalist preachers of this country; Barnum was also an
active Universalist, and the Rev. Abel C. Thomas lent him the necessary
$5,000.

Meanwhile, John Hall Wilton had returned to the United States with
the signed contract. There was no cable across the Atlantic then, and
when Wilton arrived in New York on February 19, 1850, Barnum did not
yet know whether his mission had been successful. He was at his Museum
in Philadelphia, and Wilton immediately telegraphed him in code that
he had secured Jenny Lind’s services, and that she was to begin the
concerts the following September. Barnum was uneasy; he felt that the
time between the signing of the contract and the first concert was
too long for the maintenance of continued public interest, and he
telegraphed Wilton to mention the contract to no one until he met him
next day in New York. But news of this nature is difficult to keep
secret, and the next morning, as Barnum was riding in the train from
Philadelphia to New York, he read about his Jenny Lind contract in the
New York newspapers.

He was anxious to see how this announcement would strike a member of
the general public. While the cars were being changed at Princeton,
Barnum told the conductor, who was an acquaintance, that he had just
engaged Jenny Lind to visit this country. “Jenny Lind? Is she a
dancer?” asked the conductor. The question chilled Barnum. He informed
the conductor who and what Jenny Lind was, as his first step in
educating the public, and he realized that he could not have too much
time for the work before him. “Really, thought I,” he wrote in his
autobiography, “if this is all that a man in the capacity of a railroad
conductor between Philadelphia and New York knows of the greatest
songstress in the world, I am not sure that six months will be too long
a time for me to occupy in enlightening the entire public in regard
to her merits.” Classical music has never had a circus appeal, but in
order to come out of his contract with a profit, Barnum had to sell
Jenny Lind as extensively as he sold the circus in later years. His
instinct was sound when he quizzed the conductor on Jenny Lind, for it
was to conductors and even to brakemen that Barnum had to appeal for
financial support of his huge enterprise.

Though Jenny Lind was unfamiliar, even as a name, to the vast multitude
in the United States, she was known throughout every country in Europe
as The Swedish Nightingale, a name which was said to have been given
her by Douglas Jerrold, a writer in _Punch_, who later gave the glass
house of London the name of Crystal Palace. One would like to believe
that this was the origin of that famous sobriquet, but, unfortunately,
Jenny Lind had been called The Swedish Nightingale by her early
admirers in her native country, Sweden.

She was born in Stockholm, October 6, 1820, and was christened Johanna
Maria Lind, but no one from her early childhood ever called her
anything but that charming combination of sounds, with its implications
of familiarity and Victorian virtue, Jenny Lind. Her father, Nicolas
Jonas Lind, was a good-natured roisterer, twenty-two years old when
Jenny was born. He was able to do little towards the support of his
family by means of his position as bookkeeper. But he loved Bellman’s
songs, and Bellman was the Swedish Burns, and he sang those songs with
a good voice. All the practical management of the family affairs was
left to Jenny’s mother, the influence of whose piety, austerity, and
stubbornness on her daughter was undeniably great. At the period of
Jenny’s birth her mother was keeping a day-school for girls. In her
early years she was also influenced by her grandmother on her mother’s
side, who implanted firm religious beliefs in the child. It was this
grandmother who first discovered that Jenny Lind had musical talent.
At the age of three Jenny reproduced on the square piano which her
half-sister used for practising her scales a military fanfare she had
heard.

Later when Frau Lind was compelled to go out as a governess, Jenny
was cared for by her grandmother in the Home for Widows of Stockholm
Burghers. Thus her religious instruction was continued. Jenny used to
sit at the window in the Home for Widows of Stockholm Burghers and
sing to a cat “with a blue ribbon round its neck.” On one morning the
maid of a dancer at the Royal Opera House heard the child singing and
reported the discovery of a phenomenal voice to her mistress, who sent
for Jenny. Her mother took her to the Royal Opera House, and when the
dancer heard the child’s voice she immediately pronounced her a genius
and advised the parents to have her educated for the stage. But both
Jenny’s mother and grandmother believed fiercely that the stage was
immoral. Her mother, however, agreed to allow the child to be taught
singing, and she accepted a letter from Mademoiselle Lundberg, the
dancer, to Herr Croelius, Court-Secretary and Singing-Master of the
Royal Theater. Jenny sang for Herr Croelius, who took her to Count
Puke, the head of the Royal Theater. He asked how old she was, and when
he was told that she was nine years old said irritably, “But this is
not a _crèche_.” With great difficulty he was persuaded to listen to
the child. Jenny herself explained later that she was “a small, ugly,
broad-nosed, shy, gauche, under-grown girl.” But as Count Puke listened
to her sing, he was moved to tears, and he made arrangements to have
her taught singing and brought up at the expense of the government.
Frau Lind felt that she was “sacrificing her child to the stage,” but
her financial condition was such that she could not afford the luxury
of allowing one of the world’s greatest voices to go uncultivated. A
contract was signed with Frau Lind, by which it was provided that the
Royal Theater would supply the child with food, clothes, and lodging,
tuition in singing, elocution, and dancing, while Frau Lind was to
teach her daughter “the Piano, Religion, French, History, Geography,
Writing, Arithmetic, and Drawing.” After the child was educated, the
Royal Theater was to have her services at a salary.

Jenny Lind, as much as she may have been troubled by uncongenial home
environment--for her mother was stern and cruel as well as bigoted and
intolerant--never suffered from lack of recognition of her talent. Her
official biographers[7] report that: “From her earliest childhood, her
gifts were felt to be surpassing; and this feeling never flagged. From
the beginning of her dramatic career to its close, it is one unbroken
triumph; and she had this singular good fortune of finding her way
to the exercise of her gifts, before a sympathetic public, as soon
as she had them to exercise.” It was as a child actress that Jenny
Lind was first praised, for at the age of ten she took parts in the
Royal Theater productions. A Stockholm newspaper protested that it was
immoral to allow a child of her age to play with such innocent abandon
a part of such immorality in “Thirty Years of a Gambler’s Life.” She
also sang at private concerts, and at the age of seventeen made her
début in opera and was received with great applause. Throughout her
lifetime she kept the seventh of March, for that was the day in 1838
of her début, as a second birthday, that of her art. She won popularity
and acclaim almost at once and continued to sing in opera.

By her twentieth year Jenny Lind was recognized and idolized by the
Swedish public both as a singer and an actress. The musicians of
Stockholm, and in fact of all Sweden, had no more to teach her, and
they were content to praise her. The directors of the Royal Theater
offered her the highest salary they were allowed to offer, $750 a year
for three years. But Jenny Lind refused their offer, arguing that it
was “not with half-developed, if even happy, natural gifts, that an
artist can keep his ground.” She had decided to study abroad. Several
influences persuaded her to this decision. Geijer, the eminent Swedish
historian, who wrote _lieder_ which Jenny Lind sang, had written a song
to her in which he said:

“Oh! if from yon Eternal Fire,
Which slays the souls that it sets free--
Consuming them, as they aspire--
One burning spark have fallen on thee!

“Fear not! Though upward still it haste,
That living fire, that tongue of flame!
_Thy_ days it turns to bitter waste;
But ah! from heaven--from heaven it came!”

These words, she afterwards felt, launched her into the open sea of
public appearance. They told her that it was not wrong of her to aspire
to fame, which was hedged with temptations, or to think of her talent
in high spiritual terms, for after all it came from heaven. Where
else should the poor daughter of a boarding-school mistress and an
accountant with an ear for popular lyrics get a voice that was gaining
universal praise? Thus she squared her religious doubts as to the
propriety of utilizing her accomplishments.

Herr Berg, who had taken Croelius’s place as her instructor, admitted
to Jenny Lind that he had no more to teach her. Then Signor Giovanni
Battista Belletti, who was afterwards to accompany her to America,
came to Stockholm from Italy and joined the Royal Theater company.
Jenny Lind admired the technical features of this baritone’s voice, and
when asked where he learned his technique, Belletti replied, “At Paris
under Garcia.” Manuel Garcia was the most celebrated maestro of Europe;
Jenny Lind determined to visit him, and in July, 1841, she left for
Paris with a female companion.

Soon after her arrival in Paris, Jenny Lind called upon Garcia. He was
the brother of Mme. Malibran and Mme. Viardot, the two most famous
divas of the day, and his reputation as a teacher was unsurpassed. He
listened to Jenny Lind sing scales and the _Perche non ho_ of _Lucia_.
She broke down completely. The strain of an extended concert tour in
Sweden, which she made in order to get enough money to live in Paris,
and the excessive number of performances at the Royal Theater since
she had discovered her voice, had chosen this vital moment to reveal
their effect. Garcia said, “Mademoiselle, vous n’avez plus de voix.”
He did not say what was later attributed to him by some newspapers,
“Mademoiselle, you have no voice,” but, “Mademoiselle, you no longer
have a voice,” which was bad enough. The shock was a terrible one, and
in great distress Jenny asked Garcia what she could do to recuperate.
He told her not to sing a note for six weeks, to talk as little as
possible, and then to visit him again, when he would decide if he could
take her as a pupil. She spent the six weeks learning Italian and
refurbishing her French, for she knew that eventually she would sing
in those languages. The rest of the days she listened to the agonizing
melody of the Paris street vendors, and the two themes which afterwards
remained in her head were, “Haricots, haricots, verts!” and “Ah, le
vitrier!” Mme. Ruffiaques, at whose _pension_ Jenny Lind boarded, wrote
in a letter that “she scarcely could have believed such dignity of
conduct possible in a young person coming alone to Paris.”

After the six weeks of probation, Garcia consented to give Jenny Lind
two lessons a week. He taught her the management of her breath, the
production of the voice, and the blending of its registers, of which
she had known nothing. For ten months she continued her studies under
Garcia. The problem then arose whether she should appear somewhere on
the Continent or return immediately to Stockholm. Paris she hated.
It was too immoral. Its frivolity displeased her, its selfishness
irritated her, but its restless love of excitement in all forms
horrified her. To return to Stockholm without having sung in Paris
would be to incur the implication that she was not good enough to
sing in Paris, and Stockholm received its opinions on art and music
from Paris. In a letter written at this time she told of her despair:
“It might perhaps be better for me to engage myself somewhere as
nursery-maid; for it is a very difficult thing to appear, here, in
public. On the stage it would be out of the question. It could only
be in the concert-room: and there I am at my weakest point, and shall
always remain so. What is wanted here is--‘admirers.’ Were I inclined
to receive them, all would be smooth sailing. But there I say--STOP!”
She was no longer the “small, ugly, broad-nosed, shy, gauche,
under-grown girl.” She was beginning to burgeon into a plain, but not
unattractive, womanhood. Never was she what might be called beautiful,
and her most ardent admirers have always been ready to admit that she
was plain, confining their raptures to her voice and its effect on her
appearance as she became inspired by its loveliness and the force of
the music she was singing.

Meyerbeer heard her on the stage of the Paris opera house privately,
and he said of her voice, “Une voix chaste et pure, pleine de grâce et
de virginalité.” He advised her to sing at once in Germany, but she had
already signed her Swedish contract and was homesick for Stockholm.
She never sang in public at Paris during her life, and the Parisians
resented her refusal to sing there, but she kept her determination to
reproach France by ignoring it, and made only one public appearance in
France, a concert for charity at Nice in her last years. When invited
to sing at the Paris opera, she wrote the director, “For the more I
think of it, the more I am persuaded that I am not suited for Paris,
nor Paris for me.” She was quite right. It is very unlikely that Paris
would ever have become wildly enthusiastic about “une voix chaste et
pure, pleine de virginalité”; and it would have been impossible for
Jenny Lind to be happy in a city where the senses were of more interest
than the pleasures of the _religieuse_ to which she was so passionately
addicted.

The next two years were spent in Sweden and Denmark. A triumph at
Copenhagen awakened Jenny Lind to the possibility of extending her
popularity. She had thought merely of Sweden as the sphere of her
activities until Denmark expressed its approval. In Copenhagen too she
met Hans Christian Andersen, who wrote of her in his autobiographical
_Das Märchen meines Lebens_: “Through Jenny Lind I first became
sensible of the holiness of Art. Through her I learned that one must
forget one’s self in the service of the Supreme. No books, no men,
have had a more ennobling influence upon me as a poet than Jenny Lind;
and therefore have I spoken of her so fully and so warmly. Her praises
were sounded everywhere, the praises not of the artist only but of the
woman. The two united awoke for her a true enthusiasm.” It is this
combination that makes that enthusiasm so unique in the history of
artistic and dramatic triumphs; praise of her personality and praise
of her voice were equal, and it was that combination which no other
singer had ever achieved, which none has since surpassed. The history
of her triumphs in this country and in Europe is the story of one of
the world’s great furors, if nothing else; its spread was so wide and
its legendary development so exalted that even to-day we who have no
impression of the sound of her voice know the name of Jenny Lind. And
like many a legend, distance has added charm to the reality.

Meyerbeer remembered that voice he had heard in Paris, and he sent for
her to sing in his operas in Germany. But she was inclined to remain
in Sweden, where the directors of the Royal Theater were awakening to
her importance and offered her $2,100 a year for eight years, to be
followed by a life pension. To friends who urged upon her the value of
a European reputation she would not pay attention, and she decided to
accept this offer and continue to shine in the light of her familiar
popularity. She was always doubtful of her ability to conquer strange
audiences and ever ready to sacrifice wide success to her timidity. A
friend in despair mentioned to another friend that Jenny Lind intended
to sign this Swedish contract. The second expressed it as his opinion
that Jenny Lind was wise to do so; that she knew her limitations, that
she realized Sweden was not Germany, and that it showed good judgment
to face the fact that she could not win triumphs in an extended sphere.
The friend hurried to Jenny Lind with these opinions, and she became
so angry that she tore up her Swedish contract. A challenge to her
pride always proved successful at every turn in her career; and she
never seemed to entertain any desire for achievement until some one
expressed doubt of her ability to attain it. Nevertheless, she left
for Germany doubtful and uneasy about her future, for Berlin had heard
such stars as Malibran, Sontag, Grisi, Persiani, and even the great
Madame Catalani herself, and Jenny Lind must appear before audiences
who would compare her accomplishments with the memories, and in some
cases the present talent, of these cherished favorites. But this thin,
pale, plain girl, with marked broad Scandinavian features, who looked
at first glance to an observer “like a very shy country school-girl,”
was accepted by kings and queens, critics and composers as soon as
she opened her mouth. She made her public début in Bellini’s _Norma_
and was received with tremendous enthusiasm by the Germans, and when
she followed this with Meyerbeer’s _Camp of Silesia_, which had been
written for her, she became the rage of Berlin.

From this time on Jenny Lind’s career becomes a series of unbroken
triumphs which trailed themselves through every country she visited and
increased in volume as they progressed. In Vienna a staid music critic
of the _Allgemeine Musik-Zeitung_ declared the appearance of Jenny
Lind “an event altogether exceptional; such as has never before been
witnessed, and will probably never be repeated.” She was called before
the curtain twenty-five times there, and the Empress Mother of Austria
dropped a wreath before her feet. Thousands of people waited for her
to leave the opera house until daybreak, and then the horses of her
carriage were unharnessed by enthusiastic students, and she was only
able to proceed to her lodgings with the aid of a detachment of cavalry.

And all the time she was homesick for Sweden, and melancholy. She
had not wanted to sing in Vienna and only did so at the earnest
solicitation of Prince Metternich and Baron Rothschild. Again she had
feared she might lose the reputation she had won in Germany, and once
more she felt repugnance for the stage. Even after accepting Herr
Pokorny’s offer to appear at his theater in Vienna, she wrote to her
friend and adviser, Madame Birch-Pfeiffer: “Tell Herr Pokorny that I am
very grateful to him for the offered half-receipts and quite satisfied
on the score of money; but--that he must engage some other singer; for
he cannot reckon on me, as I cannot accept the engagement, and cannot
believe that I should be able to carry it out in Vienna. Break it off,
good mother. I am contented with very little, and shall perhaps sing
no longer than till next spring, as I can then go home, by Hamburg,
and afterwards live in peace. For, you see, mother Birch, this life
does not suit me at all. If you could only see me--the despair I am
in whenever I go to the theater to sing! It is too much for me. This
terrible nervousness destroys everything for me. I sing far less well
than I should, if it were not for this enemy. I cannot understand how
it is that everything goes so well with me. People all take me by the
hand. But all this helps nothing! Herr Pokorny would not be very well
pleased, for instance, if I were to sing there once only and, that
once, fail. For the money he offers me he can get singers anywhere who
are not so difficult to satisfy as I am, and who, at least, wish for
something, while I wish for nothing at all!” In this and other letters
of a similar character one gets the impression that Jenny Lind was
extremely proud of her humility. She often alluded to the fact that
managers could get other singers who would do as well as she for the
same money, and who really enjoy singing on the stage. But through it
all there is a note of superiority to those poor deluded persons, an
unconscious implication that the right attitude is her attitude, and
the sly, lurking assurance that really there are no other singers who
would be worth the same money.

The Jenny Lind fever is so interesting in artistic annals, because
it was not merely a popular excitement, but just as much a _succès
d’estime_. There were mad rushes to get to her concerts, and frenzied
efforts to catch a glimpse of her face, but wherever she performed
she also conquered the critics and gained high praise from musicians
of enduring fame. Her voice must have been one of the best Europe has
ever heard. The people will readily rush to worship a golden calf, but
Berlioz, Chopin, Mendelssohn, and Meyerbeer could not be stampeded
into inordinate praise, and if their opinions seem to us to-day
somewhat extravagant, we must remember that they were written under the
influence of an extraordinary emotional accomplishment. Even Richard
Wagner, who would not have been moved by the white dresses and holy
innocence of this operatic virgin, was impressed with her voice and
individuality when he heard her at Berlin in Mozart’s _Don Giovanni_.
Chopin wrote of her art: “She does not show herself in the ordinary
light, but in the magic rays of the aurora borealis. Her singing is
infallibly pure and true and has an indescribable charm.” Moscheles,
Thalberg, Taubert, and Schumann were her admirers, and Mendelssohn,
who wrote his _Elijah_ for her, kept up a correspondence which only
ended with his death in 1847. He said of Jenny Lind, “She is as great
an artist as ever lived; and the greatest I have known.” It is rumored
that Mendelssohn was in love with her, and it may be so; however, he
was married, apparently quite happily, and Jenny Lind could never
have been cast in the rôle of home-breaker. Jenny Lind, if she had
met Mendelssohn before he had met his wife, might have had a greater
artistic fame than she enjoyed, for she needed the humanizing and
inspiring influence of an artist to counteract the religious repression
to which she constantly subjected herself. She also needed some one
to tell her, or at least to make her realize, what was art, for even
Mendelssohn was constrained to admit in bewildered perplexity, “She
sings bad music the best.”

When she was ill for a few days in Berlin, Meyerbeer wrote to her and
asked that Heaven might grant her “relief from those doubts in the
power of your talent which turn even your days of triumph into days
of anxiety.” It was just that which she needed to perfect her art
and her personality, but Meyerbeer was asking too much from Heaven.
These doubts were a concentrated compound, consisting of lack of
self-confidence, pious preoccupations and moral repressions, together
with a crafty fear of losing altogether whatever she had already
gained. They did not affect her popularity, for even with her doubts
she did sing wherever she had the opportunity, but they undoubtedly
affected her art, and without them she might have been the greatest
singer the world has ever known. With them she was held back from
supreme artistic triumph in this world that she might enjoy comfort in
the next, and it is to be hoped that her spiritual promises to herself
have been fulfilled.

There were disparagers of Jenny Lind, but they rarely found fault
any more discriminately than those who shrieked praise of both her
personality and her powers. The testimony of several great artists in
other fields, who found her unimportant and even dull, was natural,
for she must have been so to any one who could not become enraptured
with her vocal perfection, but yet it is a reflection on the powers
of that voice that it could not move the emotions of several great
men, unprejudiced by too much technical knowledge of music. Carlyle
heard her in England and was thoroughly bored. “Lind seemed to me,” he
wrote, “a very true, clear, genuine little creature, with a voice of
extraordinary _extent_ and _little_ richness of tone; who sang, acted,
etc., with consummate fidelity, but had unfortunately nothing but mere
_non_-sense to sing or act; a defect not much felt by the audience,
as would appear, but very heavily pressing upon me for one. ‘Depend
upon it,’ said I to Fuz, ‘the Devil is busy _here_ to-night, wherever
he may be idle!’--Old Wellington had come staggering in to attend the
thing. Thackeray was there; d’Orsay, Lady Blessington,--to all of whom
(Wellington excepted!) I had to be presented and grin some kind of
foolery,--much against the grain. It was one o’clock when we got home;
on the whole, I do not design to hear Lind again; it would not bring me
sixpence worth of benefit, I think, to hear her sing six months in that
kind of material.” She sang _La Somnambula_ when Carlyle heard her.

Hawthorne heard her in England, and “on the whole, was not very much
interested in her.” Thackeray wrote his wife from Cambridge, England:
“Then we went to Jenny Lind’s concert, for which a gentleman here gave
us tickets, and at the end of the first act we agreed to come away. It
struck me as atrociously stupid. I was thinking of something else the
whole time she was jugulating away, and O! I was so glad to get to the
end and have a cigar, and I wanted so to go away with Mr. Williams,
for I feel entirely out of place in this town.” It is significant that
Carlyle and Thackeray, and as we shall see when we come to America,
Walt Whitman, were all dissenters from the Lind religious wave, but it
does not necessarily mean that she did not have a good voice. It does
seem to indicate clearly, however, taken along with the evidence of
Mendelssohn’s reluctant admission, that she did not sing good music.
Then, too, the very extravagance of the popular mania with its false
sentiment and absurd idolatry were likely to prejudice these men
against what had been heralded to them as a phenomenon of the ages and
what turned out to be only a benevolent soul coupled with a lovely
voice, who usually sang most commonplace and oftentimes dull music to
the accompaniment of large-scale fatuity upon the part of her doting
audiences.

III

Jenny Lind went to England in April, 1847, and was greeted cordially by
Mendelssohn, who was conducting four performances in London of his new
oratorio, _Elijah_. She was also welcomed by her friends, Grote, the
historian, and his wife. She made her début at Lumely’s Her Majesty’s
Theater on May 4, 1847, and the excitement was intense. From early
hours in the afternoon, until half-past seven when the doors were
opened, crowds stood outside in the Haymarket, and when the theater was
finally opened, there was a crush which was named later “the Jenny Lind
crush,” in which gentlemen lost their hats and ladies parts of their
dresses. Before she sang a note the audiences applauded loudly, and
after her concerts the newspapers were extravagant in their adulation.

After a tremendous public success, and a welcome by all the best
people, Jenny Lind returned to Stockholm, with an intervening
engagement in Germany. Upon her arrival in Stockholm, she was
unfavorably impressed with its moral differences from England. She
wrote to her Viennese friend, Madame von Jaeger: “There is, here, I
confess, such frivolousness in everything that I am sad.... I sometimes
doubt whether I can find joy and happiness here. The last three years
have given me a great deal clearer insight. Do not imagine that they do
not treat me well; on the contrary: I have nothing at all to complain
of, myself: only, it does pain me that our nation should, through
French influence, have lost so much of its true self.” In order to
counterbalance this insidious French influence in some measure, Jenny
Lind devoted the entire proceeds of her Swedish performances to the
foundation of a Theater School, which would help to rescue the stage
from what her biographers call “the perverting influences which had
largely dominated it since the early part of the century.” She returned
to her beloved Victorian England for renewed triumphs in 1848.

And on this second trip Herr Julius Günther accompanied her. He and
she had sung together in opera and in the concert hall since the
time of her return from Paris. Just before leaving for her début in
Berlin, which led to her first great triumph, they had become somewhat
engaged. After her first London success she met him in Stockholm, and
when he saw that her successes had not placed her out of his reach,
he spoke again, and rings were exchanged. Jenny Lind’s biographers
do not go into this relationship intimately because it is not their
purpose, their book declares, “to enter into all the private and
domestic incidents of our heroine’s life, except so far as they touch
her artistic career.” It is doubtful whether in the life of a public
character there are any private and domestic incidents that do not
touch her artistic career. Undoubtedly, love, marriage, or betrothal
have an influence upon a personality which must not be overemphasized,
but which surely need not be underestimated.

Religious influences on Jenny Lind were heavy. In England she had
met among others Bishop Stanley, and she associated with and was
continually surrounded by churchgoers whose interest in their spiritual
life made it impossible for them to see with a wholesome outlook
many advantages in worldly existence. The moral repugnance which she
had early entertained for the stage, inherited from her mother and
grandmother and fostered by her intimate associations, bred a feverish
anxiety to be done with theatrical life. Besides the feeling that opera
was improper morally, she hated its Bohemianism and was annoyed by its
intrigue. Then there was Mademoiselle Josephine Åhmansson. Jenny Lind
was deeply impressed by the strong piety of this woman, who was her
constant companion. Mrs. Stanley, wife of the Bishop, at whose palace
Jenny Lind stayed several times, wrote in a letter to her sister:
“Her companion is the best that could be for her; and as Jenny said,
‘She has lived so much with clergymen, she is so clever at explaining
to me the Bible, and we talk all out of it on Sundays.’” Josephine
Åhmansson was throwing her influence against opera, and Jenny was
disturbed at the prospect of the future. Herr Günther, now returned
to Stockholm, was an opera singer; marriage with him would mean that
even if she herself retired from the stage she would always live in
its professional environment. Herr Günther could not give up opera,
apparently, although there is no record of any attempt upon the part of
Jenny Lind to persuade him to do so. There was an exchange of letters,
and the engagement was ended.

At Newcastle about this time in the house of Joseph Grote, brother of
the historian, Jenny Lind met Captain Claudius Harris, of Her Majesty’s
Indian Service. Captain Claudius Harris was fascinated by The Swedish
Nightingale, and she liked his manners. She said that he had a “pure
mind,” but apparently he was not very good company, for when she was
first introduced to him she said, “Oh! What a dull young man!” But he
was handsome, tall, with regular features, and profoundly religious.
Later in the winter she was singing at Bath, and she called on Captain
Claudius Harris’s mother to inquire after her son’s health. He hurried
to his mother’s house, saw her frequently at Bath and wherever she
appeared in the neighborhood. They were engaged to be married. She told
him that he must tell his mother, to which he answered, “Do not be
angry with me: I have already talked to her about it,” and she was not
angry, but thought his filial devotion only proper.

But Captain Claudius Harris consulted his mother too much. She had
brought him up a strict Evangelical and instilled in him her own
complete horror at the thought of the theater. Captain Harris regarded
Jenny Lind’s dramatic powers as temptations in her path, and Jenny
Lind began to grow uneasy. It was one thing for her to dislike the
stage on moral grounds, but it was quite another for any one to
challenge the propriety of her career. She wanted, she said, to live
quietly near “trees, water, and a cathedral,” but she did not want
to look back upon her whole careful life as a career of sin. Captain
Harris and his mother had been doubtful about Jenny Lind from the
first, for, after all, she _was_ an actress, although Captain Claudius
Harris assured his mother that a sweeter, purer soul than Jenny Lind
never lived. A marriage settlement was drawn up, and Captain Claudius
Harris wished to bind his bride in writing never to return to the stage
again. She insisted that the marriage settlement must give her absolute
control of her own destiny, and also, incidentally, of her own fortune.
This last Captain Claudius Harris declared to be “unscriptural.” Jenny
Lind refused to sign, and the Captain, with his mother behind him, was
firm. She confided her troubles to Mr. Nassau Senior, a lawyer and a
writer, who later made a private record of the whole affair, which was
published by his son. She told him that she was plagued by people who
wanted her “to think the theater a temple of Satan, and all the actors
priests of the Devil,” that they required her “not only to abandon her
profession, but to be ashamed of it,” and “to go down to Bath, among
people who care for nothing but clergymen and sermons, as a sort of
convert or penitent.” Jenny Lind would have enjoyed the company of
clergymen and the people who cared about nothing but them and their
sermons, but she, who had looked upon her whole life as spiritually
superior, would not be considered a convert to something she already
believed in so profoundly and a penitent for sins she had never allowed
even to tempt her.

Nassau Senior advised her if she needed comfort to come to Paris after
she had settled with Captain Claudius Harris, or to remain happily
engaged to him if he agreed to her terms. Captain Harris terrified her
by “threats of torment here and hereafter if she broke her word,”
Nassau Senior said, “and last of all, when in the joy of reconciliation
she was singing to him, she turned round and saw that he had gone to
sleep.” This was too much, and as Mrs. Grote was sitting, nursing a
headache, by the fire of her Paris apartment, there was a tap at the
door, and Jenny Lind entered.

She had broken her engagement to Herr Günther because he could not
give up the stage, and her engagement to Captain Claudius Harris
because he insisted that she give up the stage. She regarded herself
as stubborn and independent, but it was a modest request that she
made of Captain Claudius Harris: some slight control of her own
personality. Immediately after this crisis she did retire from the
stage. She had attempted to sing her operas in concert halls in England
without scenery or acting, and the attempt was the one and only
failure to attract crowds. This goaded her to give a few last operatic
performances in England, a final gesture to the world that she was not
to be underestimated except by herself. Then she went to Germany for
rest and a milk cure and a grape cure. And while Jenny Lind was resting
at Lübeck, Barnum’s offer, with its opportunity to make enough money
to retire and build her hospital for Stockholm children, came like a
dispensation from heaven and was accepted without hesitation.

After a hurried trip to Stockholm, Jenny Lind and Josephine Åhmansson
left for England, where she was to give a few concerts before her
departure for the United States. Barnum had arranged these concerts,
and had also hired a music critic to write accounts of them for a
Liverpool newspaper. These criticisms were sent to him on the boat that
left for New York just before Jenny Lind’s departure and were reprinted
in American newspapers.

Jenny Lind’s farewell English concerts were a series of frenzied
triumphs, much to the satisfaction of Barnum, who had counted upon
them to stimulate excitement in this country. At Manchester the bed on
which Jenny Lind was said to have slept in _La Somnambula_ was put on
exhibition and offered for sale. Just before going aboard the steamer
_Atlantic_ she was presented with a bunch of grapes measuring three
feet, six inches in circumference, fourteen inches in diameter, and
one foot, six inches in length, weighing eight pounds. She went aboard
the _Atlantic_ on August 21, 1850, and the Liverpool police found it
necessary to warn Barnum’s agent to have her on the ship several hours
before the time of departure, or they would not guarantee her safety
from the crowds.

A passenger on the same steamer, who published his account of the
departure in the _New York Herald_ for September 2, 1850, reported
this incident just before the boat sailed: “An amusing incident,
however, occurred about this time, which excited the mirth of even
Jenny herself, and which I quietly noted as one of the many desperate
cases of ‘Lind fever’ that fell under my observation. Accompanying
us in the tender was an elderly man of very genteel appearance, who
paced the deck in evident anxiety and impatience, and whose luggage
seemed to consist of a solitary pair of unmentionables, which were
carelessly rolled up and ‘tucked’ under his arm. Arriving alongside of
the leviathan _Atlantic_, he sprang over the gangway with surprising
agility, and exclaimed, ‘Where’s Jenny Lind? Can anybody tell me if
Jenny Lind is to be seen? Oh! where the devil is Jenny Lind?’ Not
obtaining a very satisfactory reply to his beseeching queries (and
especially to the last, which was uttered in a tone betokening the
strongest kind of despair), and being informed that he must either
leave the ship or submit to summary ejectment, he broke away from the
gangway and rushed forward, muttering, ‘Impossible! I must go. Can’t be
helped. Borrow clothes on board, no doubt,’ &c.”

The enthusiasm was unparalleled, and more of it was personal than
artistic. It was natural that thousands should bid her good-bye, for in
1847, 1848, 1849, and 1850 Jenny Lind was more popular personally in
England than Queen Victoria. Her charities had contributed somewhat to
this effect, for she had sung many times for the benefit of hospitals
and other institutions.

This was the state of the public mind about Jenny Lind when Barnum
imported her in August, 1850. And he had taken steps to insure that
that state of mind would be transplanted with her to the United States
in even greater measure.

Music was not flourishing in the United States when Barnum engaged
Jenny Lind. Lyman Abbott’s father, who enjoyed music, his son writes
in his _Reminiscences_, went regularly to Christy’s Minstrels, because
the voices were good, although the jokes were bad. Madame Malibran,
the sister of Manuel Garcia, who taught Jenny Lind, appeared in opera
in New York under the management of her father in 1826. But the
Havana Opera Company, of which she was the star, did not create much
enthusiasm when it performed opera in English. N. P. Willis, the poet,
who wrote a memoir of Jenny Lind, said that her arrival in the United
States marked an epoch for music in America. “No singer, who could
still please a court and an European capital, thought yet of a trip to
the transatlantic Republic; and though sometimes, as in the case of
Malibran, we have had great celebrities here _before_ they were famous,
and oftener still, have had them here _after_ their dawn and in their
twilight--we had never seen one of the first magnitude during her
meridian.”

Such was the situation with which Barnum was confronted when Jenny Lind
signed his contract, and though he had in her personality and ability
excellent material for his ends, it was necessary for him to work hard
on almost barren ground in order to make his $187,500 come back with
accretions.

CHAPTER VII

THE SWEDISH NIGHTINGALE IN THE AMERICAN WOODS

After the conductor on the Philadelphia-New York train had guessed
that Jenny Lind was a dancer, Barnum began to remove all possible
misconceptions in the public mind concerning his new purchase, which
he had this time literally procured after much trouble and expense.
He wrote a statement to the press, confirming the rumor that he had
engaged Jenny Lind. It was printed in all the New York newspapers for
February 22, 1850, and copied by newspapers in other cities. With a
noble gesture Barnum said to the public:

“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 numerous better offers than the one she has accepted
from me; but she has great anxiety to visit America. She speaks of
this country and its institutions in the highest terms of praise,
and as money is by no means the greatest inducement that can be
laid before her, she is determined to visit us.

“In her engagement with me (which includes Havana), she expressly
reserves the right to give charitable concerts whenever she thinks
proper. Since her début in England, she has given to the poor from
her own private purse more than the whole amount which I have
engaged to pay her, and the proceeds of concerts for charitable
purposes in Great Britain, where she has sung gratuitously, have
realized more than ten times that amount.”

It was this mention of Jenny Lind’s charities, used casually but
pointedly in every publicity notice Barnum wrote that turned his
speculation into a certain success. It is proof of his sagacity as a
showman that he utilized all sides of his materials, and even exploited
as effectively as he did their main claims to fame, any incidental
personal characteristics they might reveal. He not only exploited them
thoroughly, but he also foresaw the possibilities of them, at least in
the case of Jenny Lind. A few years later Barnum looked back upon his
accomplishment and confessed: “I may as well state,” he wrote in his
autobiography, “that although I relied prominently upon Jenny Lind’s
reputation as a great musical _artiste_, I also took largely into my
estimate of her success with all classes of the American public, her
character for extraordinary benevolence and generosity. Without this
peculiarity in her disposition, I never would have dared make the
engagement which I did, as I felt sure that there were multitudes of
individuals in America who would be prompted to attend her concerts by
this feeling alone.” Previously divas had sung for charity, and there
are those who do so unobtrusively every day, yet never before or since
have we heard of an artist’s benevolence in the same breath as we heard
of her talents; but Jenny Lind during the entire period of her fame in
America was known and discussed more as a Florence Nightingale than as
The Swedish Nightingale.

Barnum, as he himself expressed it, “had put innumerable means and
appliances into operation for the furtherance of my object, and
little did the public see of the hand that indirectly pulled at their
heart-strings, preparatory to a relaxation of their purse-strings;
and these means and appliances were continued and enlarged throughout
the whole of that triumphal musical campaign.” It was not necessary
for Barnum to work very hard with the New York newspapers; they could
be depended upon to realize that Jenny Lind was a story, and in the
days when James Gordon Bennett, the elder, was hurling almost daily
competitive epithets at Horace Greeley, a story was sought after
with even greater zeal than to-day, when cables, wireless telegraphy
and airplanes make so many of them. In 1850 the New York newspapers
gave much space to the news from Europe, and Jenny Lind was creating
a European sensation. The English and Continental newspapers were
received by the New York newspapers on the fastest steamers, and
long extracts from them took the place of local stories. Although
the conductor of the Philadelphia train may have ignored it, the
Jenny Lind mania in Europe did not escape the eye of the metropolitan
editor. Extracts of European criticisms, accounts of her personal and
artistic triumphs, comments on her benevolence, appear regularly in the
newspapers of the period, so she was not exactly unknown to those in
America who read the European news.

But there were undoubtedly many who did not read the European news,
and it was for those that Barnum worked, because they were to pay the
bills. He met an English newspaper writer who had seen Jenny Lind and
had heard her sing. Barnum hired him to write articles of one or two
newspaper columns once or twice each week, as long as his ingenuity and
Barnum’s suggestions held out. He wrote of her personal characteristics
and the warmth of her receptions in Europe, so that those who could
not be fascinated by the sentimentality of her benevolence could be
impressed by the prestige of European opinion. The articles were dated
“London” and appeared as special correspondence from that city. Barnum
told a reporter for the _Chicago Tribune_ in June, 1890, “I suppose
that was the first attempt in this country to ‘work the press.’ I
am free to confess that it couldn’t be done now. Besides, it is not
necessary.” This last was in deference to his guest, for he always
regarded reporters as guests, “whom he frequently did not wait for,
but sent for,” as a friend said. But Barnum “worked the press” until
he died, not always so crudely, but with invariable effect, and to-day
also young men with imaginations think publicly for motion picture
stars and prima donnas, bank presidents and national governments.

On August 14, 1850, the _New York Tribune_ printed an alleged letter
received by Barnum from Julius Benedict, who wrote that he had
just heard Jenny Lind again and assured Barnum that “her voice has
acquired--_if that were possible_--even additional power and effect by
a timely and well-chosen repose.” Julius Benedict also said: “Mlle.
Lind is very anxious to give a Welcome to America in a kind of National
Song, which, if I can obtain the poetry of one of your first-rate
literary men, I shall set to music, and which she will sing in addition
to the pieces originally fixed upon.” This letter was without doubt
written by Barnum. It was dated from Schlangenbad, Germany, August 24,
and was printed in the _New York Tribune_ of August 14. This may have
been a misprint in the _Tribune_, and it may have been an error in
calculation upon the part of Barnum or his employees. However, even if
the letter were mailed from Germany on August 4 or August 1, it could
not possibly have reached Barnum in time to print in the _Tribune_
of August 14. Besides, Barnum, as he tells in his autobiography, had
been thinking for some time of this Welcome to America, and we know
that the desire for such a song not only did not originate with Jenny
Lind, but that she was reluctant to sing it after Barnum had made the
arrangements necessary; then, Julius Benedict would not have suggested
a song by a “first-rate” literary man, using one of Barnum’s favorite
Yankee adjectives. Three days later the _Morning Courier and Enquirer_,
a New York newspaper, printed the following card of announcement from
Barnum:

“MESSRS. EDITORS:--

“Will you please to state that Jenny Lind having expressed a
strong desire to sing at her first concert in New York a ‘Welcome
to America,’ and Mr. Jules Benedict, the eminent composer, having
volunteered to set such a composition to music, I hereby offer two
hundred dollars for such a song as may be accepted for the above
purpose by the following committee:--Messrs. George Ripley, Jules
Benedict, Lewis Gaylord Clarke, J. S. Redfield, and Geo. P. Putnam.
The songs to be addressed to the committee box, No. 2743 Post
Office, New York, and to reach here by the 1st of September.”

Seven hundred and fifty-three poems were submitted to the judges, and
the prize was finally awarded to Bayard Taylor, whose contribution does
not do him any credit. In its report the Prize Committee stated frankly
that a large proportion of the productions were “not fit to feed the
pigs.” The announcement that Taylor’s poem had won the prize created a
storm of protest, and most of the other 752 poets rushed or wrote to
favorite newspaper editors, crying fraud. Putnam, one of the judges,
was Bayard Taylor’s publisher, and George Ripley was one of Taylor’s
colleagues on the staff of the _New York Tribune_. But the judges were
not guilty of fraud, however appearances may have been against them.
They submitted two poems, the one by Taylor, and one by Epes Sargent,
to Jenny Lind, who, reluctant to sing any such song, chose Bayard
Taylor’s because it was shorter.[8]

Taylor’s ode read:

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!”

There was another stanza, but this is quite enough, which is what
Julius Benedict and Jenny Lind thought, for only those two stanzas
were set to music and sung. Bayard Taylor himself was not proud of his
effort. Both he and Richard Henry Stoddard, his best friend, competed
for the prize, because they both needed the $200. Taylor wrote to a
friend that his “only inspiration was the hope of getting the two
hundred dollars,” and the protests of the other competitors, coupled
with the knowledge that he had not written a good poem, made him regret
that he had ever yielded to temptation. He was worried about the
effect of the poem upon his reputation, and he told Stoddard before
the protests of the other competitors that he anticipated them because
two of the judges were his friends. Two months after the prize was
announced he wrote to Stoddard: “Did you see the Brooklyn announcement
of my lecture? (‘Bayard Taylor, the successful competitor of the Jenny
Lind prize.’) Is that song to be the only thing which will save my name
from oblivion?” It was not necessary for him to worry: his translation
of Goethe’s _Faust_ has outlived the “Welcome to America.”

William Allen Butler, author of “Nothing to Wear,” wrote a book of
parodies which went into three editions, called _Barnum’s Parnassus_,
purporting to be confidential disclosures of the Jenny Lind Prize
Committee. The following is the most interesting poem in the book:

A VOLUNTEER ODE

By the ‘Acknowledged Best Song Writer’--Not a Competitor

“Ho! all ye bards, from best to worst,
In village, town or city;
Hand in your Songs before the 1st
To Barnum’s Prize Committee!

“Ho! every charming poetess
Pick out your choicest ditty,
And send it on, post-paid--express--
To Barnum’s Prize Committee!

* * * * *

“$200, cash! My eyes!
In _cash_, two hundred dollars!
Why, in the good old centuries
Your Spensers and your Wallers,
And those Elizabethan gents,
In ruffs, and beards and bonnets,
Were glad to get as many _pence_
For one of their short sonnets!”

* * * * *

The protesting poetical voices pleased Barnum immensely. He had offered
his $200 for a prize ode, and he received as well several hundred
letters of indignation written to the newspapers, a book of parodies,
in every one of which his name was mentioned several times, and a
reputation for generosity to poor literary men, who were also newspaper
men.

At the same time enterprising publishers, without Barnum’s solicitation
and much to his advantage, were publishing brochures on the life of
Jenny Lind, in all of which her virtues were exaggerated and her
powers over-rated. Her portraits were in every shop window. Jenny Lind
songsters, Jenny Lind Musical Monthlies, and Jenny Lind Annuals were
announced for sale six months before her arrival. A few days before
she landed in New York the _Morning Courier and Enquirer_ told its
anxious readers that “she possesses a greater combination of greater
excellence than all who have gone before her, and ... she adds to these
a divine purity and grace peculiarly her own.... Her method is fertile,
her manner fervid, her execution finished to the last possible degree,
and her powers as an actress remarkable.... It seems to be admitted,
in fact, that she approaches as nearly to perfection in her art as can
be expected of a human being unaided by magic power.” These and other
advance ecstasies concerning Jenny Lind’s voice, before she had sung
a note, worked up newspaper readers to a high pitch of anticipatory
delight. Jenny Lind was to appear, as Barnum later expressed it, “in
the presence of a jury already excited to enthusiasm in her behalf.”

Every berth was occupied in the _Atlantic_, which was known as the
“Jenny Lind Boat,” Americans in Europe being eager to return home
as her traveling companions. Accounts of her very last moments in
England, her visit to Queen Victoria to bid farewell, the enthusiasm
of the Liverpool mobs, were published in the newspapers here before
her arrival, and they all came, as the _Morning Courier and Enquirer_
naïvely said, from “a source likely to be well informed.” On August 21,
1850, she sailed from Liverpool, and the steamer _Atlantic_ was due in
New York on September 1.

In eleven days and two hours the “Jenny Lind Boat” made the passage
from Liverpool to New York, and on each of those days there was an
item of excitement in almost every New York newspaper about the divine
creature who was honoring America with her presence. On Sunday,
September 1, 1850, the _Atlantic_ was sighted. Even the elements were
in favor of Barnum; the boat arrived on a holiday from work, and almost
all New York tried to welcome Jenny Lind to the city. Barnum went
aboard the ship with the health officer, Dr. Doane, at noon Sunday,
and with a large bouquet of flowers tucked into his white waistcoat,
climbed hurriedly up the ladder to greet his prima donna. But he had
been anticipated, for Mr. Collins, owner of the line of “leviathans” of
which the _Atlantic_ was one, had already reached the steamer with a
bouquet three times larger than Barnum’s.

After they had conversed for a few minutes, Jenny Lind asked Barnum
when and where he had heard her sing. “I never had the pleasure of
seeing you before in my life,” he answered. She was astonished, and
wondered how he had dared to risk so much money without a knowledge of
what he was buying. “I risked it on your reputation, which in musical
matters I would much rather trust than my own judgment,” was Barnum’s
answer. He did not mention her reputation as Lady Bountiful, but he
had it in mind, for it was at this point in his autobiography that he
confessed that he would never have imported a woman who could only sing.

As the boat slowly rode up the harbor to its dock at the foot of
Canal Street, to the accompaniment of whistles, fog-horns, waving and
shouting, Jenny Lind went into raptures about the view. She said what
all prima donnas and prime ministers have said since upon arriving
in New York harbor. She saw an American flag and threw it a kiss,
exclaiming, “There is the beautiful standard of freedom; the oppressed
of all nations worship it.” Signor Giovanni Battista Belletti, with
characteristic Latin ardor, made some fervent remarks. “Here is the
New World at last,” he shouted with appropriate gestures, “the grand
New World, first seen by my fellow-countryman, Columbus!” To have a
countryman of Columbus in the party must have been of supreme publicity
delight to Barnum.

More than 30,000 persons were standing about the dock, according
to all the newspapers of the day, and as Jenny Lind looked at them
and listened to their clamorous greetings, she said with the proper
intonation of surprise, “But have you no poor people, all these people
are so well dressed!” West Street for a dozen blocks was thronged with
people ready and anxious to make an enthusiastic holiday of her arrival.

A large bower of green plants was decorated with flags, and two
triumphal arches adorned the dock, the center of each arch bearing a
large device: “Welcome, Jenny Lind!” was on the first; the second,
surmounted by the American eagle, read “Welcome to America!” Barnum
had arranged for the building of these arches, but quietly, so that the
impression given to both Jenny Lind and the multitude was that of an
official municipal greeting. Just before the steamer touched the dock,
some one suggested that a Swedish flag would not be out of place. None
was to be found on such short notice, and the German flag was hurriedly
hoisted as an effective substitute.

Cheering broke loose, and the 30,000 swayed with excitement as the
_Atlantic_ docked. As soon as the boat touched the pier, the crowd
broke bounds, and the strong detachment of Fifth Ward police with
great difficulty prevented many persons from being swept into the
water. One man did fall off the dock, and Jenny Lind watched the rescue
with sympathetic excitement. People were crowded on all roofs in the
neighborhood, and all the windows looking out on to West Street were
filled. Spars and rigging of near-by vessels were covered with the
reckless, and the fenders and bulkheads of the Hoboken Ferry House and
wharves were densely packed with men and women. As Jenny Lind stepped
down the gangplank, which was covered with carpet for the occasion, the
crowd made a mad dash to get nearer and snapped the gates of the dock;
some men and women were trampled under others’ feet, and many were
injured, but none killed. The _Tribune_ reporter saw a man, “squeezed
under the mass and hardly able to breathe, holding out his new hat at
arm’s length and imploring somebody to take it and prevent it from
being smashed.”

Captain West, master of the _Atlantic_, escorted Jenny Lind to Barnum’s
carriage. On the dock Barnum had lined up some of his Museum employees,
and as Jenny Lind approached the carriage, they threw bouquets into it,
making the public and newspapers believe that here was a spontaneous
tribute to a great popular favorite. Writing to her cousin in the
country two days after Jenny Lind’s arrival, Miss Julia Knapp, a young
girl, said that as she came down the gangplank she wore “a pale blue
silk hat, trimmed with lace, a slate-colored dress, with a broadcloth
cloak, trimmed with velvet.”[9]

When the party was seated in his carriage, Barnum mounted the box
beside the driver, because the people knew him, and “my presence on
the outside of the carriage aided those who filled the windows and
sidewalks along the whole route in coming to the conclusion that Jenny
Lind had arrived.” It may be, too, that he wanted to give those who
had no opportunity to see his songstress something for their trouble;
there were nudgings and shouts of “That’s Barnum; there’s Barnum.” The
crowd pressed on after the carriage, and it was with difficulty that it
reached the Irving House, where Barnum had engaged rooms. Jenny Lind
appeared several times at the window of the carriage and bowed to the
people who were throwing flowers into it.

It was a quarter to three o’clock before the party finally arrived at
the Irving House, where more than 5,000 persons had taken up places
in an effort to catch a glimpse of Jenny Lind. The police cleared a
passage, and she was able to proceed to her room, but the crowd would
not go away and would not be quiet until loud cries for The Swedish
Nightingale were finally answered by her appearance on a balcony;
she waved her handkerchief to the mass of people, who howled their
gratitude.

Barnum dined with Jenny Lind that afternoon, and she courteously asked
to drink his health. “Miss Lind,” Barnum responded, “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 your health
and happiness in a glass of cold water.” She was much astonished that
there should be a man who did not drink European light wines, but she
understood and respected his views.

The crowds continued outside the Irving House all day, and every time a
shadow passed before Jenny Lind’s window, or what the crowd chose as
her window, enthusiastic cheers greeted it. At half-past twelve that
night, the New York Musical Fund Society, which had been preparing
for this occasion for three weeks, began an instrumental serenade.
The musicians were escorted by three hundred firemen in red shirts,
bearing lighted torches. More than 20,000 people watched, listened
and cheered. Broadway was completely blocked, and the three hundred
spluttering torches revealed figures on the roofs, in the neighboring
windows, and hanging to lamp posts and awning frames. Barnum led Jenny
Lind to one of the hotel balconies, after the loud demands for her
presence threatened to drown the music of the serenade. He asked the
musicians to play “Yankee Doodle” and “Hail Columbia,” and Jenny Lind
with admirable tact encored both those songs. The crowd cheered madly,
and she repeatedly waved her handkerchief. At quarter past one the
music was finished, and she tried to go to bed, but the crowd was not
yet ready for bed. George Loder, head of the Musical Fund Society, made
a speech of welcome, which, by common agreement, was much too long.
One of the newspaper correspondents intimated that the serenade and
the speech were offered in the hope that Jenny Lind would return the
compliment by giving a benefit performance for the New York Musical
Fund Society.

The New York correspondent of the _Philadelphia Sunday Dispatch_
reported the following conversation which he gathered in the crowd:

“Sa-ay, Joe, don’t you think Barnum’ll make a lose? Thousand
dollars a night’s a big pile, and singin’ isn’t dancin’; Fanny
Elssler was the gal for _my_ money.”

“Oh, shut up! What the hell do _we_ know about singin’?”

“I’ll go in for her too; but I thought she was one of Barnum’s
hums, for I heered he said he didn’t care if she hadn’t no more
voice than a crow, he knowed we’d all swear she sung like an angel,
if it cost us ten dollars to say we’d heered her. You know the time
he showed the horse with his tail where his head ought to be? Well,
all of them that paid their two shillings was satisfied. Wasn’t
he stood in his stall with his tail in the manger--and didn’t
they tell all the rest to go in and win, for it was a fus’ rate
curiosity, jes so and no mistake?”

“Well, there ain’t no use of your talkin’, Pete; Barnum knows what
he’s about. Why, s’pose he _did_ lose fifty thousand by her, he’d
more an’ make it up in the Museum. The glory of the thing’s what
_he_ looks at.”

But it did not look as if Barnum would lose his fifty thousand dollars.
The excitement kept up unabated for weeks. The small girl, Julia Knapp,
writing to her cousin Susan in Greenwich, Connecticut, said, “They call
her the New Messiah we will send you a paper all about her, I suppose
you have heard of Dr. Webster he was hung on Friday last.”

Not only the common people besieged Jenny Lind. The Mayor called upon
her at her rooms, and she was visited all day and part of the night by
people who used various claims to distinction as cards of admission
to her private suite. Milliners, tailors and furniture dealers sent
her articles which they had manufactured and named for her; they were
grateful for her autograph in return. Water carafes with her face and
name were sold. Songs and poems were dedicated to her, dances were
named after her, and she conquered the kingdom of man when a cigar
was called the Jenny Lind. Crowds gathered outside the hotel to watch
her enter or leave. Society called in large contingents, and Barnum
was fearful that the _haut ton_ of Bleecker Street would monopolize
his prize and thus make her repugnant to the masses, for he realized
that he was not in England with General Tom Thumb. But her reputation
for kindness and simplicity won the admiration of the people, and
shopkeepers continued to send gloves, hats, shawls, chairs and gowns.
On the day after her arrival in New York all the morning newspapers
devoted their first pages to the prima donna. The _New York Tribune_
printed four columns on the first page concerning her reception, and a
poem with fifty-two footnotes explaining its Scandinavian allegorical
allusions. The other newspapers gave her the same amount of space, and
the interest in her was maintained at the same high pitch during her
entire stay in New York.

III

On the day after her arrival, Barnum and Jenny Lind visited together
with Benedict and Belletti all the public halls in New York to choose a
place for her first concerts. The sky was cloudy and rain was falling,
but eager spectators were out in large numbers and followed the party
from amusement hall to amusement hall, so that a contemporary was
able to describe the tour of inspection as a royal procession. Many
of the enthusiasts were disappointed, for Jenny Lind wore a veil.
In anticipation of her visit A. B. Tripler, a twenty-five-year-old
speculator, built a hall which he intended to name for Jenny Lind,
and which was to be used for her concerts in New York, but it was
not finished in time. Therefore, Barnum, with the approval of Jenny
Lind and Julius Benedict, chose Castle Garden, the largest place of
amusement in the city, for her first concerts. Barnum now realized
that his audiences would be larger than even he had hoped, and he
accordingly hired the largest available hall and made arrangements for
its alteration in order to provide more seating capacity and increased
standing-room.

Barnum wrote in his autobiography: “On the Tuesday after her arrival
I informed Miss Lind that I wished to make a slight alteration in our
agreement. ‘What is it?’ she asked in surprise. ‘I am convinced,’ I
replied, ‘that our enterprise will be much more successful than either
of us anticipated. I wish, therefore, to stipulate that you shall
always receive $1,000 for each concert, besides all the expenses,
as heretofore agreed on, and that after taking $5,500 per night for
expenses and my services, the balance shall be equally divided between
us.’ Jenny looked at me with astonishment. She could not comprehend
my proposition. After I had repeated it, and she fully understood its
import, she grasped me cordially by the hand, and exclaimed, ‘Mr.
Barnum, you are a gentleman of honor. You are generous. It is just as
Mr. Bates told me. I will sing for you as long as you please. I will
sing for you in America--in Europe--anywhere!’” Here we have a picture
of such exceptional magnanimity on the one side, and on the other such
joyous gratitude--it is a pity that it is untrue.

Concerning this change in the contract, Barnum was frank enough to add
this warning in his autobiographical account of the incident: “Let it
not be supposed that the increase in her compensation was wholly an act
of generosity on my part. I had become convinced that there was money
enough in the enterprise for all of us, and I also felt that although
she should have been satisfied by my complying with the terms of the
agreement, yet envious persons would doubtless endeavor to create
discontent in her mind, and it would be a stroke of policy to prevent
the possibility of such an occurrence.” This attitude is one which
Barnum afterwards dubbed “profitable philanthropy” in speaking of his
own charitable endeavors, and we could admire his foresight and his
compassion, if other men’s books did not make him out to be inaccurate,
to say the least.

Maunsell B. Field, whose _Memories of Many Men and Some Women_ has
already been quoted in another connection, played an important part in
the negotiations between Barnum and Jenny Lind. He was a member of the
law firm of Jay and Field, and Jenny Lind when she first came to New
York presented a letter of introduction to John Jay, Field’s partner.
Jay was in Europe, and when Jenny Lind learned this, she asked Field
to visit her at the Irving House, as she had urgent business for him.
“Upon my arrival,” wrote Field, “I mentioned whom I desired to see,
and was at once accosted by a stranger, who introduced himself to me
as Mr. Barnum. He offered to accompany me to Miss Lind’s drawing-room,
and I followed him upstairs. On the way, he turned to me and said, ‘I
am going to introduce you to an angel, sir--to an angel!’” While they
were waiting for Jenny Lind to appear, Barnum poured “ceaseless praises
of her” into Field’s ear. When she finally did appear, Field noted that
she looked “wonderfully substantial for an angel.”

According to Field, Jenny Lind had left for America without any formal
contract with Barnum, but merely on the strength of a memorandum
executed by his agent. She wanted Field’s advice in drawing up a formal
contract, and Barnum, Jenny Lind, and Field sat down together and
discussed terms. Field executed the contract, and it was signed the
next day by Barnum and Jenny Lind. He did not state the terms of the
contract, but he wrote: “After a time Miss Lind became dissatisfied
with her contract, and I was sent for to revise it. Mr. Barnum made
the required concessions.... Again and again Miss Lind desired changes
made in the contract to her own advantage, and every time Mr. Barnum
yielded. Whatever his motive, he was most obliging and complaisant, and
although I have never since met him, I have always esteemed him for
the good-nature and liberality which he exhibited at this time in his
business relations with Miss Lind. I believe that she received every
farthing that belonged to her, and that he treated her with the most
scrupulous honor.”

This would seem to indicate on reputable authority that the initiative
for changes in the contract came invariably from Jenny Lind, and
that while Barnum was not voluntarily magnanimous, Jenny Lind was
persistently dissatisfied. Many years later at a dinner party in
England Jenny Lind discussed her Barnum contract with W. P. Frith,
the artist, who recorded the conversation in _My Autobiography and
Reminiscences_. She told Frith that she went to America bound by a
legal engagement with Barnum. “Whether from being badly advised, or
from the undervaluing of powers common to genius, Mademoiselle Lind
found on her arrival in America, that she had made a terrible mistake
in the terms of the engagement.” Immediately after her arrival she
took up the terms of the agreement with Barnum, she told Frith, and
it was in this reconsideration of terms that Field undoubtedly
participated. Before asking for a new contract, Jenny Lind told Barnum
that she was prepared to fulfil her duties, if he should demand the
letter of the original agreement, and according to her own story, he
listened carefully and when she had finished, said: “This, madam, is
the document you signed in England, is it not?” “Undoubtedly,” said
Miss Lind, “and I am ready to abide by it, if I have been unable to
convince--” “Be so good as to destroy it. Tear it up, madam; and if you
will instruct your lawyer to prepare another from your own dictation,
naming whatever you think fair for your services, I will sign it
without hesitation.”

This account gives Barnum credit for sufficient magnanimity, and it
is therefore a reflection on the degree of his human vanity that
he saw fit to color the truth when it was so bright in its natural
complexion. Field and Jenny Lind herself make Barnum out as complaisant
and yielding beyond the degree of most men of business, but Barnum
is not satisfied with that glory; he must also take the initiative
in magnanimity and make us believe that it was he who voluntarily
offered changes in the contract. Besides, he must have known, what his
lawyers could have told him, that the most he could ever accomplish in
a court of equity by refusing Jenny Lind’s demands was an injunction
restraining her from singing under other management in this country. It
would not have been to Barnum’s advantage, if Jenny Lind had returned
home dissatisfied; and rather than sacrifice the opportunities his
publicity had created, it was wisdom on his part to accede to any
demands. On the other hand, Jenny Lind apparently gave W. P. Frith
the impression that she had bartered her gift for a pittance, when as
a matter of fact the terms of the original agreement gave her $1,000
for each concert and her expenses, which was not such a “terrible
mistake.” The inevitable conclusion is that neither Barnum nor Jenny
Lind was acting out of the bigness of his heart or the simplicity of
hers, but rather on the larger body of business principles. Under her
new contract Jenny Lind received one-half of the net profits, with a
guarantee of $1,000 for each concert, and a stipulation that after one
hundred concerts the contract could be terminated by either party to it.

After Castle Garden had been selected, and while preparations were
being made for the first concerts, Barnum took Jenny Lind to visit
all the leading newspaper offices, where she watched with appropriate
interest the papers being run off the presses. Mayor Caleb S. Woodhull
conferred upon her the freedom of the city, which she could hardly
enjoy because of the dense crowds that followed her everywhere. The
president of the Art Union invited her to the opening of the season’s
exhibition; after a private view of the pictures, “a magnificent
collation was served,” according to a contemporary, and she was
enrolled as a member of the Art Union “in the midst of a perfect shower
of compliments.” Mr. Daniel T. Curtis, of Boston, sent her what the
_Tribune_ described as “some of the most splendid nectarines ever grown
in this country--they were a marvel to all who beheld them.”

Barnum and Jenny Lind inspected the institution for the blind, a riding
academy, houses of correction, Greenwood Cemetery and the city prison.
Every day each newspaper printed a special column headed “Movements of
The Swedish Nightingale,” wherein it was told what she visited and who
visited her. Many clergymen and people of the best reputation in the
community were her daily visitors. Dr. Anson Jones, the last president
of Texas, called and was delighted with The Swedish Nightingale. The
Rev. Dr. Cummings with the little girls of his school visited her, and
the little girls presented her with “a six dollar bouquet,” according
to the exact _Herald_.

The first rehearsal was held at Castle Garden a few days after Jenny
Lind’s arrival. Barnum had invited all the music critics, who brought
with them all their friends, so that the audience was large enough
to frighten Jenny Lind, who insisted upon comparative privacy, and
at all subsequent rehearsals Barnum’s generosity was limited to the
critics and a few invalids who could not bear the crush of the regular
performances. While Jenny Lind was singing the _Casta Diva_ from
_Norma_ at this first rehearsal, the Battery guns attached to Castle
Garden boomed loudly, startling the singer and surprising the audience.
It was explained that California had just been admitted to the Union,
and Jenny Lind smiled her interest in the popular enthusiasm over the
gold state. During the first rehearsal the Battery was crowded with
people, anxious to catch the few notes of this marvelous voice that
might escape from the bulky Castle Garden. After the rehearsal, Jenny
Lind attempted to get to her carriage through the crowd, and she took
the arm of Maunsell B. Field, who attended the rehearsal and reported
the scene in his book. The crowd pressed close, and the police forced a
passage for the singer. Some of the crowd broke the cordon of policemen
and tried to thrust petitions for charity into Jenny Lind’s hands,
while others made desperate efforts to gaze into her face, that they
might tell their grandchildren they had seen Jenny Lind plain. The
people took Maunsell B. Field for Barnum and addressed him familiarly
by that name, as he and Jenny Lind proceeded with difficulty to her
carriage. At later rehearsals various excuses were used by eager
admirers to gain admission, and some men brought violins and other
portable musical instruments in order to make the doorkeeper believe
that they were members of the orchestra.

Barnum had decided to sell the tickets for the first concert at
auction. In his youth, while touring with his traveling circus, he
had witnessed an auction of tickets for Fanny Elssler’s dancing
performance in New Orleans, and at the time he was much impressed with
the publicity value of the scheme and with the profits it yielded.
Accordingly, on Saturday, September 7, the auction was held at Castle
Garden. Barnum entered the hall, late and excited, and was cheered
heartily by the crowd of 4,000. He ascended into the pulpit beside the
auctioneer and addressed the people. He said that he was surprised
and mortified to discover that those who were present had been
compelled to pay a shilling [a coin of the period worth 12½ cents]
for admission to the sale. He had understood that the Garden would
be open to the public free of charge for the auction sale; there was
protracted applause. He announced when the tickets sold at the auction
would be delivered, and a sarcastic voice from the crowd shouted the
inquiry, “Another shilling admission?” The auctioneer replied heatedly,
“Certainly not!” But Barnum, the champion of the people against the
interests, turned towards the auctioneer and said with vehemence, “I
don’t know about that! How can you tell? Let the tickets be delivered
at the outer gate! (Applause with a round of groans for the exactors of
the shilling admission.)”

[Illustration: JENNY LIND

Engraving from a daguerreotype

_Houdini Collection_]

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF CASTLE GARDEN

Illustrating the first appearance of Jenny Lind in America

_By permission of the New York Aquarium_]

The bidding for the first ticket was lively, and the four thousand
persons who had come out on a rainy day to pay their money and take
their choice, grew excited. Prices rose rapidly, and the first ticket
was finally sold for $225 to Genin, the hatter, whose establishment
adjoined Barnum’s American Museum. This was the best stroke of business
Genin ever did. Newspapers in Houston, Texas, Portland, Maine, and
intervening cities and villages, announced to their interested readers
that Genin, the Broadway hatter, had purchased the first ticket for the
first Jenny Lind concert at the enormous price of $225. More than two
million readers knew the next morning that Genin was a hatter. An Iowa
editor printed the story of one of his neighbors who discovered that
he owned a hat with Genin’s label. He pointed it out to the loungers
at the village post office, and he was urged to give his neighbors an
opportunity for distinction by putting the hat up at auction. It was
finally sold to an excited townsman for fourteen dollars. In New York
men hurried to Genin’s shop to purchase hats, and, if possible, to
catch a glimpse of the man who had paid $225 for the first ticket.

Barnum advised Genin to purchase this first ticket at any price for
its publicity value. Some newspapers said that Genin was Barnum’s
brother-in-law, and that the purchase was framed up before the
auction; but Genin was not Barnum’s brother-in-law. He was merely a
business neighbor and a personal friend. Genin profited by Barnum’s
instructions in publicity, for a few years later, when Louis Kossuth
visited this country, he took down from his shelves some of his old
style hats, named them after the Hungarian revolutionist, and sold them
at high prices. Genin was also the author of a _History of the Hat from
the Earliest Ages to the Present Time_. Other hatters were envious
of Genin’s Barnumized notoriety, and Knox, the hatter of 128 Fulton
Street, advertised in the _New York Tribune_ two days after Genin’s
purchase: “There is no truth in the assertion that Knox, the hatter,
paid $225 for the choice of a seat at Jenny Lind’s first concert.
Knox can’t afford it; and it must have been done by some Broadway
Hatter, who sells a poor article at a high price, as Knox is contented
with very small profits. His Fall style of Hats is the admiration
of everybody.” Espenscheid, of 107 Nassau Street, advertised: “THAT
TICKET--The sensible portion of the community begin to see the folly of
contributing to the support of the Broadway $4 hatters in luxury and
idleness, and paying for their expensive show-shops, and $225 Concert
Tickets, when they have only to turn the corner of the Museum and
walk a few steps to Espenscheid’s, 107 Nassau Street, where a better,
lighter, more graceful and durable Hat is sold for $3.50.”

The auction sale was more successful than even Barnum had expected.
Tickets near the stage, where it is not desirable to sit at a concert,
brought higher prices at the auction than those in the center of the
building, because almost as many persons went to Castle Garden to see
Jenny Lind as those who came to hear her sing. The average price paid
for the tickets to the first concert was $6.38 for each ticket. In two
sessions the auctioneer sold out all the seats in Castle Garden and
collected $17,864.05 for Barnum. Upon this occasion a system which has
since become a regular part of the theatrical business was inaugurated:
the first theater ticket speculators New York knew started shop. Hall
& Son, Jolie’s, both music publishers, the Irving House and other New
York hotels bought up large numbers of seats at the public auction and
sold them at a large increase.

Castle Garden, which since its construction in 1807 had been a fort,
a cabaret, a music hall and an opera house, and which is now the
Aquarium, was capable of accommodating almost 10,000 people, standing
and sitting. Barnum had divided the hall into three sections, each of
which was marked by lamps of different colors, red, yellow, and blue.
The tickets corresponded in color with the lamps, and the one hundred
ushers wore rosettes of those colors and carried wands of those colors,
so that the audience gained their seats without the devastating crushes
which occurred at the Jenny Lind performances in England.

The newspapers of Wednesday morning, September 11, 1850, reflect the
feverish excitement that was in the air. The _Tribune_ had imported
from Boston a special critic to report the concerts, and that paper
informed its readers on the morning of the first concert: “To-night
will be a new Avatar in our musical history--the first appearance of
another divinity in the world of Song.” The _Courier and Enquirer_
warned those who intended to be present not to applaud until they were
quite sure Jenny Lind had finished, “as Jenny Lind is said to diminish
a final note until her audience are quite sure it has ceased, and then
swell it out again upon their astonished and delighted ears.” The
_Herald_ wrote: “Jenny Lind is the most popular woman in the world at
this moment,--perhaps the most popular that ever was in it.” In the
excitement of the moment the _Herald_ apparently forgot the Virgin Mary.

This advance adulation placed Jenny Lind at a disadvantage, for it made
it necessary for her to live up to a tremendous expectation, if she was
to please the discriminating. The _Courier and Enquirer_ sensed this
difficulty, and begged its readers on the morning of the first concert
not to be disappointed “if Jenny Lind’s singing be at all like any
they ever heard from mortal lips,” for, the editor insisted gravely,
“Jenny Lind is merely a mortal woman, of very substantial flesh and
blood, who, gifted by nature with genius and a voice, has made herself
a great singer by hard labor; just such labor, such daily practice as
provokes them to wish that their neighbor, Miss A., who is an amateur
vocalist, lived a square or two further down the street, when she takes
her music lessons.” Barnum, too, was afraid that the great expectations
which he had so largely created by his advance publicity, would
act as a boomerang and cause the public to accept the reality with
disappointment.

Evening came at last. The doors were opened at five o’clock, although
the concert was scheduled to begin at eight, and more than seven
thousand persons were seated, “with as much order and quiet as was ever
witnessed in the assembling of a congregation at church,” according
to Barnum’s description. A double row of policemen kept order and
regulated the stream of carriages. The wooden bridge which approached
the entrance to Castle Garden was brilliantly lighted the length of its
two hundred feet, giving the effect of a triumphal avenue. More than
two hundred boats were anchored as near as possible to the Garden, and
more than a thousand people caught escaping strains of music from this
vantage point; and when they could not hear, they shouted and yelled
indignant interruptions, thus preventing those in the rear parts of the
hall from hearing.

Inside, the hall was a mass of gas light. A wooden arch bordered the
stage, and from it were hanging the flags of the United States and
Sweden, with arabesque ornaments in white and gold beneath them. A
large bank of flowers, spelling out the words, “Welcome Sweet Warbler,”
was suspended over the pillars of the balcony directly in front of the
stage. Julius Benedict and his sixty musicians entered promptly at
eight o’clock and were received with applause. They began the overture
from Weber’s _Oberon_, but the audience paid little attention. They
were waiting for Jenny Lind, and they tolerated the preliminaries only
because preliminaries increased the suspense and nervous excitement,
but they were too restless to listen to them. Signor Belletti sang the
_Sorgete_ from Rossini’s _Mahomet II_, and the audience applauded after
he was finished with something of relief as well as appreciation.

There was a breathless moment of silent anticipation. The doors at the
back of the stage opened. Jenny Lind, in a white, virginal dress, came
gracefully down between the music stands, escorted by Julius Benedict,
while Barnum watched nervously in the wings.

That placid face, with its thick nose and heavy Scandinavian features
and its oval simplicity, stared out with frightened, earnest, blue eyes
at this immense gathering, which rose to its feet in tumult, cheered
as if for the foundation of a republic or the downfall of a monarchy,
and hurled things handy into the air. She curtsied deeply in profound
appreciation. But it was impossible to stop the riot of enthusiasm. The
screaming, the shouting, the waving and the wild cheering oppressed
her, as she stood in her white dress, gazing bewilderedly at the
multitude of her admirers. The experience was disconcerting and
alarming, as if she were suddenly, without any reason to expect it,
thrown into the general assembly hall of an insane asylum. She may have
been thinking of this orgy, when she said later in her broken English
that Americans “are all firemens,” which the _Herald_ took to mean that
“we are all on fire with musical enthusiasm.” But, possibly, Jenny Lind
did not mean anything so complimentary.

The wild scene, accustomed as she was to enthusiasm, frightened
her into an approach to panic, and the hysteria of the audience
communicated itself in some degree to the star, who trembled and
wavered in the first notes of Bellini’s _Casta Diva_, until those who
listened anxiously feared that she would break down completely. But
she soon regained confidence and the control of her nerves, and she
finished her song in loud and clear tones that indicated complete
self-possession. The last notes of the air were drowned in the
appreciation of the audience, and at the moment of her conclusion a
shower of bouquets hit the stage in front of her, while handkerchiefs
waved, and the men cheered hoarsely.

Benedict and Richard Hoffman played a duet by Thalberg on two pianos,
but no one listened; each had to tell his neighbor how superb was Jenny
Lind. She appeared with Belletti and sang the duet from Rossini’s _Il
Turco in Italia_, “How Shall I Please the Lady Fair?” At this point
an attempt was made by those in the boats outside to besiege the hall
and gain entrance, which was frustrated with difficulty and much
noise by the police. Benedict and the orchestra played the overture
to Benedict’s own opera, _The Crusaders_, and the audience paid their
respect to the composer by listening to it, but every one sat up in
his seat again when Jenny Lind sang the song with accompaniment of two
flutes from Meyerbeer’s _Camp of Silesia_. She followed this with a
Swedish melody, _Herdsman’s Song_, accompanying herself on the piano.
This song caused tremendous enthusiasm at the first concert, and
wherever Jenny Lind sang it, for it involved a perfect imitation of an
echo, as the herdsman called to his flock. It was popularly dubbed “The
Echo Song” and was demanded everywhere as an encore. The last number on
the program was Bayard Taylor’s “Greeting to America,” which Benedict
had set to music in less than a week. It was received with thundering
applause, and even the critics did not dare to admit that it was the
worst piece of music and poetry on the program.

At the close of the concert there were loud cries of “Barnum! Barnum!”
This was as it should have been, for in America he was the author of
the Jenny Lind comedy. Barnum “reluctantly” appeared. He said to the
audience: “My friends, you have often heard it asked, ‘Where’s Barnum?’
Henceforth you may say, ‘Barnum’s nowhere!’” Then he said that he felt
“compelled to disregard the fact that Mademoiselle Lind had herself
begged him not to mention on this evening one of her own noble and
spontaneous deeds of beneficence.” She would devote her share of the
proceeds of the first concert, $10,000, to charity, to be distributed
as follows: The Fire Department Fund, $3,000; Musical Fund Society,
$2,000; Home for the Friendless, $500; Lying-in Asylum for Destitute
Females, $500; Home for Indigent Females, $500; Protestant Half Orphan
Asylum, Roman Catholic Half Orphan Asylum, and New York Orphan Asylum,
$500 each; the Dramatic Fund Association, $500; the Old Ladies’ Asylum,
$500; and the Home for Colored and Aged Persons and the Colored Orphan
Asylum, each $500. The charities were chosen by Barnum, Mayor Woodhull,
and Jenny Lind, and Barnum took care that no discrimination was made
because of race, creed, or previous condition of servitude.

It is interesting in this connection to know that Jenny Lind abhorred
negroes. She exclaimed to Maunsell B. Field in disgust, “They are
_so_ ugly!” Apparently, she forgot for the moment that they are God’s
creatures. Although she had æsthetic feelings about their appearance,
these did not interfere with her charitable instinct, for she sent Mrs.
Harriet Beecher Stowe $100 as a contribution to the fund for buying
slaves into freedom. She also wrote Mrs. Stowe to thank her for a copy
of _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, and said in her letter: “I have the feeling
about ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ that ... the writer of that book can fall
asleep to-day or to-morrow with the bright, sweet conscience of having
been a strong means in the Creator’s hand of operating essential good
in one of the most important questions for the welfare of our black
brethren.”

After the announcement of the charities, three cheers were given for
Jenny Lind, and three cheers were given for Barnum. The Musical Fund
Society gave her another serenade in gratitude for her donation of
$2,000, and then she was allowed to retire to the New York Hotel,
where she had removed to avoid the crowds that thronged the district
of the Irving House. It was said that Barnum collected $1,000 from
the proprietor of the hotel where Jenny Lind stayed for the privilege
of her patronage, and wherever she went in the United States, it was
said, hotel proprietors paid Barnum for the advertising value of her
presence. If this was true, it reduced considerably Jenny Lind’s
living expenses, which under the contract were to be paid by Barnum.
The newspapers of the period printed this as an accusation against
Barnum, and as a fact; there is no confirmation of it, nor is there any
possibility of a positive denial. Barnum does not mention it in his
autobiography, but the scheme is one that would have appealed to his
business ingenuity.

The newspapers of the day after the first concert were beside
themselves, and the undiscriminating praise increased with the number
of concerts. The _Herald_ in an effulgence of mixed metaphors wrote
of Jenny Lind’s song, “which she spins out from her throat like the
attenuated fiber from the silkworm, dying away so sweetly and so
gradually, till it seems melting into the song of the seraphim and
is lost in eternity.” After the first rehearsal, _The Spirit of the
Times_ critic wrote: “As a bird just alighted upon a spray begins
to sing, he knows not why, and pours forth the increasing volume
of his voice from an instinct implanted within him by that Power
which made him vocal,--as flowers unfold their petals to the air, as
zephyrs breathe, as rivulets leave their founts, as thoughts flow,
as affections rise, as feelings develop,--so this wondrous creature
sang. It was not Art. It was a manifestation of Nature.” _The Spirit
of the Times_ was not a comic paper. The _Herald_ remarked casually
that Jenny Lind’s appearance in the old world was “as significant
an event as the appearance of Dante, Tasso, Raphael, Shakespeare,
Goethe, Thorwaldsen, or Michael Angelo.” “As a cantatrice,” continued
the _Herald_ writer, “she is as much superior to all her northern
predecessors as Napoleon was to his contemporaries, or as Eli Whitney,
the inventor of the cotton gin, was to the first ‘gemman ob color’ who
used it. She has changed all men’s ideas of music as much so as Bacon’s
inductive system revolutionized philosophy.” The _Herald_ sincerely
believed that the advent of Jenny Lind was an indication that “the wand
of civilization has fallen from the hands of the southern nations and
passed to the hardy northern races.... All feel her power, all go mad
who see her, and they cannot explain the secret of her influence.” Had
the _Herald_ stopped in its abandon to analyze the depths of its own
sentimentality, it might have had the secret of that influence. In his
lofty peroration this inspired editorial writer sings that Jenny Lind
has left “the effete monarchies of Europe” to sing as she confessed
she never could sing in her former languishing environment to the
great and free American democracy, where things never stand still. In
all these criticisms there was little comment on her voice, as such.
Those who did venture to criticize it found in it a certain coolness,
which her champions called its purity, and a lack of ardor, which her
worshipers commended as the absence of the common Latin display of
disgraceful passion. But those who attempted to qualify their praise
were overwhelmed by the recriminations against their judgment of those
who were confirmed fanatics.

At her other concerts in New York the programs did not differ much
in quality from the first, but in the later concerts Jenny Lind sang
sacred music, and in these oratorios she was very popular. In his
_Reminiscences_, written many years after the event, Lyman Abbott
wrote: “It was impossible to doubt the Resurrection while she was
singing ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth.’ She seemed a celestial
witness; to doubt her testimony was to doubt her veracity.” And Jenny
Lind surely would not have lied about such a thing as the Resurrection.
Dr. Abbott knew a chorus girl in the oratorio choir, and when Jenny
Lind sang “The Messiah” he escorted his friend to the concert. Probably
Lyman Abbott as a young man enjoyed a much higher spiritual reaction
than most of his contemporaries, for it is hard to believe that Jenny
Lind impressed the general population as a celestial witness of the
Resurrection under the exclusive management of P. T. Barnum. Another
critic, however, said that her rendition of “I know that my Redeemer
liveth” was “an appeal to shake the heart of a Jew.”

Other members of the Jenny Lind audiences were impressed differently.
Walt Whitman wrote in the _New York Evening Post_ of August 14, 1851,
in one of his _Letters from Paumanok_: “The Swedish Swan, with all
her blandishments, never touched my heart in the least. I wondered at
so much vocal dexterity; and indeed they were all very pretty, those
leaps and double somersets. But even in the grandest religious airs,
genuine masterpieces as they are, of the German composers, executed
by this strangely overpraised woman in perfect scientific style, let
critics say what they like, it was a failure; for there was a vacuum
in the head of the performance. Beauty pervaded it no doubt, and that
of a high order. It was the beauty of Adam before God breathed into
his nostrils.” And in speaking of Jenny Lind later in his _Good-Bye
My Fancy_, Whitman said: “... the canary, and several other sweet
birds are wondrous fine--but there is something in song that goes
deeper--isn’t there?”

Washington Irving, who was an old man when Jenny Lind came to New
York in 1850, overcame his reluctance to combat with the crowds and
finally heard her sing; he wrote to Miss Mary M. Hamilton: “I have
seen and heard her but once, but have at once enrolled myself among
her admirers. I cannot say, however, how much of my admiration goes to
her singing, how much to herself. As a singer, she appears to me of
the very first order; as a specimen of womankind, a little more. She
is enough of herself to counterbalance all the evil that the world is
threatened with by the great convention of women. So God save Jenny
Lind!”

There seems to be no doubt from the records of the period that Jenny
Lind’s voice was a brilliant and powerful soprano, dramatic, flexible
and rich, and she was praised very highly for her ability to control
the shake and the skilful management of her breath. She always insisted
also that a singer should “look pleasant” while singing and never
allow herself contortions of any kind. She had a perfect horror of
careless enunciation.

After the first concerts had confirmed the greatest hopes and most
fervent expectations, the personal, popular enthusiasm increased, if
possible. The rumor went about that one of Jenny Lind’s gloves had been
found by a citizen of New York, and the finder exhibited the glove
to large crowds, charging one shilling to kiss its outside and two
shillings to kiss the inside. A crowd gathered outside her hotel one
evening saw two ladies appear on a balcony. The crowd looked eagerly;
it could not be sure, but some of the members believed that one of the
ladies was Jenny Lind. Just then the lady dropped a peach pit from
the balcony, and a mad scramble followed for the possible peach pit
that had lodged for a moment in the divine mouth of Jenny Lind. The
only Whig candidate for Assembly in one of the districts of Rensselaer
County, New York, was Jenny Lind. She had previously received a vote
for Lieutenant Governor of Massachusetts, and she received several
votes in New York City for mayor.

These and other absurdities were ridiculed and held against the
population of New York in newspapers of other cities, and especially
by the London press. The London _Athenæum_, commenting upon the
reports of Jenny Lind’s reception in New York, wrote: “‘Jenny’s in
New York,’ ‘Jenny’s in America,’ shout the papers--they can scarcely
credit their own good fortune. They go about asking one another if it
can be true.... The gentle little lady has come amongst them to sing
a few of her pastoral airs ‘for a consideration,’--and they greet her
with a perfect Niagara of welcome. We never remember child’s play
performed before by such a company. The whole thing looks like a vast
‘make-believe.’ America seems to have no serious business in life;
and the whole people--bishops, magistrates and all--are engaged in a
huge game of ‘High Jinks.’” But this criticism resembled the sober
reflections of a reformed drunkard, as he sees a fellow man rolling
in the gutter. The London _Athenæum_ forgot its own account by a
Frankfort, Germany, correspondent published several years before:
“Dine where you would during the Frankfort Fair, you heard of ‘Free
Trade’--and Jenny Lind; of Railroads--and next of Jenny Lind; of the
Spanish Match [the marriage of the Spanish princess]--and, still, Jenny
Lind; of the Pope and the people--and, always, Jenny Lind! When she was
coming--what she would sing--how much be paid--who get the places--and
the like.” The London papers forgot in their ridicule of American
adulation the scenes in Liverpool just before her departure, and that
when she first arrived in England she bore a letter of introduction
from the King of Prussia to Queen Victoria, in which His Majesty asked
Her Majesty “to show every possible kindness to one of the most modest,
exemplary and talented singers which any time has yet produced.” And
they also forgot that when Queen Victoria and Prince Albert visited the
opera when Jenny Lind sang, the glasses were leveled at the stage, and
the royal box was almost like any other box; yet when Charles Macready
performed in _King Lear_, one of his most famous rôles, while Jenny
Lind was present, the stage was ignored in favor of her box. In the
English provinces crowds had gathered outside Jenny Lind’s hotels,
singing,

“Jenny Lind O! Jenny Lind O!
Come to the window!”

And Jenny seldom would respond. _Gants_ and _mouchoirs à la_ Jenny
Lind were started in London and imitated in New York. Carlyle was able
to write with justice to his brother: “All people are rushing after a
little Swedish woman, an Opera Singer, called Jenny Lind: 40 pounds
is the price of a box (four sittings) for one night, in some cases! I
saw Jenny, one day, dined with her, and had to speak French to her all
dinner,--a nice little innocent, clear, _thin_ ‘bit lassie’; somewhat
like a douce minister’s daughter; sense enough, too; but my notion was
that I could easily raise fifty women with much _more_ sense (one in
Dumfries with twice as much perhaps); and that, as to singing, with
such a _shrew_ of a voice,--I would _not_ give 10 pounds or hardly 10
pence, to hear Jenny!”

It is a curious phase of the Jenny Lind mania that in cities which
had not yet heard her sing, the enthusiasm of other cities was always
ridiculed. Boston laughed at New York, and Philadelphia scorned both,
until it was forced to hold its tongue and listen to its own raptures.
And as soon as she had left a city, and the trance had worn off
slightly, people shook their heads over the antics of their neighbors:
London ridiculed New York, and New York laughed at Boston.

But while Jenny Lind remained in a city the enthusiasm was unbounded,
and not the least enthusiastic were those who came to seek her
charity. Swedes came from all over the country to remind her in her
benevolence that after all they were Swedes. Maunsell B. Field was
asked by Jenny Lind, according to his book, to select appropriate
charities. He presented a list of institutions for her approval, and
she approved them without looking at his list. Then Field started on
his mission of mercy, and he was to regret that he had ever undertaken
the job. “Scarcely anybody,” he wrote, “--there were a few praiseworthy
exceptions--was satisfied. At almost every establishment at which I
called, they tried to persuade me that a larger allotment should have
been made to their particular institution, and that its needs and
deservings were so much greater than those of such a sister one.” Jenny
Lind herself was literally hounded by charity seekers as soon as it
became generally known that she practised charity. Every day people
visited her and gained admission on various pretexts, only to beg when
they came within her hearing. Some ladies who called for a gift, when
they received one, turned up their noses and asked, “Is that all?” Upon
another occasion an indignant petitioner declared that he had not come
for alms but for a donation, when the sum he received did not exceed
his expectations.

She received begging letters daily, and Barnum also received his
share. He said that he received an average of twenty begging letters
every day during her tour of the country. One woman in Pittsburg
informed Barnum that she had just given birth to twins, a boy and
a girl, and that she had named them P. T. Barnum and Jenny Lind
respectively, adding that in gratitude it was his duty to send her
$5,000 for the immediate wants of the pair, and also that she thought
Barnum should make provision for their future education and support.
One man wrote: “god Nose I am Poore,” and another, who said he was too
decrepit to earn a living, took advantage of Barnum’s love of religion,
when he wrote: “I tak grait pleshur in Readin my bibel, speshily the
Proffits.”

Acknowledgments of Jenny Lind’s donations appeared every day in the
newspapers, which was excellent publicity, but it was also appropriate,
for her charities were large enough to be exceptional news. There was
something in Jenny Lind’s character that made charity necessary, and
that was probably, as her letters intimate, a sense of possessing a
gift from God, which she considered that she held in trust, and which
it was therefore her duty to dispense; for all life was a terrible
obligation to Jenny Lind. If she made a pecuniary fortune by means of a
God-given art, it was part of the divine justice that ruled her world
for her to give much of that fortune to God’s creatures, individually,
and through the agencies of homes for indigent females, firemen’s funds
and university scholarships. But this obligation carried with it as
many worries and annoyances as it did delights and satisfactions. It
even extended its annoyances to other persons, who in some cases were
not even remotely associated with her. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote
in his Journal for September 11, 1850: “In the twilight, a visit from a
vendor of essences, who offered a great bargain; namely, that he would
give me a dollar’s worth of his essences, and I should write for him
a poetical epistle to Jenny Lind asking charity in his behalf. Stupid
dolt! it took me some time to make him comprehend the indecency of his
behavior. Truly an ignoble Yankee is a very ignoble being.”

Barnum was accused continually in the newspapers of contributing
nothing to charity, while his Angel gave away her money in profusion.
A conundrum went the rounds of the newspapers throughout the country
which read: “Why is it that Jenny Lind and Barnum will never
fall out?” Answer: “Because he is always for-getting, and she is
always forgiving.” It was said that Barnum himself invented this
disparagement, and it would not be unlikely, for he never cared what
the public thought of him so long as they talked about him. Without
doubt it was Barnum’s wise policy to elevate Jenny Lind to the skies
even at the expense of himself. He may have realized that every good
story, including those in the Bible, has a villain, and he was quite
willing to take the rôle providing the receipts were large enough.
Almost every day for several weeks in October of 1850 James Gordon
Bennett attacked Barnum in the _Herald_ and demanded to know when he
was going to give something to charity. A sample of these misstatements
read: “Jenny Lind does all the generous acts, and Barnum perpetrates
all the mean doings. He has not given a penny as yet for any charitable
purpose, although he makes more out of Jenny’s talents than Jenny does
herself.” This was untrue, for whenever Jenny Lind gave a concert
for charity, she gave her voice. Barnum paid all the expenses of the
hall, the orchestra, printing and advertising. She frequently urged
him to deduct the expenses from the proceeds and give the remainder to
charity, but he wrote in his autobiography that he insisted on paying
his share to charity, for “it was purely a business operation, ‘bread
cast upon the waters,’” which “would return, perhaps, buttered; for the
larger her reputation for liberality, the more liberal the public would
surely be to us and to our enterprise.” Before the first concert Barnum
thought the receipts might total $20,000, and he announced that Jenny
Lind would give her share, $10,000, to charity. When her share totaled
only $8,500, he made up the difference without any announcement of his
own liberality. It was one of the ingredients of his disposition which
contributed to his success that allowed Barnum, with the knowledge
that he had contributed largely to Jenny Lind’s charities, to enjoy in
silence what would have caused most men to write indignant letters and
institute exorbitant libel suits. Barnum was never indignant publicly,
and by laughing at his detractors he always gained the applause of the
large numbers of his fellow citizens, who respected him because he was
successful and enjoyed him because he was entertaining.

There were a hundred men in New York the day after Jenny Lind’s first
concert who would have given Barnum $200,000 for his contract. He
received offers for an eighth, a tenth, and even a sixteenth of a share
in the profits, but he kept the entire contract to himself, for he did
not relish assistance which refuses to take a risk. The receipts of
the second concert in New York were $14,203.03, and the remaining four
concerts there brought in a total of $54,988.81, making the total for
the six New York concerts, Jenny Lind’s first appearances, $87,055.89.
Then Barnum moved on Boston.

The party left on the _Empire State_ on the evening of September 26.
As the steamer passed Blackwells Island, the prisoners were drawn up
to greet Jenny Lind. She seemed much pleased and asked Barnum who
these enthusiastic lovers of music were, and when she was told that
they were prisoners, she hurried to the opposite side of the deck; she
could not sympathize with creatures who had done wrong. Along the banks
of the East River cheering crowds gathered to salute her, and as the
boat passed Fort Adams at half-past two in the morning, the officers
serenaded her.

In spite of the rain a large crowd assembled at the Old Colony Depot
to welcome Jenny Lind to Boston. The entrance to the Revere House,
where she stayed in Boston, was completely blocked with people. Soon
after her arrival the Mayor and a group of his selectmen hurried to
the hotel and were introduced. The Mayor assured her that, in spite
of its reputation, Boston was as cordial as any place in the United
States, and that she would find greater appreciation there for her
talent than elsewhere. “It is not your superhuman musical endowments,”
he added, “that have captivated our senses, it is your unblemished
private character, and--” But here Jenny Lind interrupted and asked
the Mayor, “What do you know of my private character? What _can_ you
know of my private character? Sir, I am no better than other people,
no better.” “Madam,” the Mayor insisted, “where there is so much
goodness of heart as you display, there must be virtue. Your Christian
conduct is sufficient excuse for allusion to your exalted reputation.
It has charmed the world; and though small communities may be deceived
in their estimate of an individual, the world, I think, cannot. The
world has conceded to you all that I have pronounced of your history.
Your fame has been domesticated, not only in your own country, but
throughout Europe; and in America your name has become a household
word. The object of this visit, Miss Lind, on the part of myself and
the aldermen and other gentlemen who accompany me, is not to utter
fulsome adulations; we have come to do honor to ourselves, and to
testify respect for genius and virtue. We are happy to find you in such
good health and spirits, and hope that your visit to America may be
pleasant.” Jenny Lind’s response was that they praised her too much,
and she probably meant it, for she had a very fair sense of proportion.

The people outside the Revere House refused to leave, although they
were dripping with rain, until the Mayor requested them to do so. The
New York newspapers eagerly copied this account, and the _Tribune_,
heading its reprint “Alas for Boston!”, interpolated sarcastic comments
on the Mayor’s remarks. The auction of the first ticket in Boston
started at $250, twenty-five dollars more than the last bid in New
York; as a Boston newspaper expressed the difference, it “at once
clapped a broad-brimmed beaver extinguisher upon the flaming glories
of the Mammoth Manhattan hatter, and the great city that owned him
for its champion. Genin was instantaneously swamped in ticket-buying
supremacy. His cake of immortality was dough, his felt and fur
transcendentalism was scattered to the four winds, and he sank at once
with a crashing souse into a mere eightpenny oblivion.” Ossian F.
Dodge, a vocalist, paid $625 for the first ticket. The publicity Genin
received had taught others its value, and Dodge paid this high price as
an investment, which was successful, for immediately after Jenny Lind’s
departure his own concerts were well attended.

Longfellow and the Hon. Edward S. Everett called upon Jenny Lind at her
hotel, and the poet was charmed with her personality, and later with
her voice. She visited Cambridge and looked through the telescope of
the astronomical observatory. As she was gazing at the skies a large
meteor crossed the path of the telescope, and some of the newspapers
took this as a gigantic omen of “the brilliant reputation which is to
attend the great vocalist on her travels through the United States.”
But Barnum was attending to the details of that, and he needed no
meteor’s assistance. The newspapers were kept supplied daily with fresh
stories of Jenny Lind. One of these told of the antics of the coachman
who had driven her to the Revere House. In mockery of his unbalanced
fellow citizens, he rose on the steps of the hotel, and, extending his
hands, shouted to the crowd: “Here’s the hand that lifted Jenny Lind
out of the coach, gentlemen. You can, any of you, kiss it, who choose
to buy that privilege for five dollars, children half-price.” A Boston
newspaper told of the invention of a “Jenny Lind Tea Kettle,” which,
“being filled with water and placed on the fire, begins to sing in a
few minutes,” and a provision dealer in Lynn, Massachusetts, offered
for sale “Jenny Lind Sausages.”

The Boston concerts were successful, and Jenny Lind’s renditions of
Handel’s _Messiah_, Haydn’s _Creation_, and Rossini’s _Stabat Mater_
were especially popular. But the last concert in Boston was a riot.
It was held in the Fitchburg Depot, a building badly adapted to the
needs of a concert hall. Those who had purchased only standing-room
stormed the hall early and took many of the seats, which led to
the impression that Barnum had sold too many tickets. The hall was
without ventilation, for the windows were nailed down, and the heat
was oppressive. The audience kept up a loud, indignant conversation
to alleviate its discomfort, and it was impossible to hear Belletti’s
solo beyond the first rows of the orchestra. While he was singing,
some one suggested relief by breaking the windows, and the impromptu
accompaniment of the sound of smashing glass gave to his song a weird
effect. When Jenny Lind herself appeared, there was more quiet, but not
enough for all to hear her. A rumor that the floor would not hold the
weight of the crowd threatened to become the source of a panic until
Benjamin Peirce, America’s most eminent mathematician, mounted a chair
and reassured the crowd by stating it as his emphatic expert opinion
that the floor would hold their weight.[10] The confusion continued
until the end of the concert. Barnum was threatened with violence by
the crowd and was compelled to go to his hotel quietly before the
concert was finished. Announcement was made that the tickets which
could not be used by their rightful owners because of the appropriation
of seats by the mob would be redeemed at cost price, but the mob was
angry, and there was much talk of tar and feathers for Barnum, who left
Boston the next day, allowing his manager, Le Grand Smith, to pay off
the dissatisfied ticket-holders.

This episode, which is one of many omitted from Barnum’s autobiography,
caused Jenny Lind to become dissatisfied with her manager. Throughout
their tour it was difficult for Barnum to reconcile his methods with
her temperament, but this was the first sign of disagreement. Jenny
Lind hated crowds, and to Barnum they were a delight as well as a
necessity. She hated humbug, a word which was constantly on her lips
to describe all that was abhorrent to her; and Barnum called himself
the “Prince of Humbugs.” When she heard that Ossian F. Dodge had paid
$625 for the first ticket to her Boston concert, she said, “What a
fool!”

The newspapers were also angry at Barnum for the riot in the Fitchburg
depot, and one of them published an attack upon his methods that
accused him openly of fraud. The editor of another Boston newspaper
wrote to Barnum: “One of our occasional correspondents has sent an
article which I find is in type, handling you very severely. Thinking
that you would dislike very much to be placed before the public in an
unfavorable light, especially at this particular time, I concluded to
write this and say, that if you desire it, I will prevent its appearing
in our columns. Please reply by bearer, and believe me, Faithfully
yours, ----. P. S. Please loan me one hundred dollars for a few days to
aid me in making an improvement in our paper.” Barnum answered: “Sir--I
hope you will by no means curtail the privilege of ‘correspondents’
or editors on my account. Publish what you please, so far as I am
concerned. I have no money to lend, and never yet paid a farthing
‘blackmail,’ and, _so help me God, I never will_. P. T. Barnum.” Then
Barnum published the entire correspondence in the Boston newspapers,
omitting the name of the editor.

From Boston the party went to Philadelphia. Philadelphia was determined
not to lose its head and heart, as Boston and New York had done, and
the audience that assembled in the Chestnut Street Theater was quiet,
staid, and cold; they could not have been more skeptical had they
been from Missouri. When Belletti came upon the stage, there was a
dead silence, and after his song only a few daring hands ventured to
break the heavy hostility. Jenny Lind’s appearance was greeted with
a few cheers, which were conspicuous for their individuality rather
than their communal strength. The first of her arias was received with
only slight applause, but when she sang “Take This Lute,” the ice was
broken, and the rest of the program was received with enthusiasm
appropriate to her reputation.

She returned to New York from Philadelphia, and gave fifteen more
concerts in Tripler Hall. At one of these Daniel Webster, who had paid
a personal call in Boston, and who impressed her as America’s greatest
intellect, heard her sing. He twisted impatiently in his seat while she
sang florid arias, and finally whispered to one of his friends, “Why
doesn’t she give us one of the simple mountain melodies of her native
land?” The remark was overheard and carried to Jenny Lind, who obliged
Daniel Webster with the “Mountain Song.” When she finished, he rose
in his seat and bowed his large head respectfully and solemnly at the
simple maiden who was curtsying to him from the stage.

After dispensing more than $5,000 in public charity, Jenny Lind
returned to Philadelphia, and then went to Baltimore, where she was
greeted enthusiastically by a crowd, who insisted that she appear on
the balcony of her hotel. She dropped her shawl by accident, and the
people below fell on top of one another and tore the shawl to bits
for souvenirs. During her second visit to Philadelphia she had been
subjected to evidences of popularity, but she had a bad headache and
refused to appear on the hotel balcony. The crowd would not go away,
and finally, in order that Jenny Lind might get rest, Barnum dressed
her pious companion, Josephine Åhmansson, in the singer’s cloak and
bonnet, and to authenticate the deception he smilingly received the
applause of the multitude as he stood by Miss Åhmansson’s side.

In Washington Jenny Lind became a national character. The morning after
her arrival President Fillmore called at her hotel and left his card,
Jenny Lind being out. She was impressed with this mark of esteem and
considered it a command for her presence. She wished to go at once to
the White House in answer to the command, but Barnum convinced her that
in the United States the President does not command individuals, and
that the next morning would be time enough to return the compliment.
Barnum and Jenny Lind spent the next evening in the private circle
of the President at the White House, and she was charmed with the
simplicity of her reception at the American court.

The concerts in Washington were held in a hall that was being built
especially for Jenny Lind, and which was not finished when she arrived.
Planks instead of steps, unpainted walls and rough benches, were
accepted by the President, the members of his cabinet, and the leaders
of Washington’s political society, in order that they might hear Jenny
Lind sing. Among others, Daniel Webster, General Cass and General Scott
were at the first concert. Soon after Benedict began the overture
a murmur was heard in the rear of the hall. It died down, and the
overture was finished. There was great applause, and Benedict turned
to face the audience in gratitude. But the audience was not looking at
the stage, and the applause had not been for the overture. The figure
of an aged man was slowly advancing to the front of the hall. Every one
made way for him, and as he crept along, the shouts and the applause
increased. Bowing to the right and to the left, he feebly groped his
way to his seat. Finally he reached the seat, and there was silence
as all watched him slowly sink into it. Then a voice from the gallery
shouted, “Three cheers for Harry Clay!”

On the morning after her first Washington concert Henry Clay called
upon Jenny Lind and enjoyed a long conversation with her. Webster sent
a note asking for an appointment, and it soon became a matter of state
importance for the most prominent senators and representatives to
visit her at the hotel. She made the trip to Mt. Vernon, and Colonel
Washington, one of the President’s descendants, guided her through the
George Washington house and estate. Mrs. Washington gave her a book
with his autograph from the first President’s library.

On the occasion of the second concert in Washington the President and
the same celebrities attended again, and Barnum was unfortunately
persuaded to request Jenny Lind to sing “Hail Columbia,” which was
hardly suited to her voice. Even this audience which was anxious to
please was not enthusiastic over her rendition of the popular tune, and
Barnum after that experience declined to suggest any songs for his star.

Richmond and Charleston paid tribute after Washington had heard Jenny
Lind, and then the party left for Havana, Cuba. At Charleston she
celebrated Christmas, and she ironically presented Barnum with a statue
of Bacchus in Parian marble, which he kept at “Iranistan” for many
years.

Jenny Lind was dissatisfied with the dirty hotel in Havana, and she
left the rest of the party and went out alone to find a house. She
returned a short time later and invited Barnum and his daughter to
share with her a pleasant house in a suburban district, where she
rested and played ball on the lawn. She insisted that Barnum too must
come out on the lawn, but Barnum was getting corpulent, and he tells
us that when he grew tired too soon, Jenny Lind would exclaim in
“her rich, musical laugh,” “Oh, Mr. Barnum, you are too fat and too
lazy; you cannot stand to play ball with me!” In Havana she met again
Fredrika Bremer, the Swedish writer, who had been touring America.
Fredrika Bremer had known Jenny Lind in Sweden, and when they met in
Havana they talked of their Swedish friends, for Jenny Lind seemed
reluctant to discuss her concerts or her triumphs. “I fancied,” wrote
Fredrika Bremer, “that Jenny Lind was tired of her wandering life and
her rôle of singer. We talked of--marriage and domestic life. Of a
certainty a change of this kind is approaching for Jenny Lind. But will
it satisfy her soul and be enough for her? I doubt.”

An Italian opera company was performing in Havana when Jenny Lind
arrived, and the population was divided concerning the relative merits
of singing inspired by the cold north, and that which was nurtured in
southern warmth. The Creoles favored Jenny Lind, but the Castilians
supported the Italians, and all the newspapers were also on their side.
There was much sentiment against Barnum because of the high prices
he asked for his tickets, and the hall was not crowded when the first
concert began. The audience was divided into hostile factions, and
Belletti, although he was an Italian, was received in silence and got
no applause when he had finished. When Jenny Lind entered, a few daring
hands clapped, but they were almost immediately silenced by hisses.
This attitude angered her, and she pitted her voice in all its power
against this hostility which seemed to her so unreasonable. After her
first recitative there was a silent pause. The audience seemed afraid
and undecided, but as she prepared to retire, there was a burst of
applause, and she was brought back five times. Although encores were
forbidden by the rules of the opera house, upon this occasion the
regulation was relaxed, and Jenny Lind repeated the _Casta Diva_.
Barnum could not restrain tears of joy, as he watched from his post
in the wings Jenny Lind’s triumph over hostility. When she came back
stage, he rushed up to her and said, “God bless you, Jenny, you have
settled them!” She threw her arms about his neck, wept, and asked, “Are
you satisfied?”

After four concerts in Havana, although they were financially and
artistically successful, the original intention to give twelve concerts
there was abandoned, and the party left for New Orleans. On this voyage
Jenny Lind was troubled and distressed at the presence in the ship
of four hundred reveling gold-hunters from California. When the boat
arrived in New Orleans, the wharf was crowded with people who were
anxious to welcome her, and she dreaded the encounter, for the quiet of
her Havana vacation had increased her hatred of crowds. “Mr. Barnum,”
she said, “I am sure I can never get through that crowd.” “Leave that
to me,” Barnum answered. He dressed his daughter in a veil, and, taking
her arm, proceeded down the gangplank, while Jenny Lind remained
in her cabin. Many of the people on the wharf recognized Barnum
immediately, and his manager, Le Grand Smith, stood against the rail
of the deck, shouting, “Make way, if you please, for Mr. Barnum and
Miss Lind.” Barnum and his daughter made their way through the crowd
with difficulty and drove to the hotel where Jenny Lind’s suite had
been engaged. A few minutes later Jenny Lind drove through the empty,
tranquil streets of New Orleans to the hotel.

In New Orleans the concerts were very successful, and after her first
appearance, the planters and other wealthy residents of the near-by
Mississippi River towns came down the Mississippi to hear her. New
Orleans at that time was described by a member of the Jenny Lind party
as the city where “drinking seems to hold its chief abiding place in
the New World,” and where “drunkenness may be regarded as one of the
more prominent features of the lower classes.” Therefore Barnum chose
New Orleans as a most appropriate place for his lecture on temperance.
He had contributed $500 to the temperance cause, which was under
the leadership in Louisiana of Father Matthew. Possibly at Barnum’s
dictation or suggestion, Father Matthew wrote to all the newspapers in
acknowledgment of this gift. Soon afterwards Mayor Crossman and some
of the leading citizens asked Barnum to lecture on temperance. He was
in excellent form that evening. He spoke of the poisonous qualities of
alcohol, and when a member of the audience asked, “How does it affect
us, externally or internally?” Barnum replied, “_E_-ternally.” He spoke
for one hour and a quarter, and a contemporary account suggests that
another hour would not have been too much. At the end of his temperance
lecture he announced the date of Jenny Lind’s last concert, but the
demand for tickets was great, and Jenny Lind refused to travel on the
Sabbath, so that, not very reluctantly, Barnum was forced to give two
farewell concerts. It was at the last concert that, according to the
_New Orleans Picayune_ of the next day, “one enthusiastic individual
in the pit of the St. Charles’ Theater, who vociferously encored Jenny
Lind in the ‘Last Rose of Summer,’ for the third time, finding his
‘call’ not responded to, rushed out and made his way among the quadroon
flower-girls on St. Charles Street, asking, ‘Have you got the last
rose of summer?--where’s the last rose of summer? I’ll give five--I’ll
give ten dollars for the last rose of summer.’”

The concert party proceeded up the Mississippi River, and Jenny Lind
gave performances at Natchez and Memphis. At Nashville, Tennessee,
they arrived just before April Fool’s Day, and on the first of April
Barnum exercised his cruel and unthinking practical sense of humor
by obtaining blank telegraph forms and sending his companions and
employees alarming despatches from home. Le Grand Smith received a
message from his old father in Connecticut that the family homestead
was in ashes, and some of the minor employees had offers for their
services from banks and other institutions. The musical performers were
offered long engagements in New York or London, and one of the married
men was informed that he was the father of twins. The next morning they
read in a Nashville newspaper an account of the deception, for Barnum
was proud of his wit and anxious to make publicity even at the expense
of other persons’ anxiety or false hopes. In his early circus days
Aaron Turner had played the same kind of trick on him, and he forgot
how angry he had been at this type of practical joke.

In Cincinnati the crowd on the wharf was so large that once more Jenny
Lind was distressed. The news of how Barnum kept the crowds from Jenny
Lind in New Orleans had spread, and it was impossible for him to repeat
the trick at Cincinnati. Therefore, this time he took Jenny Lind’s
arm. She was heavily veiled. Le Grand Smith shouted from the deck of
the ship, “That’s no go, Mr. Barnum, you can’t pass your daughter off
for Jenny Lind this time.” The crowd backed away from the couple of
celebrities and jeered wisely at Barnum, assuring him that he could
fool New Orleans, but not Cincinnati. In five minutes Jenny Lind was in
her rooms, and the crowd persisted for an hour on the wharf.

In May, 1851, Barnum and Jenny Lind returned to New York, where
she gave fourteen concerts with great success. Then they went to
Philadelphia, where three concerts were scheduled, but when Jenny
Lind arrived there, she discovered that Barnum had hired the National
Theater, which had been used for a circus only a short time before.
The dressing room smelled like a stable, and Jenny Lind assured Barnum
indignantly that she was not a horse. This disagreement brought to a
head other causes of dissatisfaction. Barnum said many times in his
autobiography that Jenny Lind’s advisers, and particularly John Jay,
who had succeeded his partner, Maunsell B. Field, as Jenny Lind’s
legal representative, plagued him continually during the tour. They
poured into Jenny Lind’s ears the suggestion that while she was getting
large sums of money from Barnum, he was making much more out of her
talents. Her secretary, who was anxious to become her manager, used
this argument whenever the opportunity presented itself. Also, at this
time, Otto Goldschmidt, a young German whom Jenny Lind had known in
Europe, joined the party to take the place of Julius Benedict, whose
ill health made it necessary for him to return home. This serious
student and frigid musician, whose Teutonic personality as gleaned from
the few stories about him, leads to the impression that he was more
precise than he was interesting, would not have been attracted either
by Barnum’s character or his methods.[11] And Jenny Lind, as we shall
see, paid special attention to the opinions of Otto Goldschmidt.

Matters reached a crisis after the first of the additional Philadelphia
concerts. The latest contract provided that after one hundred concerts
either party could terminate the agreement with the consent of the
other party. Ninety-three concerts had been given, and Barnum and
Jenny Lind agreed to abrogate the contract forthwith. She paid him
$1,000 for each of the remaining seven concerts, and the $25,000 agreed
upon as the forfeit to be paid for the termination of the contract.

Barnum’s management of the Jenny Lind tour had been successful, but
not easy. Besides the constant necessity of keeping up a steady stream
of publicity, which was a burden as well as a delight to Barnum,
he had to contend with dissatisfied newspapers, beggars, and the
dignity of Jenny Lind’s friends, who kept assuring her that after all
Barnum was a showman and not an impresario. At the end of the nine
months of work and anxiety Barnum was tired of the bickerings and the
misunderstandings and the clashes of different temperaments, even if he
was not weary of the vanity, the notoriety and the little pleasantries
which always characterized his enterprises; so that he was glad to
retire for a rest under the gilded domes and shining minarets of
“Iranistan,” while Jenny Lind continued to give concerts under her own
management.

The ninety-three concerts under Barnum’s management had yielded a total
of $712,161.34 in a period of nine months. Of this amount Jenny Lind
received from Barnum, besides all her expenses, $208,675.09 as her
share of the proceeds, including her guaranteed stipend of $1,000 per
concert. She refunded to Barnum $32,000 to break the contract after the
ninety-three concerts, so that her net profit from the tour totaled
$176,675.09. Barnum’s gross receipts, after paying Jenny Lind her
share, were $535,486.25. He never printed what proportion of this was
net profit, but his expenses probably reached $350,000.

The Jenny Lind tour, besides the financial profit to the two principals
and the beneficial effect on Barnum’s prestige and Jenny Lind’s
popularity, had an effect of great importance on the history of music
in the United States. No star in her ascendancy had ventured into
the barbarous American woods in search of gold, but the success of
Jenny Lind, which was so much greater financially and emotionally
than any of her European triumphs, opened the eyes of other musical
celebrities to possibilities in an American tour; it also awakened
American impresarios to the opportunities in this country. Grisi and
Mario, who were Europe’s favorites before the Jenny Lind vogue, made
plans to visit the United States, and Johanna Wagner at one time
entertained that intention. Henriette Sontag visited New York when
Jenny Lind was preparing to leave. She enjoyed some success here, due
in part to her beauty and charming manner, as well as to her voice, but
she did not create a Jenny Lind furor. At the time when Mme. Sontag
visited the United States, Von Bülow called her in compliment to her
beauty, “a forty-eight-year-old soubrette.” She had many admirers in
Europe, and some of these were personal. Lord Clanwilliam, British
Ambassador at Berlin, was so persistent in his unwelcome attentions to
Mme. Sontag that he was called “Lord Montag following Sontag.” After
Barnum retired, Le Grand Smith became an impresario in his own name and
brought Mme. Alboni to this country in 1852. Neither of these stars
enjoyed the success of Jenny Lind, for, aside from any difference in
the qualities of their voices, it was well known that young men in
Europe drank champagne from Henriette Sontag’s slipper, and Alboni’s
lovers were almost as many as Jenny Lind’s charities: church has always
been more popular in America than burlesque.

In 1855 Thalberg came to the United States and was received by
appreciative audiences. Barnum imported an Englishwoman, Catherine
Hayes, who gave concerts in California, where gold was being
discovered. Julien presented a successful series of operas in many
large cities. New musical halls were built in New York, Philadelphia,
and other populous cities. Less than one year after Jenny Lind left
this country, J. S. Dwight, editor of the _Boston Journal of Music_,
wrote in his magazine: “Verily, we need not go abroad for music. The
last ten days at home have been rich with musical events.... There has
been the oratorio of Beethoven, and there has been the Mendelssohn
Festival; and there has been another of the choicest and purest kind of
Chamber Concerts; and there have been three or four nights of Alboni’s
opera; and last, but not the least significant as a sign of the times,
the two weekly afternoon orchestra ‘rehearsals,’ both (as usual)
largely attended, and one inordinately crowded--either of these were
text enough for quite as long a disquisition as could be profitable
for one week. We can only take them in their order and pass lightly
over topics, any one of which would be a perfect God-send and meat for
weeks of gossip and excitement at almost any other time--_as times were
once_.”

Credit must be given to Barnum for the impetus to musical enterprise
in the United States, even though his intentions were not purely
educational or philanthropic. “It is a mistake,” he told a reporter in
1890, “to say the fame of Jenny Lind rests solely upon her ability to
sing. She was a woman who would have been adored if she had had the
voice of a crow.” It would be a mistake to say that music in America
depended for its success on Barnum, but it was his ability as a
publicity entrepreneur that caused thousands to realize for the first
time what pleasure they had been missing in their ignorance of music.
He created a large scale demand, the satisfaction of which was carried
out by men of superior musical judgment, but music in the United States
was advanced many years in its progress by Barnum’s daring importation
and unique exploitation of Jenny Lind.

Jenny Lind continued to give concerts after she and Barnum separated,
but her success was not so great as that she had enjoyed under his
management. This was due in some measure, and probably very largely,
to the absence of Barnum, who was always resourceful in the face of
public indifference, which he combated with new inducements. But it
was also due to the fact that her novelty was wearing off, and even a
public that adored a heroine in white was beginning to find unrelieved
perfection dull. A French writer has set it down, “Pretend to a fault
if you haven’t one, for the one thing the world never forgives is
perfection,” and Jenny Lind had not even a fault she could pretend to.
Disraeli once said of Gladstone that he was “a man without a single
redeeming vice,” and the characterization fits perfectly the public
side of Jenny Lind’s personality. Barnum had succeeded admirably
in keeping her perfection a source of delight to the public. His
manager, Le Grand Smith, remarked, “Well, Mr. Barnum, you have managed
wonderfully in always keeping Jenny’s ‘angel’ side outside with the
public.” This accomplishment was admired by showmen and theatrical
agents throughout this country and England, and it increased Barnum’s
reputation among impresarios as much as the successful management of
the concerts raised his esteem with the general public.

It was only after Barnum and Jenny Lind severed their connection that
the public began to find fault. Possibly this equivocal perfection
would have been penetrated finally, even under Barnum’s management, but
while he was her manager he strove energetically to maintain it, and
afterwards there was no one capable of taking his place. For almost a
year Jenny Lind had been a Dickens heroine in the hearts of Americans,
a David Copperfield doll wife to the great sentimental public, and
the first intense ardors of love were beginning to relax into the
type of criticism in which every husband sooner or later indulges.
Behind the crinolines people began to look for humanity and did not
rest until they found satisfactory flaws. It was inevitable that this
should happen, for, as Fielding has pointed out, characters of angelic
perfection in a story are discouraging to the reader, since he must
accept “a pattern of excellence which he may reasonably despair of ever
arriving at.” The Jenny Lind of public repute represents a character of
angelic perfection and a pattern of excellence it would be difficult
to emulate; and it was more than likely that there were few who would
have cared to make the attempt. While Barnum, another public character,
was in the play there was a villain to whom the audience could fasten
whatever of pique or dissatisfaction assailed them. Almost as soon as
he left the scene, the heroine fell from her pedestal. The newspapers
found in Jenny Lind’s actions signs and portents of temperament and
irritability, stubbornness and irrationality. In the flood tide of its
eulogy the _New York Herald_ had written: “If Jenny Lind has faults,
they are like spots on the sun, swallowed up and lost in the glorious
effulgence of the luminary of the world.” The spots on the sun were
beginning to be faintly discernible, and some newspapers even used
telescopes in their efforts to find them. They discovered that she had
a strong will, which on occasion could be described as pig-headedness,
that when she felt uneasy she was cold and irritable, but instead of
loving these imperfections as part of the character of a human being,
those newspapers which brought them to light used them iconoclastically
to prove that the idol they had set up before their eyes was not pure
gold.

When Otto Goldschmidt joined the concert party, he did not add to her
popularity. Jenny Lind had first met him in England, where she was
attracted to him from the fact that he was a pupil of her friend,
Mendelssohn, and because of his ability as a pianist. He played at one
of her concerts for charity in England, and he also played solos at
several of her provincial concerts. He came to America, and at her
suggestion took Julius Benedict’s place. Soon he fell in love with
her, or she fell in love with him; there is no record. But eventually
they fell in love with each other. There had been rumors of Jenny
Lind’s engagement to many persons while she was in this country. Once
she told Barnum that she had just heard a rumor that he and she were
to be married and asked him how he supposed that had ever originated.
“Probably from the fact that we are engaged,” he answered. According
to Maunsell B. Field’s book, Signor Belletti was frantically in love
with Jenny Lind. Field wrote that “the baritone of the troupe which
accompanied her, who was in the same house [The New York Hotel], was
madly in love with her, and he used to lie in bed all day, weeping
and howling over his unrequited affection.” Before Otto Goldschmidt
joined the party at Niagara Falls, where Jenny Lind was resting, she
had seemed to show interest in Belletti. She invariably selected him
as a companion in her walks, and she appealed to him for advice on all
subjects. But the serious young German, who was eight years younger
than she was, soon became the dominating force in her life. Belletti
despaired and left the company soon after Otto Goldschmidt arrived.

Whenever Otto Goldschmidt played piano solos at her concerts, Jenny
Lind sat near him on the stage and fixed her attention on the player.
The audience took the hint and applauded his playing,--or possibly her
presence. Goldschmidt was apparently a good musician, but there is
plenty of newspaper evidence that the public found him dull, and that
Jenny Lind found it necessary to force her friend upon her audiences.
In Philadelphia he was led to foreshorten his performances on the
program because of the excess of obviously ironical applause, but Jenny
Lind met him as he came off the stage and defiantly shook his hand in
public.

They were married at Boston in February, 1852, and lived quietly for
several months at Northampton, Massachusetts. Jenny Lind had never
had congenial home life, and she always enjoyed the happy surface
surroundings of the families she visited in Germany. There was in her
character from the beginning of her womanhood a tendency to shrink from
the world, with its dangers, into the arms of a protecting husband,
whose intimacy would be a refuge from the distrust she always felt for
strangers.

After her marriage Jenny Lind gave a few concerts, and the
advertisements always read “Madame Otto Goldschmidt (late Mlle. Jenny
Lind).” But she was tired of public life, and although Otto Goldschmidt
was in favor of a few more profitable concerts, she was anxious to
return to Europe as soon as possible. This decision was wise, if we can
judge from a Philadelphia newspaper of December 19, 1851:

“Jenny Lind has resolved to give no more concerts in Philadelphia;
few persons will regret her determination, unless she should be
able to better suppress the evidences of ill temper and vexation
than she did on Tuesday evening last. She looked as stingey as a
hive of wasps, and as black as a thunder-cloud, and all because the
house was not crowded. The fact is that Jenny Lind’s attractions
were not strong enough to counteract the dullness of Goldschmidt’s
piano playing, or the merely mediocre ability of Burke on the
violin. The absence too of orchestra was a disgusting exhibition
of parsimony, and a determination to make the most money she
possibly could. Miss Lind has never succeeded since she left the
guardianship of Mr. Barnum; and then she has had poor advisers, and
has been in ill humor when even the homage paid to her talent was
not manifested with the greatest enthusiasm. The nightingale has
feathered her nest well in our country, and she can go back to her
Swedish home where we wish her long health, a better disposition
and a good husband to cheer her declining years.”

Barnum saw her several times after the end of their agreement, for they
were still very friendly to each other. She told him that she found it
annoying to give concerts under her own management, because people were
constantly cheating her.

Madame Otto Goldschmidt (late Mlle. Jenny Lind) announced her farewell
concert at Castle Garden for Monday, May 24, 1852. The concert was
well attended, but not crowded. It rained heavily on May 24, 1852, and
that may have been one reason for the moderate attendance, but one
cannot believe that Barnum would have allowed rain to interfere with
the positively last appearance in America of The Swedish Nightingale.
It was estimated by a newspaper that the receipts for the last
concert were $7,000; the receipts of the first concert under Barnum’s
management had been $17,864.05, and none of his concerts held in Castle
Garden yielded less than $10,000.

Jenny Lind sang a “Farewell to America,” the words of which were
written specially for her use by C. P. Cranch, but it did not cause
enthusiasm. The _New York Herald_, her erstwhile champion, and many of
the other New York newspapers, did not trouble to review her farewell
concert, contenting their readers with short notes concerning it. The
_Herald_ that had called Jenny Lind the most popular woman the world
had ever known, the same _Herald_ that had compared her genius to that
of Raphael, Shakespeare, Columbus, Eli Whitney, Napoleon, Bacon, Dante
and Michael Angelo, sent her from America with these words: “There has
been very little of the classic or pure artistic in her concerts; and
she has been applauded not as an artist, but as a clever vocalist.”
That sun, whose spots the _Herald_ said were “swallowed up and lost
in the glorious effulgence,” was setting more rapidly, perhaps,
than a real sun should, and the _Herald_ itself with characteristic
inconsistency would doubtless have admitted that possibly it was only a
sky rocket.

Barnum visited Jenny Lind in her dressing room after her last concert.
She told him that she would never sing in public again, but he reminded
her that her voice was a gift Providence had invested in her for the
edification and delight of her fellow men, and that she owed it to God
and man to devote that voice to charity and mankind’s enjoyment, if she
herself no longer needed money. “Ah! Mr. Barnum,” she answered, “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 I have all the money which I shall
ever need.” The New Messiah and her advance agent in pious obeisance
paid tribute to their idea of a beneficent Providence, whose all-seeing
eye watches over both a Swedish Nightingale and a Connecticut Yankee.

At one o’clock of the morning of Jenny Lind’s departure, only a few
hundred people gathered for a farewell serenade. The hour, and the fact
that it was still raining, undoubtedly prevented a larger attendance,
but the conviction that she was no longer a goddess contributed
somewhat to the neglect. The firemen were her only faithful admirers.
In gratitude for her donations they presented her with a copy of
Audubon’s _Birds and Quadrupeds of America_ in a rosewood case, and
also with a gold box, seven inches by three inches, the largest gold
box made in America up to that time, they said. The Musical Society
was not present at the serenade, but the same number of firemen, three
hundred, with their red shirts and their lighted torches, waited in the
rain under her window.

“Jenny Lind O! Jenny Lind O!
Come to the window!”

But in spite of the cries of several hundred admirers, Madame Otto
Goldschmidt and her husband refused to appear on the balcony.

At the dock when her ship left two thousand people gathered to make a
noise, in contrast to the thirty thousand who had shoved their way to
greet her. The _Herald_ on the morning of her departure gave her this
parting thrust: “She has been principally engaged in singing pieces
of operas and catches of all kinds, which were considerably more
of the clap-trap style than in accordance with the rigid rules of
classical music. When she returns to London and makes her reappearance
in opera, she will have to prune away a great deal of her _ad libitum_
redundancies in which she indulged during her career in this land.”
This was the same woman whose song seemed to the _Herald_ of a little
more than a year before to be “melting into the song of the seraphim”
until it was “lost in eternity.”

After her return to England, where she and her husband settled
eventually, Jenny Lind was rarely heard in public. She and Otto
Goldschmidt lived at Malvern Hills, where near by there are the three
things she admired most, “trees, water, and a cathedral.” She gave a
few oratorio concerts in England and several concerts for charity on
the Continent, but after her marriage her retirement was practically
complete. It is significant of her character that without a pang of
regret she could still her voice as soon as she changed her name from
Jenny Lind to Madame Otto Goldschmidt. After 1863 she was seldom heard
in public, even for charity, although she was only forty-three years
old. Her last appearance took place in 1883, and in 1887 she died at
Malvern Hills, England, after suffering from complete paralysis for
five weeks.

At one time Jenny Lind intended to write an autobiography, but when
the public did not receive Carlyle’s _Reminiscences_ with the applause
she thought it deserved, she abandoned her idea with the comment, “No!
let the waves of oblivion pass over my poor little life!” There must
have been moments in those later years of uninterrupted existence
along common family lines when Jenny Lind was restless--for what, she
did not know; but, unfortunately for the development of her talents,
in such moments she could always take quick refuge in God. Some pagan
influences might have made her a great woman, for the God she adored
had done all he could in the way of native gifts. If she had listened
to the dictates of her emotions with half the unresisting attention she
paid to the Bishop of Norwich and Josephine Åhmansson, the world to-day
would know of Jenny Lind as something more than the spiritual toy of
its grandfathers. The development of her talents and personality into
genius was thwarted by suppression of the ordinary aims and aspirations
of men. She smothered her desire for money by an inordinate indulgence
in charity; a more natural appetite for worldly possessions might have
led to artistic tastes, of which there is absolutely no indication
beyond the technical development of her voice. Even in music there is
no important discrimination and no predilection for the great, and of
literature and art she knew nothing, because she did not allow herself
even the little mental freedom necessary for their wide acquaintance.
The desire for fame was lost in a constant consideration of God,
making man’s aspirations unimportant in her mind. She could write to a
young boy who was just entering the University of Heidelberg, when she
herself was still under thirty: “You are just going to begin life, dear
Rudolph; and life has quite as much joy as it has sorrow: but I, for
my part, prefer the sorrow: for there is something exalted about it,
whenever one’s heart is full of pain: for then it is that we first feel
how poor we are on earth, how rich in heaven.” Any tendency towards
intellectual supremacy through the agency of her great natural voice
was thwarted by her weak dependence upon the advice of others, leading
eventually to the retirement of marriage.

It was rumored that Jenny Lind’s last years were unhappy, that she was
treated with indifference by her husband, and that her grave in 1890
had fallen into neglect. This story, printed in a London newspaper
and reprinted by the _New York Tribune_, was denied vigorously by
Barnum. He said that he had visited Otto Goldschmidt in London, and
that he happened to know that Jenny Lind’s husband sent fresh flowers
to her grave every day. The London newspaper had printed that she died
broken-hearted, but Barnum declared confidently, “Her whole life was a
song, and her last days were spent in singing for indigent clergymen.”

In their introduction Jenny Lind’s biographers wrote: “And, certainly,
the tale of Jenny Lind may well be told for the sake of bearing
splendid witness, to all those who feel themselves stirred by some
inherent native power, of the unconquerable force with which a pure and
strong individuality, if it be true to the inner light and loyal to
the outward call, can dominate circumstances, however harsh and rude,
and can, with a single eye on the far goal of artistic perfection, and
upheld by faith in God, move straight to its aim with an unswerving and
irresistible security, shaping its passage, amid pitfalls and snares,
over this perilous earth with a motion as free and sure and faithful
as a star that passes, in unhindered obedience, over the steady face
of heaven.” This is not, to my mind, the main interest of Jenny Lind’s
life. In her existence and triumphs lies a tale wherein is contained
the extraordinary circumstances by which a mädchen who wanted most to
be a hausfrau attained by means of a sweet and charitable disposition
and a superb voice to a celebrity as well, and failed to become a great
artist because she succeeded so well in becoming a hausfrau.

CHAPTER VIII

SUNDRIES AND AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Barnum wrote that he “did not know a waking moment that was entirely
free from anxiety” during the nine months of the Jenny Lind tour;
but, despite the labor and annoyances of that enterprise, it was not
his only occupation during the period. Barnum’s American Museum was
still flourishing, and it received additional patronage because of the
national advertising that Barnum gave Jenny Lind, and which Jenny Lind
gave Barnum. Always mindful of the success of his Museum, Barnum sold
the tickets for Jenny Lind concerts in New York at the Museum, in the
expectation, which was usually gratified, that those who came to buy
Jenny Lind tickets would stay to look at the diorama of Napoleon’s
funeral.

But Jenny Lind and his Museum were not enough for the Barnum who had
capital to invest. In 1849 he and Sherwood E. Stratton, General Tom
Thumb’s father, organized “Barnum’s Great Asiatic Caravan, Museum,
and Menagerie.” They chartered a ship which was sent to Ceylon in
May, 1850, to bring back twelve or more live elephants, and any other
available wild animals. On the Island of St. Helena the ship left
five hundred tons of hay to be used for feeding the beasts on the
return trip. The ship arrived in New York with its extraordinary cargo
in 1851, and ten of the elephants, harnessed in pairs to a chariot,
paraded up Broadway and were reviewed by Jenny Lind from the Irving
House.

“Barnum’s Great Asiatic Caravan, Museum, and Menagerie,” including
General Tom Thumb, traveled the country for four years, yielding large
profits to its owners. After four years all the equipment was sold,
except one elephant, which Barnum retained for his personal use. In
charge of a keeper the elephant was sent to Bridgeport, and on Barnum’s
farming land adjoining “Iranistan” both were put to new uses. The
keeper was dressed in Oriental costume of silken breeches, turban,
and yellow silk tunic. A six-acre field, facing the railroad tracks
of the New York & New Haven Railroad, was set aside for the exclusive
use of the elephant. Barnum gave the keeper a railroad time table,
and whenever a passenger train came into sight the elephant busily
plowed the land, the keeper goading him on and leading him as close as
possible to the railroad tracks, so that he who rode might see. This
publicity plan was arranged by Barnum for the benefit of his American
Museum.

The newspapers of this country and Europe printed accounts of the
phenomenon, and everywhere it soon became known that “P. T. Barnum,
proprietor of the American Museum in New York,” had been the first man
in the world to make use of the elephant as an agricultural animal.
Many people visited Bridgeport especially to watch the elephant in
action, and hundreds of letters came to Barnum from agricultural
societies. In his autobiography he summed up the questions asked, 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?

5. Will elephants make themselves generally useful on a farm?

6. What is the price of an elephant?

7. Where can elephants be purchased?

Concerning, “Will elephants make themselves generally useful on a
farm?” Barnum said, “I suppose some of my inquirers thought the
elephant would pick up chips, or even pins as they have been taught
to do, and would rock the baby and do all the chores, including the
occasional carrying of a trunk, other than his own, to the depot.” The
elephant’s trunk was an inexhaustible source of puns to Barnum. Some
anxious farmers asked whether an elephant would quarrel with a cow,
if it was possible to breed elephants on the farm, and how old calf
elephants must be before they would begin to earn their own living.
The number of letters he received, written with a serious inquiring
purpose, caused Barnum to fear that some farmers would buy elephants,
and he printed a form letter, headed “Strictly Confidential.” In this
letter, a copy of which was sent to each of his correspondents, Barnum
said that to him the elephant was a profitable agricultural animal
because he advertised the Museum, but that other farmers might find the
animal a burden. The original cost of an elephant, Barnum pointed out,
was from $3,000 to $10,000. In cold weather the animal would not work
at all; and in any weather he could not earn his keep, since every year
he would eat up the value of his head, trunk, and body. He concluded by
asking his correspondents to keep these facts secret, so that each of
the hundreds felt himself in the confidence of a great man.

The newspapers worked Barnum’s elephant for all he was worth. Reporters
made special trips to Bridgeport from distant points to write of the
scene accurately. Some of their stories said that Barnum’s elephant
built a stone wall around the farm, planted corn with his trunk,
washed the windows of “Iranistan,” and sprinkled the walks and lawns
by inhaling water into his trunk and using that instrument as a garden
hose. The elephant was also credited with feeding the pigs and picking
the fruit, and one writer had the audacity to print that since he was a
male elephant he carried Barnum’s letters to and from the post office.
Millions of readers throughout the country saw pictures of Barnum’s
elephant, and after the six-acre field had been plowed more than fifty
times, the animal was sold to Van Amburgh’s Menagerie.

For several years at this period Barnum was president of the Fairfield
County Agricultural Society, although his practical knowledge of
farming was nothing. But he proved useful as manager of the county
fairs of the society. His knowledge of showmanship was exhibited in
this capacity with great effect in at least one instance. At one of
the last sessions of Barnum’s last fair a pickpocket was caught.
Pickpockets visited the fair annually and usually came away with large
profits, and this particular pickpocket had a reputation for that
work both here and in England. The day after his arrest was the last
day of the fair, and Barnum anticipated light receipts. He therefore
obtained permission from the sheriff to exhibit the pickpocket at the
agricultural fair, for the purpose, he urged the sheriff, of giving
those who had been robbed an opportunity to identify him. Barnum issued
handbills announcing that for the last day of the fair the management
had obtained an unusual attraction, “a live pickpocket,” who would
be exhibited, safely handcuffed, without extra charge. Some farmers
brought their children ten miles to see the extraordinary sight.

Barnum was now recognized by his fellow citizens as a superior
organizer of large-scale entertainment. When the New York Crystal
Palace was in financial difficulties, he was asked to become president.
By means of Julien’s concerts and a celebration of the Independence of
the United States, he tried to save it from bankruptcy, but he came
to the conclusion after three months’ work that “the dead could not
be raised,” and when he discovered that the creditors of the Crystal
Palace expected him personally to pay all its debts he resigned.

Demands were continually made upon Barnum’s time and his money at
this period. Men with inventions visited him almost daily, offering
him the opportunity to make a profit of never less than $100,000 and
often as high as $1,000,000 in a remarkably short time. He was offered
thousands of acres of land if he would lend his name to the sale of
many more acres by stock companies, and impromptu miners offered
similar inducements for the use of his notoriety. These adventurers
in finance, Barnum tells us, usually began their conversations with,
“Mr. Barnum, I know you are always ready to join in anything that
will make money on a large scale.” Barnum’s answer usually was: “You
are much mistaken in supposing that I am so ready or anxious to make
money. On the contrary, there is but one thing in the world that I
desire--that is, tranquillity. I am quite certain your project will
not give me that, for you probably would not have called upon me if
you did not wish to draw upon my brains or my purse--very likely on
both. Now of the first, I have none to spare. Of the second, what I
have is invested, and I have no desire to disturb it.” The schemer
usually protested that his plan only required a stock company for its
promotion, and that Barnum would not be bothered with details. “If you
should propose to get up a stock company for converting paving stones
into diamonds, with a prospect of my making a million a year, I would
not join you,” Barnum tells us he always replied. When he was assailed
with the glittering prospects of money to be made, he answered: “I do
not want to make any money, sir; I have sufficient already to spoil
my children.” But these answers did not turn away the pests. A man in
Nashville, Tennessee, begged Barnum to join him in a project for a
cemetery in that city, and when Barnum doubted whether people would
die fast enough to make it profitable, the prospector answered, “Oh,
the money is not to be made out of the necessities of the dead, but
from the pride of the living.” Another man planned to carry passengers
overland to California on camels, and Barnum told him he thought asses
preferable, but he did not wish to be one of them. Professor Gardner,
the New England soap manufacturer, wrote to Barnum:

“Barnum:--I never saw you, nor you me, yet we are not strangers.
You have soaped the community, and so have I. You are rich, I am
not. I have a plan to add half a million to your wealth, and many
laurels to your brow. I manufacture by far the best soap ever
known, as a million of gentlemen, and three millions of God’s
greatest work, beautiful women, will testify. I send you a sample
to prove the truth of my words. Try it, and when you find that I
state FACTS, put $10,000 in the soap business, join me as an equal
partner, and we will thoroughly soap the American Continent in
three years, at a profit of a million dollars.

“By doing this, sir, you will erect a monument in the hearts of
the people worthy of your name! You will have the satisfaction
of knowing that you have conferred a boon upon your countrymen.
Cleanliness is next to godliness. You, sir, can aid in cleaning
and purifying at least ten millions of your dirty fellow-citizens.
It is a duty you owe to them and yourself. Look at my portrait on
the soap wrapper, and you will see the face of an honest man. Send
me your check next week for $5,000, and the week after for $5,000
more. This additional capital will enable me to supply the demand
for my unrivaled soap, and I will send you quarterly returns of
profits. Come, old fellow, fork over, and no grumbling! You will
thus become a public benefactor, and unwashed millions shall chant
your name in praise.

“My soap makes soft hands and cures soft heads. It removes paint
and grease, is unsurpassed for shaving, cures chaps on hands or
face, and is death on foul teeth. It cures eruptions to a charm. I
have no doubt that a sufficient quantity, properly applied, would
cure the eruption of Vesuvius.

“Address me immediately at Providence, Rhode Island.

“Yours, etc.,
“PROFESSOR GARDNER,
“Known as the New England Soap Man.”

That Barnum declined the offer is strange, for, undoubtedly, he
believed that cleanliness is next to godliness. But he tried the cake
of soap and found it to be excellent.

Barnum did put money into many schemes and business enterprises, and
almost always it was lost. Phillips’s Fire Annihilator, an English
patent; the steamship _North America_, designed to carry immigrants and
freight from Ireland to New York; and the _Illustrated News_, a weekly
illustrated newspaper published in New York in 1853, were a few of his
investments. The Fire Annihilator refused to put out fire; the _North
America_ could not find enough Irish freight, and the _Illustrated
News_ was abandoned after one year because Barnum’s partners did not
know enough about the issue of a newspaper. Throughout his career
whenever he turned from pure showmanship to trade, he usually lost
money.

While indulging moderately in sundry enterprises, Barnum kept careful
control of the Museum. He visited New York only one or two days each
week, spending the rest of his time at “Iranistan,” but he transacted
business for the Museum at his home, and he continued his efforts to
make the collection larger and better. Any curiosity that happened to
be passing through New York was requisitioned for the Museum. Miss
Pwan Tekow, a Chinese lady, arrived in New York in April, 1850, and
Barnum exhibited her at the Chinese Museum, a collection he purchased
at this time and operated separately from Barnum’s American Museum. The
advertisement for Miss Pwan Tekow read: “She is such a curiosity! The
women admire her tiny feet, the men her pretty face, plump figure, and
both the air of high breeding and education she exhibits. Surrounded
by the immense Chinese collection she fancies herself in the Flowery
Nation, and laughs and talks with all the spirit and vivacity of our
own beauties. This is the first time that a Chinese lady of consequence
has ever been seen by the eyes of ‘barbarians.’” The Chinese Museum
brought in revenue while the American Museum was being enlarged, so
that business literally continued while alterations were going on.

In August of 1850 a negro came to New York who claimed to have
discovered a weed that would turn negroes white. Barnum exhibited him
at the Museum. He hailed this negro and his weed as the solution of
the slavery problem, contending in his advertisements that if all the
negroes could be turned white the problem of slavery would disappear
with their color. The newspapers reported daily the progress of the
negro’s change in color.

A Gallery of Beauty, a contest in which two hundred prizes were offered
to “the handsomest women in America, the Public to be the Judges” from
daguerreotypes sent to the Museum, created a sensation, and another
Baby Show added greatly to the popularity of the Museum. Barnum wrote
to his friend Ballou, of _Ballou’s Pictorial_:

“FRIEND BALLOU.

“Dear Sir: We gave Mr. French to-day our advertisement of the Baby
Show--I send here a circular of particulars which I hope you will
notice.

“Two triplets and one Quartern are already engaged, and we expect
the woman from Ohio who has _five_ (at a birth).

“In a few days we shall have the Giant Woman from Maine, said to
be a very tall curiosity. I guess our Museum can sometimes furnish
as good things for you to illustrate as you can pick up elsewhere,
and I will occasionally pay for engraving special curiosities such
as giant, etc., if you will publish them. Of course I don’t expect
or wish you to publish anything that is not of itself full of
_interest_ to the public.

“Our Baby Show will make a grand scene for illustration.

“Yours very truly,
“P. T. BARNUM.”[12]

In July, 1853, The Bearded Lady was exhibited at the Museum, and she
caused Barnum trouble of the kind he liked most. The Bearded Lady,
according to a pamphlet she sold when she was exhibited, was born in
Versoix, Switzerland, March 25, 1831. Her parents noticed a slight
down on her face when she was a baby, and at the age of eight she had
a beard two inches long, which grew to be five inches long by the
time she was fourteen years old. Physicians in Geneva advised against
cutting the beard, for fear it would become hard in texture. In 1849 a
French showman offered the parents attractive terms for the right to
exhibit their child, and she consented. Her popularity in Europe was
great; Louis Napoleon was interested in her and presented her with
many gifts. In London it was said that she was visited by more than
800,000 persons. She married a French artist, M. Clofullia, and gave
birth to a boy, whose face was covered with hair at his birth. Barnum
met the woman and her son, Esau, in New York in 1853 and engaged them
for the Museum, where they attracted large crowds.

One William Charr made a complaint against The Bearded Lady, and she
was brought to the Tombs Court. Charr had visited the Museum at a
cost of twenty-five cents and after looking at The Bearded Lady came
to the conclusion that he had been humbugged out of his money. He
expressed the belief in court that said lady was “nothing more nor
less than a dressed-up man,” and further, “that she and Mr. Barnum
were humbugs and ought to be ‘dealt with according to law.’” Barnum
appeared in court to defend the character of his curiosity and his own
reputation. He presented for the consideration of the court a letter
and certificate from three physicians that such a hirsute growth was
possible, and that Madame Clofullia’s was natural. M. Clofullia, the
husband of The Bearded Lady, being duly sworn, insisted that he was the
legal husband of Madame, that they had been married for three years,
and that she was the mother of two children, one of whom was alive in
the presence of Esau, the Hairy Boy. Jacques Boisdechene, being duly
sworn, said that he was the father of the woman known as The Bearded
Lady, that M. Clofullia was her husband, and that she had borne two
children, one of whom was alive. Phineas T. Barnum, being duly sworn,
said that to the best of his knowledge the woman in question was a
woman, that she had been examined by Dr. Valentine Mott, Dr. John W.
Francis, and Dr. Alexander B. Mott, and that they had all come to the
same conclusion. Dr. Covil, of the Tombs Prison, also made an affidavit
to the effect that in collaboration with the matron of the prison he
“had an interview with the lady in question, and both are perfectly
convinced that, in spite of her beard, she is a woman.” The magistrate
was satisfied that Barnum had proved his innocence of humbug, and the
case was dismissed. Barnum and The Bearded Lady left the court-room,
followed by a large crowd.[13]

This episode was probably a piece of Barnum’s planned publicity. It
would seem offhand as if he could readily have proved out of court to
the complete satisfaction of William Charr that The Bearded Lady was a
woman. But “a large crowd of spectators, whom the novelty of the case
had collected,” said the _Tribune_, followed them out of court, and
that could not have been accomplished out of court.

Barnum, having passed the first ten years of his notorious career, was
now known the world over as a consumer of curiosities. He had first
choice on all the monstrosities in the world, because he paid more
for them than anybody else. Men, women and children wrote to him,
telegraphed him, and called with varied products for his inspection.
Ossified men, all bone, india-rubber men, with no bones, three-legged
men, and men without legs were brought to his attention. Often Barnum
must have felt like the Creator in the presence of His mistakes.

Upon one occasion a man rushed into the Museum office and asked how
much Barnum would pay for the greatest curiosity ever exhibited
anywhere by anybody. Barnum asked for particulars. The curiosity was
a man, but this man had two heads, with two distinct faces, both
handsome. His two mouths spoke Spanish, French, and English; they could
carry on a dialogue with each other, sing duets, one mouth singing in
English and one in Spanish, or vice versa, including French, and the
two mouths could converse at the same time with Spanish, French and
English gentlemen. The discoverer of this unique man wanted only a
price and traveling expenses to transport his man from Mexico. Barnum
said: “Why, let me see. There’s no use specifying a particular sum, or
standing upon trifles in an affair of such importance, and I’ll tell
you what I will do. As soon as you bring your curiosity to me, and I
find that the man is, and can do, what you say, you may hire a wagon,
and the stoutest cart horse you can find in New York, and I will go
with you to the United States Sub-Treasury building at the corner of
Wall and Nassau Street, and load on all the silver coin the wagon can
carry and the horse can drag. That is merely your commission as agent.
I will make terms with the curiosity afterwards.” The agent never
appeared again.

While some people thought that they could make Barnum believe in
anything, others sincerely believed that anything was a valuable
curiosity. He received a telegram from Baltimore, Maryland: “To P. T.
Barnum: I have a four-legged chicken. Come quick.”

Sometimes when Barnum could not get exactly what he wanted for his
Museum, he stooped to deception of a kind that might be characterized
as both fraudulent and damaging to the interests of other entertainers.
Alexander, the Conjurer, known as Alexander, the Great, who in the
middle period of the nineteenth century was the most famous of all
magicians, told Houdini, the magician, when the latter visited him in
Germany some years ago, that when he was in New York Barnum offered him
an engagement at the American Museum. Alexander refused, because at the
time he was exhibiting his art for an admission fee of fifty cents, and
he was afraid to lose caste if he were to exhibit at Barnum’s, where
admission was only twenty-five cents. Barnum promptly hired an unknown
magician and advertised him widely as Alexander, the Great.

Barnum was now forty years old. In 1841 he was living on cold dinners,
and Charity Barnum was hostess of a boarding house in Frankfort
Street. In 1851 his wife entertained in a palatial example of Oriental
architecture, and Barnum was president of a bank, with a general
reputation as the most delightfully crafty man in the United States.
The first decade of Barnum’s extraordinary career was summed up in the
following verses published in 1851 in the _Albany Argus_:

THE GREATEST MAN

What man, of all the nation’s host,
Now fills the public eye the most,
By ever being at his post?
Why, Barnum!

Who is the man beyond all doubt,
Who always knows what he’s about?
Whose mother always “knows he’s out”?
That Barnum!

Who lines his pockets first with gold,
By many a speculation bold,
And levies on the young and old?
Paul Barnum.

Who carried round old, old “Joice Heth”
Till she had neither life nor breath,
And never gave her up till death?
O! Barnum.

Who told us she was “George’s nurse,
Full three half centuries old or worse,”
And stopped with rum her muttered curse?
Didn’t Barnum?

Who made a man of Tommy Thumb,
Who though a little man was “_some_”
And quickly brought a handsome “_plum_”
For Barnum!

And who but Barnum would have thought
A “_Woolly Horse_” by Frémont caught
Could such a host of money ’ve brought!
But Barnum?

But not a _horse_ alone was _wooled_;
For that same stuff was often _pulled_
O’er many eyes, and all got fooled
By Barnum!

A Mermaid rare--a curious bird,
A five-legged cat that never stirred
Bring gold, as we have often heard,
To Barnum.

But Barnum, though he’s always _bold_,
Is also _shrewd_, as we are told,
He’s often _bought_ but never _sold_,
Not Barnum!

But all his speculations past
Compare at nothing to the last;
This made the people stand aghast
At Barnum!

An angel’s voice was heard afar
Eclipsing every former “_star_”
And in a twinkling, Barnum’s “_thar_”
Was Barnum!

Yes, Barnum’s offered her a “_pile_”
Some thought him crazy all the while,
But now he “does it up in style”
Does Barnum.

III

In 1854, sitting under the weird, gilded minarets and Persian domes of
his replica of the George IV. Pavilion, in his private study, where
the walls were brocaded with rich orange satin, Barnum composed his
first autobiography. He was forty-four years old. General Tom Thumb,
The Fejee Mermaid and The Woolly Horse, The Swedish Nightingale and
The Bearded Lady, had made his fortune, and, taking his ease at his
“Iranistan,” the promoter of these works told the world how to do it,
or at least how he thought he did it.

The book is an extraordinary one; in the large library of theatrical
memories and books of actors’ and managers’ reminiscences it stands
out as highly exceptional both in quality and quantity. From the year
1855, when Barnum first issued the _Life of P. T. Barnum Written by
Himself_, until 1891, when he died, there were seven different editions
of this book under that and other titles. The story is that a lady who
bought all the successive editions of the _Life of P. T. Barnum Written
by Himself_, and _Struggles and Triumphs, or Forty Years’ Recollections
of P. T. Barnum Written by Himself_, as it was sometimes called, said
to Barnum: “You know, Mr. Barnum, I am continually busy with your
‘Life.’ You have no idea how much I enjoy reading it.” “My dear madam,”
said Barnum, “that is nothing to the way I enjoy living it.” He should
have added, “and writing it,” for, every year after the first revised
edition was issued in 1869, Barnum added an appendix, telling in detail
what had happened to him of interest to the world during the past
year. He developed his autobiography, which was sold in large numbers
first at the Museum and later at the Circus, into an annual message
to the American people, a periodical repetition of the details of his
lively achievement. The appendix usually told how much the Circus had
earned during the past year, what cities Barnum had visited and who
had visited him at Bridgeport; if he chanced to move his residence,
there was a new, pretty description of his latest house. He also gave
thanks that he was still alive, and expressed appropriate humility
before God and his readiness at any time to proceed to heaven, should
the necessity arise. There is so much solemn reiteration of the fact
that “all of that which we now prize highly (except our love to God and
our affections for humanity), shall dwindle into insignificance,” that
one suspects Barnum of an obsession in the nature of regret that the
Greatest Show on Earth could not by any known means be transported to
heaven.

The first edition of the book in 1855 bore the dedication: “To the
Universal Yankee Nation, of Which I Am Proud to Be One, I Dedicate
These Pages, Dating Them from the American Museum, Where the Public
First Smiled Upon Me, and Where Henceforth My Personal Exertions Will
Be Devoted to Its Entertainment.” The book caused a storm of protest
on the literary side and enjoyed a popular success almost immediately.
Many of the editors who reviewed Barnum’s book were shocked, and
England was especially mortified. The élite, the classes, had taken up
Barnum, called madly for General Tom Thumb for their week-end parties
and evening fêtes, rushed after Jenny Lind, and now Barnum had the
audacity and the bad taste to take his machine apart and show those who
had watched it eagerly how it turned the wheels of their fatuity. They
recognized their folly,--and blamed him for it. _Blackwood’s Magazine_,
_Fraser’s Magazine_, _Tait’s Edinburgh Review_ in Great Britain,
and the _Southern Literary Messenger_ in the United States, among
others, wrote ten page reviews of the _Life of P. T. Barnum Written by
Himself_. They recalled the shades of Cagliostro and other famous and
comparative rascals and impostors to prove that Barnum was the present
world’s worst woe. The editors were very angry, and through the pages
of their reviews one can hear the sounds of their gasps of perturbation
in their too apparent determination to finish this charlatan once for
all by a mighty stroke of a thundering pen, wielded for the common
good. The burden of their complaints was that Barnum had deceived the
world by his brazen curiosities: Joice Heth, he admitted, may not have
been 161 years old; General Tom Thumb was born in Bridgeport, not
imported from England, and was five years old, not eleven: The Woolly
Horse and Colonel Frémont were strangers. And Barnum boldly admitted
his deceptions in his book. It was immoral, said the editors. No one
of them had had the perspicacity to doubt Barnum’s integrity when his
ventures were presented for admiration. The editors, along with their
wives and children, had screamed their delight. It took Barnum himself
to tell them the secret that they had been humbugged, and they never
forgave his lack of editorial ethics. To have whispered privately in
an editor’s ear that he was only spoofing him would have been taken in
confidence and with dignity, for the editor could then have bragged
about it from his club chair. But to take in the public and the editor
too was unpardonable sin, and the man who did it was a scoundrel, and
no mistake. One New York newspaper writer was also shocked by Barnum’s
admission that he did good for his own profit: that was a radical and
cynical principle of ethics, which turned slightly sour the milk of
human kindness.

The popular journals and Barnum’s host of patrons accepted his book
as the greatest curiosity of all, and half a million copies were
sold, according to his estimates. His was the virtue of success, and
the large majority, who bowed down in what William James called “the
exclusive worship of the bitch-goddess SUCCESS,” accepted Barnum’s
autobiography as a handbook. It had the advantage over all other such
manuals, that it was witty. Mark Twain “sat up nights to absorb it,
and woke early and lighted the lamp to follow the career of the great
showman,” according to Albert Bigelow Paine, his biographer. Mrs.
Clemens could not understand, did not at all approve of her husband’s
interest in Barnum and Barnum’s methods. “She did not realize then,”
wrote Mr. Paine, “his vast interest in the study of human nature, or
that such a book contained what Mr. Howells calls ‘the root of the
human matter,’ the inner revelation of the human being at first hand.”
She also did not realize then, or ever, that there was much of Colonel
Sellers in Samuel L. Clemens, and that her husband was compelled by
circumstances to make a fortune first, and immortality afterwards. It
is natural that Mark Twain should have found worth reading by early
morning lamplight the chronicle of an adventurer who had carved out of
the world a fortune for himself.

Barnum also admired Mark Twain. He tried persistently to harness his
friend’s literary ability and popularity to his own enterprises.
Whenever Mark Twain spent a night in Barnum’s home at Bridgeport the
greatest showman on earth tried very hard to get the highest paid
writer in the country to write a piece about the circus.

The book itself undoubtedly contains “the root of the human matter,”
and it is so fascinating because Barnum succeeds in concealing nothing
except certain facts. He attempted to paint himself in angel white,
with a dash of coloring in the cheeks to make the picture popular, but
his very strivings after sainthood reveal his mind and character too
plainly, and whenever he tries most to deceive the reader, he succeeds
only in enlightening him. The book is well written, if we consider
that the man who wrote it left school when he was twelve years old and
found little leisure for study in composition after that period. Of
course, the subject was one that always delighted the author, and his
inspiration was therefore ever with him.

Barnum wrote as he talked, grandly, sonorously and wittily, but he
is often exceedingly dull. What he never learned was the art of
concentrating his material. He was himself Boswell to his own Dr.
Johnson, and he wrote with even less critical perspective than the
illustrious Scotch _raconteur_. Almost anything that happened to
him seemed to him fit for publication, unless it was obscene or
self-damaging. When he gave a relative money, it was set down with
unction in the current edition of the autobiography. When he bought a
sister’s son a farm in Wisconsin, so that the boy might spend the rest
of his days in honest toil and healthy happiness, it was set down in
the autobiography, with the notation that it is always admirable to
help those who will help themselves. Barnum labored under the delusion
for the most part of his career, at least so far as his literary
expression was concerned, that everything he did was both important and
interesting; that is why one quarter of the autobiography is soporific.
There is nothing so tiresome for continued reading as a joke book, and
Barnum was unsparing in his rambling anecdotes cheap-jack chronicles,
and tales of country yokelry. Indiscriminately, promiscuously, without
connection or reason, he poured forth jokes on or by his friends and
neighbors and himself, in a barber shop, in a church, on his father’s
farm, in the Museum, at “Iranistan.” Some of the anecdotes are
interesting, and some are revelatory, but even these lose their effect
in the jumble of their dreary companions. In the later editions he, or
an adviser, had enough judgment to omit some of the extraneous boyhood
anecdotes that fill many pages in the first edition, but too many are
retained, and after a period with the books the reader must conclude
that the charm of many of his stories probably lay in the way he told
them rather than in the stories. Barnum as a wag in print was inferior
to Barnum as a manipulator of choice pieces of waggery gathered from
the ends of the earth, or at least from Bridgeport, Connecticut.

“The idea haunts one like a presence,” wrote the editor of the
_Christian Review_ concerning the autobiography, “that having sold the
public in so many nice tricks, he may have sold it again in explaining
how they were done.” This is fair criticism, for while reading Barnum
there is always a suspicion that he is not telling the truth even now
when he thinks it can be told, a suspicion confirmed often by other
men’s books.

Whether or not he told the truth, he struck a note that found large
sympathy among his contemporaries. The American people were looking for
a philosophy of Success, and Barnum combined for them “There’s a sucker
born every minute,” with “Honesty is the Best Policy.” These truths,
neither imposing in itself, taken together, as Barnum took them, formed
the metaphysics of business, whose Aristotle was Barnum.

It is easy to believe that his book sold half a million copies, for
Barnum’s influence contributed profoundly to the life of his period,
and has lapped over into our own time. His success was so much admired,
envied, and emulated, that to-day we have a host of advertising
and publicity experts, who owe more for their facility than they
realize to the way which Barnum paved. It would be absurd to make
Barnum responsible for the crimes and follies of publicity that have
since his time become common, but since he was clearly the father
of publicity, which has developed into unquestioned and legitimate
misrepresentation on a large scale, he must acknowledge his child, and
must also be held responsible in some measure for its antics, but only
in so far as any father may be said to be responsible for the actions
of his child. The effect alone of the statement attributed to Barnum,
which he made in a speech, “There’s a sucker born every minute,” is
incalculable, but the persistency with which it has worked its way
into the body of American proverbs until it stands as one of the few
distinctive proverbs of the country indicates its prestige. This
simple sentence of Barnum’s has done more than any other one thing to
crystallize the American preference for bluff rather than scientific
thoroughness: the implication of “There’s a sucker born every minute”
is “Catch him, or you’re a sucker of the worst order,” and it
unconsciously converts the Golden Rule into “Do the other fellow, or
he’ll do you.”

While a few editors roared and the people bought his book, Barnum
sat in his study at “Iranistan” and laughed. All he usually asked of
any one was, “Mention my name.” If people called him a scoundrel in
print, it was good; for to call him a scoundrel in print they had to
say, “P. T. Barnum, of the American Museum, is a scoundrel,” and their
diatribes soon made it unnecessary to add, “of the American Museum.”
The more people who read of Barnum’s rascality, the more people bought
the _Life of P. T. Barnum Written by Himself_ and dated from the
American Museum. And those who read the _Life of P. T. Barnum Written
by Himself_ visited Barnum’s American Museum. There was not more than
a loud minority of censure. Even the pious portion of the community
recommended Barnum. He had so cleverly and sincerely mixed his own
earnest piety with his large-scale deception that clergymen were
known to recommend his book to the young. Henry Hilgert, a preacher
in Baltimore, said from his pulpit: “I pray you to recommend the good
citizen, Phineas Taylor Barnum, to your children as an exemplary
man. When you give one of your daughters away in matrimony, advise
her to imitate Charity Barnum; when your son leaves home to try his
luck upon the ocean of life, give him Barnum for a guide; when you
yourself are in trouble and misery, and near desperation, take from
Barnum’s life and teachings consolation and new courage.” Barnum never
neglected to include this reference in the subsequent editions of the
autobiography. And Mr. Hilgert was not alone. The clergy followed close
behind the business community, taking him into the fold, with frequent
and familiar public references to their good fellow citizen, “Brother
Barnum.”

CHAPTER IX

HUMBUGGED AND BANKRUPT

Barnum’s interest in the future of Bridgeport, Connecticut, and its
suburbs as a manufacturing center was one of the abiding influences
of his financial life, and he did more than any other one man to make
that city such a center. In 1851 he purchased with William H. Noble, a
wealthy citizen of Bridgeport, 224 acres of land on the east side of
the Pequonnock River, where they planned a new manufacturing suburb,
with model houses for sober workmen. The new city was laid out with an
eye to beauty and convenience as well as profit; trees were planted,
and an eight-acre grove was set aside as a park. Then Barnum and his
partner began to sell lots at cost, reserving for themselves enough
property to guarantee a large profit when the new city should begin
to flourish and property should be in demand. The purchasers of lots
were constrained to build after a style of architecture approved
by Barnum and his associate--there is no record of an attempt to
make it Oriental--and they planned a city which for neatness would
be an example to other communities, and which would harbor enough
manufactories to keep its happy population out of mischief.

The two real estate operators built a large toll bridge to connect
their new city of East Bridgeport with Bridgeport proper. Soon a coach
builder set up his factory on the Barnum and Noble property, and
other buildings began to rise in the town, for Barnum advanced money
liberally, permitting purchasers who would build in East Bridgeport to
repay their debts in instalments; he had become so infatuated with East
Bridgeport that any one with a scheme for its improvement or a new
enterprise to be located there was listened to with undivided attention
that soon developed into enthusiasm.

A small clock company which manufactured its product in Litchfield,
Connecticut, had absorbed some of Barnum’s money; he became a director
in the company, which soon afterwards failed, and Barnum took over the
clocks on hand, removing the materials to East Bridgeport. At about the
same time Theodore Terry’s clock factory at Ansonia had been destroyed
by fire, and Terry approached Barnum with the proposal to build a new
clock factory in East Bridgeport. A joint stock company was formed,
known as the Terry & Barnum Manufacturing Company. Barnum’s Litchfield
clocks and Terry’s stock which had not been destroyed by the fire were
combined, and in 1852 Barnum built a factory in East Bridgeport for the
manufacture of clocks.

Several years later Barnum was approached by the Jerome Clock Company,
the largest clock manufactory in America, for financial aid. The
company’s factories were situated in New Haven, Connecticut, and Barnum
supplied extra capital on condition that the company would remove as
soon as convenient to East Bridgeport. The Jerome Company employed
more than seven hundred workmen, and Barnum saw in this number a
valuable addition to the population of East Bridgeport. He wrote in
his autobiography that Chauncey Jerome, the reputable president of
the company, visited him in Bridgeport on this business, but Chauncey
Jerome later wrote a book in which he said that he had never seen
Barnum until after the termination of their business relations.[14]

Barnum was finally persuaded to lend his name as security for $110,000
to aid the Jerome Clock Company. The cause of the need for $110,000,
as stated to Barnum, was the dull business year, and Barnum wrote that
he was impressed by the information that unless the company could
get financial aid it would be forced to dismiss many of its honest,
toiling operatives. He was also impressed by the general reputation
of the company, whose clocks were known and sold throughout the world;
they were sold even in China, where, Barnum said, the natives took
the movements out and used the cases as temples for their gods, “thus
proving,” wrote Barnum, “that faith was possible without ‘works.’”
Chauncey Jerome’s reputation was another thing that pleased Barnum. He
was a wealthy man, a pioneer clock maker, who with Seth Thomas had been
associated with the manufacture of American clocks since the industry
was established in this country. But what interested Barnum even more
was that Chauncey Jerome had built a church in New Haven and had
donated a magnificent clock to a church in Bridgeport.

When the cashier of a New Haven bank expressed the opinion in a
letter to Barnum that the Jerome Clock Company deserved the highest
confidence, Barnum gave his notes for $50,000 and promised to accept
the Jerome Clock Company’s drafts for $60,000. He was also willing that
his notes should be renewed any number of times, providing that the
stipulated sum of $110,000 was not exceeded. He was told that it was
impossible to say when his notes would be needed most, and therefore he
signed his name to notes without dates for $3,000, $5,000, and $10,000.

The Jerome Clock Company went into bankruptcy in the autumn of 1855.
From time to time Barnum had been asked for additional notes by the
agent of the company, which he refused to furnish until he had received
back his canceled notes. This was done, and he soon grew confident
enough in the Jerome Company to neglect the precaution. He was told
one day that the banks were hesitating to discount his notes, and upon
inquiry he discovered that they had not been taken up as they expired,
and that the blank date notes he had issued had been made payable for
longer terms than he had intended. He soon discovered that unwittingly
he had indorsed notes for more than half a million dollars, and that
his money had been used to pay the debts and expenses of the Jerome
Clock Company. This drain on his credit was one that Barnum’s resources
could not withstand, and he was compelled to go into bankruptcy.

The entire Jerome Clock Company transaction is both complicated and
obscure. The only sources of information concerning it are Barnum’s own
statements in his autobiography, on the one hand, and Chauncey Jerome’s
statements in his autobiography on the other. Neither deserves to be
believed, if we consider the weight of the evidence offered. Barnum
shouted fraud loudly and accused Chauncey Jerome personally. Jerome
wrote that he knew nothing about the transactions, that he was retired
at the time, although he owned stock in the company, and that all the
financial dealings with Barnum were conducted by the secretary of the
Jerome Clock Company, who was making desperate but sincere efforts
to retrieve the company’s fortunes. It is likely that both men were
either swindled or deceived by some one who thought that, eventually,
everything would be all right. And, what made Barnum even angrier, the
company had never even removed its more than seven hundred workmen to
East Bridgeport!

As soon as Barnum’s failure was announced, there was an almost
universal cry of “I told you so!” He was called an adventurer, a
swindler, and a fraud by persons and papers who but a short time
before had hailed him as a genius. His autobiography, which had been
published only a year before the bankruptcy, in so far as it admitted
many deceits and much humbug, did Barnum great harm in public opinion
when he went into bankruptcy. Especially were the newspapers anxious
to point the obvious moral, since it was at them Barnum had laughed
in his autobiography, for, while professing to admire newspapers and
their editors, Barnum’s book showed by the facts of his career that his
deceptions were made possible by either the innocence or the ignorance
of editors. James Gordon Bennett, especially, seized the opportunity
with avidity, and the _Herald_ for March 17, 1856, contained this
editorial:

“THE FALL OF BARNUM--The author of that book glorifying himself
as a millionaire from the arts and appliances of obtaining money
upon false pretenses, is, according to his own statements in court,
completely crushed out. All the profits of all his Fejee Mermaids,
all his woolly horses, Greenland whales, Joice Heths, negroes
turning white, Tom Thumbs, and monsters and impostures of all
kinds, including the reported $70,000 received by the copyright of
that book, are all swept away, Hindoo palace, elephants, and all,
by the late invincible showman’s remorseless assignees. It is a
case eminently adapted to ‘point a moral or adorn a tale.’”

The tale was adorned with much morality, preached against him from
the pulpit, and preached to him in private. Barnum later said that he
was able to endure all the abuse with equanimity, but that it always
made him furious to read moral strictures about himself in which were
mentioned the “instability of ill-gotten gains.”

But Barnum had many friends as well as detractors. Individuals,
corporations, hotels, actors, actresses and singers, financiers and
leading citizens, offered him loans, gifts, benefit performances, and
other forms of aid. A letter signed by more than one thousand business
organizations and citizens, including Cornelius Vanderbilt, James W.
Gerard, Simeon Draper and Robert Stuyvesant, was published in the New
York newspapers. It urged Barnum to accept a series of public benefit
performances that his wife and children might have security. Barnum
answered, declining, “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.” He added that he still had his health and felt competent,
while that remained with him, to earn a livelihood for himself and
his family. Bridgeport congregated in a mass meeting, headed by the
Mayor, and resolved its utmost sympathy for its distinguished citizen.
Mr. Dwight Morris said that “it was principally to him [Barnum]
that they owed their present beautiful resting-place for the dead.
(Applause.)”[15] Some citizens of Bridgeport offered him $50,000.
Barnum thanked them for their kind resolutions and declined their
generosity. He wrote to his townsfolk in part:

“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
din, 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
land, 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 those I love, and from where I had fondly
supposed I was to end my days, and where I had lavished time,
money, 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.”

All is for the best, in this best of possible worlds!

Barnum paid his personal debts and sold his assets to make good some of
his notes. Though he took the public sympathy without any suggestion
that he did not need it, Barnum was not exactly penniless, a condition
which some of his pitiful public statements of the time would seem to
indicate. The lease of the American Museum, one of his most valuable
possessions, was in Mrs. Barnum’s name. The collection itself was sold
to Greenwood and Butler, two of Barnum’s former managers, for double
its original cost. This sum was used to pay clock debts, but the
lease held by Mrs. Barnum brought her $19,000 a year. “The situation
is disheartening,” Barnum had said, “but I have experience, energy,
health, and hope.” He also had money in his wife’s name, a world-wide
notoriety which developed in spite of some newspapers into sympathy,
and valuable personal friends.

Barnum’s creditors, and especially people who had bought up the
clock notes cheaply, caused him much annoyance. He was examined in
supplementary proceedings daily for a long period. The process was
called, “putting Barnum through a course of sprouts.” This heckling
won him much sympathy from the public and the newspapers. One lawyer
asked him his business. He answered, “Attending bar.” “Attending bar!
Attending bar! Why, I thought you were a teetotaler.” “So I am,”
said Barnum. “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. The judge decided that it was a relevant
question, and Barnum finally answered, “Very well, I do attend bar,
and yet never drink intoxicating liquors.” “Where do you attend bar,
and for whom?” “I attend the bar of this court nearly every day, for
the benefit of two-penny lawyers and their greedy clients,” was the
answer. When another lawyer, who had been asking him many questions,
said apologetically, “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,” Barnum asked, “Which are you, then, Lazarus, or one
of the dogs?”

Barnum was asked in court how he lived without any means, and he
answered: “I hired a furnished house in Eighth Street last December,
where my family resides, and where we have kept five boarders from the
first day that we took the house.” “Do you pretend to say that you
make your living by keeping boarders?” asked the lawyer. “Partly so;
my vegetables were raised last year on my land in Connecticut, and my
son-in-law at Bridgeport sends me a box of meat every week. I have also
a few friends who would not let me exactly starve this year. I have
received various letters from friends at a distance offering to send me
money, which I have declined. One wealthy gentleman, whom I scarcely
knew in Bridgeport, offered to be one of ten to raise me $100,000,
without security, if I could be relieved from clock debts and return
to Connecticut to reside. But I desired no assistance, and would not
receive it.” “What does your wardrobe consist of?” the lawyer asked. “I
am ready to answer truthfully all civil questions,” said Barnum, “but
I will not be insulted! My position is not a pleasant one, but I shall
try to meet all my troubles with patience. If you choose to trifle
unnecessarily with my feelings, however, I shall be protected by the
Court, or will protect myself.” “By advice of his counsel, Mr. Barnum
answered the question,” said the _New York Tribune_. “I have only one
suit of clothes besides the one on my back, and this you will see is
rather seedy.” “Do you own a gold watch?” Mr. Barnum was much nettled,
and appealed to his counsel, who told him he was bound to answer the
question. “Yes, sir.” “What did it cost?” “About $250.” “Where is it?”
“I believe it is in my pocket.” “Do you own any diamonds?” “Does that
look like a diamond?” asked Barnum, pointing to a plain gold pin on
his cravat. “That is not answering my question,” said the lawyer. “I
own a diamond pin and ring, which cost about $300.” “Where are they?”
“I can produce them when they are wanted.” “Do you own a pianoforte?”
“I do,” said Barnum, and added triumphantly, “but, unfortunately for
you, it is mortgaged for about its full value. I have had the money and
spent it.” “Have you any money in the bank?” “I have no money except
what is in my pocket.” “How much is that?” “I can count it for you,
but there is less than $25.” “Never mind, I don’t want it, if that is
all you have got.” “Mr. Barnum: ‘Then I shall probably spend it before
long.’”[16]

In an examination on March 20, 1856, Barnum made a significant
statement:

“Q. You stated, in your examination yesterday, that you were the
poorest kind of business man. Do you mean to convey the impression that
you are _non compos mentis_? A. I mean to say that I do not understand
the details of accounts and a credit business; my business has always
been a cash business--‘pay before you go in,’--I never knew the meaning
of the expression ‘bills payable’ until within a year.” This is one
more proof that Barnum was always a poor business man. During his
early career he understood nothing of ordinary business methods and
was not interested in them. He had also had no experience in financing
his large operations. The Museum was bought on its receipts, and the
Jenny Lind enterprise was refused financial backing. When Barnum was
approached with a financial statement as complicated as that of the
Jerome Clock Company must have been, he was undoubtedly at a loss. In
fact, whenever he turned from showmanship to the ordinary operations
with which the average small business man and clerk are occupied daily,
he was completely bewildered.

Soon after Barnum’s bankruptcy the Wheeler & Wilson Sewing Machine
Company bought property in East Bridgeport for its large factories.
This caused Barnum to renew his faith in the future of East Bridgeport,
and he repurchased some of his property from creditors with $5,000
loaned to him by Mr. Wheeler, of Wheeler & Wilson. This property
eventually brought him more money than he had lost in the Jerome Clock
Company failure.

Barnum had received one letter of sympathy which he now took advantage
of. General Tom Thumb wrote from Jones’ Hotel, Philadelphia:

“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,’ upstairs, to the doorkeeper
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 my
small way, can be useful. Put me into ‘heavy’ work, if you like.
Perhaps I cannot 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.”

Barnum did not accept this offer immediately, but early in 1857 he
arranged his affairs and left for England with General Tom Thumb and
Cordelia Howard, a small girl whose Little Eva in _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_
was very popular in this country.

CHAPTER X

“THE ART OF MONEY-GETTING”

Upon his return to England Barnum was greeted cordially by those who
had admired him in the days of his reputation. His autobiography,
in spite of the few scathing reviews, had not damaged either his
popularity or his esteem in England.

One of the first to greet Barnum in London was Albert Smith,
playwright, dentist, literary hack and showman, who had admired
Barnum and had studied his methods during the first English tour of
General Tom Thumb. Smith at the time of Barnum’s return to England
was exhibiting his panorama of Mont Blanc, which he had ascended the
year before. He gave a descriptive lecture explaining his model. In
the course of this lecture Smith referred several times to a character
he had met on his trip, whom he called “Phineas Cutecraft,” a Yankee
showman, who had visited Cologne Cathedral with him. According to
Smith’s story, the sexton was telling them the sad tale of the ashes
and bones of the eleven thousand virgins of Cologne, who had been
sacrificed upon a certain black historical occasion. “Old fellow, what
will you take for the hull lot of bones?” asked Phineas Cutecraft. “I
want them for my Museum in America.” “Mine Gott! it is impossible,” the
German was supposed to have answered. “We will never sell the Virgins’
bones!” “Never mind,” said Phineas Cutecraft, “I’ll send another lot
of bones to my Museum, swear mine are the real bones of the Virgins of
Cologne, and bust up your show!”

A celebrity who received Barnum cordially upon his return to England
was Thackeray. When Thackeray visited the United States in 1853 to
deliver his lectures on The English Humorists of the Eighteenth
Century, he had called upon Barnum at the Museum with a letter of
introduction from Albert Smith, and he had asked Barnum’s advice on the
management of his lecture tour. Barnum had given Thackeray valuable
information concerning the cities he should visit, the lecture halls
suitable in each city, and the proper admission charges, for which the
novelist was grateful. When he returned to New York in 1855 to deliver
his lectures on The Four Georges, he visited Barnum often. Therefore,
in 1857, when Barnum returned to London, Thackeray hastened to offer
him sympathy and financial aid. To Thackeray’s question whether he
needed money, Barnum replied, “I need more money in order to get out
of bankruptcy, and I intend to earn it; but so far as daily bread is
concerned, I am quite at ease, for my wife is worth 30,000 or 40,000
pounds.” “Is it possible?” Thackeray said. “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.”

It is difficult to reconcile this statement to Thackeray, which
Barnum gives boldly in his autobiography, with the pose of a martyr
to innocent misfortunes which Barnum adopted towards his Bridgeport
friends, and with his statements in court,--which are not included in
the autobiography--that he was supporting himself by keeping boarders
and by boxes of meat from his son-in-law.

Thackeray took Barnum to one of his famous whitebait dinners at
Greenwich, and they dined together at a Covent Garden cabaret, where
music was furnished by a boy-choir. An entertainer dressed on one side
in a woman’s long skirts, and on the other with a man’s side-whiskers,
did a male and female duet, much to the disgust of Thackeray and to the
delight of Barnum. Soon after his return to New York Barnum found a
woman who could sing in two registers. He presented this hermaphroditic
entertainment at the Museum under the name of Dora Dawron, who was
popular with New York audiences for many years.

Otto Goldschmidt, who was in London, called upon Barnum and said that
Jenny Lind, who was then living in Dresden, had asked him to find out
if Barnum needed money and to beg him to accept her aid. Goldschmidt
also advised Barnum to bring his family to Dresden because living
was cheap there, and he added, “My wife will gladly look up a proper
house for you to live in.” Barnum declined the kindness on the ground
that Dresden was too far from his business opportunities. Julius
Benedict and Giovanni Belletti also called and offered assistance. But
Barnum needed none. General Tom Thumb was drawing crowded audiences
wherever he went, and Cordelia Howard’s “Little Eva,” with her mother
as “Topsy,” was a great success in London and the other large cities.
That Barnum was in any way financially interested in these enterprises
was not made public, for fear that his creditors would interfere with
his plans for paying them off. But he remitted money from London
continually, and it was used for paying some of his debts.

After a successful tour of Scotland, Ireland and Wales, as well as
England, Barnum and General Tom Thumb went to Germany. They toured the
spas, where General Tom Thumb drew huge crowds at large prices. Barnum
made so much money at these resorts that he was able to send home
thousands of dollars for the payment of debts and for the repurchase of
Bridgeport real estate.

They visited Holland, which pleased Barnum more than any country in
Europe, except Great Britain. He admired the Dutch most for those
very virtues which counted against his own success in that country:
frugality, industry, and thrift. The Dutch were not enthusiastic over
General Tom Thumb, because they were not accustomed to spend money for
such things. But Barnum enjoyed himself so much in this clean and busy
little kingdom that he was compensated in pleasure for his expense, and
he also found there the Albino Family, consisting of perfect Albino
specimens, a man, his wife and son, whom he sent to America, where they
were the most popular attraction at the Museum for a long period.

Barnum returned to England, where his wife and daughters had arrived.
He settled them in a house in London, arranged for General Tom Thumb’s
management by agents, and made a hurried trip to New York for the
purpose of settling some of his debts. When he arrived in New York,
he found that many of his friends avoided him on the streets, and in
Bridgeport he was cut by a few of those he had known well before his
bankruptcy.

“Iranistan” had been taken over by Barnum’s creditors, but they found
it impossible to sell the weird residence, and they offered Barnum the
use of it as a home. Painters and carpenters were putting the house
in order; they were in the habit of eating their lunches in the dome
room, where there was a circular cushioned seat. One of them left his
lighted pipe on a stuffed cushion, and on December 18, 1857, Barnum,
who was in New York, received a telegram from his brother announcing
that “Iranistan” was burned to the ground. Barnum’s reflections on
this disaster were: “My beautiful Iranistan was gone! This was not
only a serious loss to my estate, for it had probably cost at least
$150,000, but it was generally regarded as a public calamity.” No
doubt; it was also a great loss to Barnum’s immortality, for, were it
standing to-day, nothing could be so effective as a memorial to his
unique personal traits. The insurance on “Iranistan” was only $28,000.
Subsequently Barnum’s creditors sold the grounds and outhouses to Elias
Howe, Jr., the inventor of the sewing-machine needle, who intended to
build another resplendent mansion on the site, but death prevented him
from carrying out his plans.

Barnum returned to England early in 1858 and took General Tom
Thumb on another successful tour of the British Isles. Soon after
beginning this tour he discovered that it did not require his personal
attention--General Tom Thumb was now famous enough to require only
routine exploitation--and he therefore placed his midget in the
hands of assistants and devoted his own time to another activity.
Some friends in England suggested that he lecture on “The Art of
Money-Getting.” At first the paradox of the title amused him, and he
tells us that he thought himself more competent to lecture on “The Art
of Money-Losing.” But he came to the conclusion that in order to lose
money, it was first necessary to have made it. However, the paradox
remains, that Barnum helped to pay his debts incurred by careless
handling of money by means of a lecture on “The Art of Money-Getting.”

In his lecture Barnum stated many bald platitudes, no longer honored
even by time, and he added to them none of the humorous twists with
which he sometimes enlivened truisms. It is difficult to realize from
a reading of this printed lecture why it was so successful, unless
many good anecdotes, which Barnum said were omitted in the printed
version for the sake of brevity, alleviated the dullness of his
commonplace ideas. He assured his readers of things they knew so well
that they should have begun to doubt them. In simple terms he urged
economy: he did not believe, he said, in saving extravagantly, but
he was also opposed to lavish spending. Such expressions as “laying
by a ‘nest-egg,’” “easy come, easy go,” are elaborated in great
detail and with little novelty. “The old suit of clothes, and the
old bonnet and dress will answer for another season; the Croton or
spring water will taste better than champagne; a cold bath and a brisk
walk will prove more exhilarating than a ride in the finest coach; a
social chat, an evening’s reading in the family circle, or an hour’s
play of ‘hunt the slipper’ and ‘blind man’s buff,’ will be far more
pleasant than a fifty or a hundred dollar party, when the reflection
on the difference in cost is indulged in by those who begin to know
the pleasures of saving.” Sound health, and above all, abstention
from intoxicating drinks, and from tobacco, “the noxious weed,” are
indispensable to success. He said that he spoke from experience, for
he used to smoke until he “trembled like an aspen leaf,” but on the
advice of a physician he had given up tobacco entirely. But economy
and abstemiousness were not the only attributes of Success: he assured
his audiences that “unless a man enters upon the vocation intended
for him by nature, and best suited to his peculiar genius, he cannot
succeed.” He did not tell them how a man was to determine such natural
fitness for vocation, and he neglected to mention that for some years
of his own early manhood he looked with little success for the vocation
suited to his peculiar genius. “Avoid debt,” “go-aheaditiveness,”
“whatever you do, do it with all your might,” are some of the mottoes
Barnum offered his listeners as substantial, and they listened as to
a man with a message. It does not profit a man to be too visionary,
Barnum warned, and he cited the instance from a London newspaper of
a “philosophic pauper who was kicked out of a cheap boarding-house
because he could not pay his bill, but he had a roll of papers sticking
out of his coat pocket, which, upon examination, proved to be his plan
for paying off the national debt of England without the aid of a penny.”

Luck, in Barnum’s opinion, was for all practical purposes non-existent:
“There never was a man who could go out in the morning and find a purse
full of gold in the street to-day, and another to-morrow, and so on,
day after day. He may do so once in his life; but so far as mere luck
is concerned, he is as liable to lose it as find it.” He also hazarded
the revolutionary belief that Providence was not absolutely dependable;
he urged people to remember Cromwell’s, “Not only trust in Providence,
but keep the powder dry,” and he added a story of Mahomet and a
faithful follower, who remarked in the desert one night, “I will loose
my camel, and trust it to God.” “No, no, not so,” said the prophet in
consternation, “tie thy camel, and trust it to God.”

And above all, Barnum urged, Advertise: “But I say if a man has got
goods for sale, and he don’t advertise them in some way, the chances
are that some day the sheriff will do it for him.” To a man who told
him that he had advertised three times and received no good, Barnum
said he replied: “Sir, advertising is like learning--‘a little is a
dangerous thing.’” He claimed that there was only one liquid a man
could use in excessive quantities without being swallowed up by it, and
that was printer’s ink.

“The Art of Money-Getting” was immediately successful in getting
money for Barnum. In a half-column review of the lecture the _London
Times_ paid tribute to the showman’s “fund of dry humor,” sonorous
voice, and surprisingly respectable appearance, more like that of a
man of business than a charlatan! The _Times_ reported that “hundreds
of people pressed one after another into the large music-hall [St.
James’s] for the purpose of seeing and hearing the most adventurous
and least scrupulous of showmen.... The whole scene was, in fact,
an apotheosis of notoriety.” “Whether a huge multitude,” reflected
the _Times_, “applauding an orator for a deliberate panegyric of
‘humbug’ may be considered as a sign of the high moral state of a
nation is a point that we will not here discuss.” But before taking
credit for the achievements of a Prince of Humbugs, Barnum had taken
a precaution: “... he had so defined the word ‘humbug’ as to render
it comparatively harmless.” “Had he satisfactorily demonstrated,”
said the _Times_, “that he was John Howard or Alfred the Great or any
other immortal benefactor of his race, he couldn’t have been honored
with more encouraging cheers than when, with marvelous effrontery, he
declared that he himself was considered the greatest humbug in the
whole world.... And we may assert, with equal truth, that notoriety
puts itself out at compound interest. If Mr. Barnum has got nothing
else by the admiring throng he has at least got a new chapter for a
second edition of his autobiography. Having already related how he drew
together a mob of Yankees to see a few tame bulls, he can now describe
the eagerness of John Bull to see the most enterprising of Yankees.”

Barnum’s lecture was proportionately as popular in the provinces as it
was in London. He delivered it more than one hundred times during 1859
and repeated it several times with success in London. At Oxford and
Cambridge the undergraduates received his wisdom with enthusiasm, but
it was not always serious applause. At Oxford, after he was interrupted
several times, he added this remark to the lecture: “I am an old
showman, and I like to please my patrons. Now, it is quite immaterial
to me; you may furnish the entertainment for the hour, or I will
endeavor to do so, or we will take portions of the time by turns--you
supplying a part of the amusement and I a part--as we say sometimes
in America, ‘you pays your money, and you takes your choice.’”
The students decided on a compromise: Barnum to supply half the
entertainment, and they would supply the other half, and after fifteen
minutes of the lecture, some one suggested singing “Yankee Doodle.” But
Barnum was pleased with their jocularity and happy with the receipts,
for that night at Oxford brought him £169. A London publisher offered
$6,000 for the copyright to “The Art of Money-Getting,” but, wisely,
Barnum declined, for he intended to deliver the lecture in the United
States and again in England, and he also wanted it for that second
edition of the autobiography, where, he agreed with the _Times_, it
would form an interesting new chapter of the chronicle of his conquests.

III

Barnum returned to the United States in 1859 with enough money to pay
all but $20,000 of his debts. His family had boarded and lived cheaply,
and all their money was devoted to taking up Barnum’s notes and buying
in East Bridgeport real estate at assignees’ sales.

On March 17, 1860, Butler and Greenwood, who had purchased the Museum
collection, sold it to Barnum again. Although during their management
a newspaper reported that “there is no pleasanter temple for the
vacant hour,” and that in the Museum might be seen “parsons, poets,
publishers, and other public characters looking at the curiosities
and studying the fishes,” the Museum had not prospered during Barnum’s
absence. Barnum renovated the building and decorated it with brilliant
flags and streamers. Flaming posters announcing, “Barnum’s on his feet
again,” were plastered throughout the city. A large audience greeted
him on March 24, 1860, when he made a speech about his decline, fall,
and rise again. An advertisement in the _Herald_ of March 24 read:
“Between the first and second acts Mr. P. T. Barnum will appear, and
give a brief history of his Adventures as a Clock Maker, showing how
the clock ran down and how it was wound up; shadowing forth in the same
the future of the Museum.”

Barnum, remantled in the esteem of Success, was received by the large
audience of his fellow citizens with an enthusiasm that caused him to
experience deep emotion. He told them the sad story of his clock debts,
and how, with admirable foresight, he had in the days of his prosperity
made over to his wife some of his property, including the lease to the
Museum. Concerning this piece of sagacity, Barnum added the following
footnote when he reprinted his speech in the autobiography: “I was
worth hundreds of thousands of dollars when as a matter of love I
transferred a portion to my wife, little dreaming that it would be
needed during my lifetime.” Mr. Barnum did for love what so many men do
as a precautionary measure of business.

He told his audiences how his family had lived frugally, although the
value of the Museum lease was more than $80,000, so that his debts
could be paid and his real estate repurchased. “The Christian name of
my wife,” he said, “is Charity. I may well acknowledge, therefore,
that I am not only a proper ‘subject of charity,’ but that ‘without
Charity I am nothing.’ But, ladies and gentlemen, while Charity thus
labored in my behalf, Faith and Hope were not idle. I have been
anything but indolent during the last four years.” Then he told of his
accomplishments in Europe.

“Many people,” said Barnum, “have wondered that a man considered so
acute as myself should have been deluded into embarrassments like mine,
and not a few have declared, in short meter, that ‘Barnum was a fool.’
I can only reply that I never made pretensions to the sharpness of a
pawnbroker, and I hope I shall never so entirely lose confidence in
human nature as to consider every man a scamp by instinct, or a rogue
by necessity. ‘It is better to be deceived sometimes than to distrust
always,’ says Lord Bacon, and I agree with him.” Assuredly, all was
for the best, said Barnum. The very factory which he had built for his
defunct clock company was now a thriving sewing-machine manufactory
“filled with intelligent New England mechanics.”

Barnum’s speech concluded with a reiteration of the Museum policy,
which, he assured his audience, would remain the same as it always had
been under his management: “The dramas introduced in the Lecture Room
will never contain a profane expression or a vulgar allusion; on the
contrary, their tendency will always be to encourage virtue and frown
upon vice.” He sent free tickets to clergymen and editors, assuring
them in a circular letter of the same policy, and asking that after
an inspection of the Museum they would kindly recommend it to their
friends, for he desired “to enlist the influence of the intelligent and
educated.”

Much verse commemorated the return of Barnum, including one woman’s “A
Health to Barnum,” which ended:

“Here’s health and luck to Barnum!
An _Elba_ he has seen,
And never may his map of life
Display a _St. Helene_!”

But there was not much danger of a _St. Helene_, for Barnum was once
more in his element, and he worked with all the verve he had formerly
exhibited in the exploitation of Museum attractions. About one month
after his renewed management began, he was visited by James C. Adams,
known as “Grizzly” Adams, who had traveled from San Francisco by
boat with his collection of California animals, consisting mostly
of vicious bears. He had twenty grizzly bears, several wolves and
buffaloes, California lions, tigers, and elk. One of his stars was “Old
Neptune,” the great sea-lion of the Pacific. Most of these animals
“Grizzly” Adams had captured himself during his long career as a hunter
and trapper in the Sierra Nevada and Rocky Mountains.

“Grizzly” Adams was as much a show as his beasts. He wore a hunter’s
buckskin suit, trimmed with the tails of Rocky Mountain animals. For a
cap he used a wolf’s head, trimmed with tails; his own stiff, bushy,
gray hair grew long. His beard was white, long and grizzly, and after
a voyage of three and a half months around Cape Horn with constant
care and attention to his wild animals, who were trained to obey him
but recognized no other master, “Grizzly” Adams was not natty when
he presented himself to Barnum. During their conversation the hunter
removed his hat out of deference to his prospective employer, and
exposed the top of his skull, which was smashed in; he explained to
Barnum that one of his pet bears, “General Frémont,” had laid open his
master’s brain in a moment of playfulness. Barnum remarked anxiously
that the wound looked dangerous. “Yes,” said Adams, “that will fix me
out. It had nearly healed; but Old Frémont opened it for me the third
or fourth time before I left California, and he did his business so
thoroughly, I’m a used-up man. But I reckon I may live six months or
a year yet.” Later he said: “Mr. Barnum, I am not the man I was five
years ago. Then I felt able to stand the hug of any grizzly living, and
was always glad to encounter, single-handed, any sort of an animal that
dared present himself. But I have been beaten to a jelly, torn almost
limb from limb, and nearly chawed up and spit out by these treacherous
grizzly bears. But I am good for a few months yet, and by that time I
hope we shall gain enough to make my old woman comfortable, for I have
been absent from her some years.”

[Illustration: CASTLE GARDEN IN 1850

From a contemporary color print]

[Illustration: CHARITY BARNUM, P. T. BARNUM’S FIRST WIFE

From 1888 edition of his Autobiography]

[Illustration: JAMES ANTHONY BAILEY

_Harvard Theatre Collection_
]

Barnum and “Grizzly” Adams formed a partnership and exhibited his
animals in a tent at the corner of Broadway and Thirteenth Street. On
the opening day a brass band preceded the animals down Broadway and
up the Bowery, the first forerunner of the Barnum street parade which
became such a popular feature of the circus in later years. Adams,
mounted on his favorite bear, “General Frémont,” who was docile for the
occasion, rode on a float with three bears. He, in his strange costume,
and his uncaged bears attracted great attention in the crowded streets
of New York’s business section.

“Grizzly” Adams’s wife came from Massachusetts to nurse him. His
dangerous wound was dressed daily, but the doctor assured Barnum that
his partner could not live longer than a few weeks, and he also told
Adams that his wound was incurable. But this information did not
seem to interest him; for six weeks he continued to perform with his
animals at Broadway and Thirteenth Street, and then the doctor insisted
that he must take a rest. Barnum bought out his partner, and Adams,
instead of retiring, asked Barnum to employ him as trainer in a tour of
Connecticut and Massachusetts during the hot summer months. For sixty
dollars a week and his traveling expenses “Grizzly” Adams traveled with
the animals, and when Barnum urged him to retire before he died in one
of the cages, he replied that he would guarantee to travel with the
bears for ten weeks longer if Barnum would pay him five hundred dollars
as a bonus for his physical endurance at the end of that period. Adams
was interested in getting as much money as he could for his wife,
whom, he considered, he had neglected long enough. After five weeks
of this endurance test, Barnum took pity on the hunter and asked him
to accept half the bonus and retire to die. But Adams refused to die
until his ten weeks’ engagement was finished, and during the hottest
days of August he continued his vigorous work with the animals, while
his wound became worse and his physical condition weaker. At the end
of the stipulated tenth week Adams collected his five hundred dollars,
traveled to his wife’s home in Massachusetts, went to bed and never got
up again, for five days later he died. After the death of “Grizzly”
Adams, his animals were added to the Museum collection and later sold
to a menagerie, except the famous Sea-Lion of the Pacific, who lived in
a tank in the Museum and was supplied daily with fresh sea water by the
deck hands of the Fall River steamboats.

At the time of his partnership with “Grizzly” Adams, Barnum planned a
large wild west show, with real Indians and western animals, something
in the nature of the Buffalo Bill exhibition which was organized many
years later. He never carried out this plan, although he was always
confident that a show of this character, touring the United States and
Europe, would yield large profits. Several years later, in 1864, ten
Indian chiefs, the most distinguished in the country, visited President
Lincoln at the White House to pay their homage. Barnum bribed their
interpreter to bring them to the American Museum in New York. They
were proud chiefs, and they were under the impression that this New
York reception at Barnum’s American Museum was an honor; they had no
suspicion that they were exhibiting themselves in a theater for the
benefit of the proprietor.

Barnum personally introduced his guests from the platform of the Moral
Lecture Room, and they considered that they were receiving treatment
worthy of their position in the country. After two public receptions at
the Museum, Barnum took the Indians in carriages to visit the Mayor of
New York, who made a speech of welcome at the City Hall. At a public
school the children gave an entertainment in their honor, and they
were delighted. Barnum drove with them in Central Park and through the
crowded city streets, always returning to the Museum in time for the
public receptions, admission twenty-five cents, children half-price.

Barnum paid nothing but the original bribe for these unique
curiosities, but his position was made embarrassing by the interest
which the Indian chiefs took in the other curiosities of the Museum.
Whenever they saw a glittering shell or sparkling ornament, one of
the chiefs would remove his coat or his shirt and insist that Barnum
exchange the article for the garment. Of course, Barnum presented the
chief with the coveted object, and as soon as they realized the extent
of this generosity the chiefs begged for everything portable in the
Museum.

Among the Indian chiefs was Yellow Bear, who, in his belligerent days,
had a reputation as one of the most successful enemies of the white
men. Barnum introduced the chiefs individually and with great ceremony
from the stage of the Lecture Room, and when Yellow Bear’s turn came,
Barnum would always pat him familiarly on the head, place his arm
about the chief, and say in unctuous, flattering tones: “This little
Indian, ladies and gentlemen, is Yellow Bear, chief of the Kiowas. He
has killed, no doubt, scores of white persons, and he is probably the
meanest, black-hearted rascal that lives in the Far West.” A pause
followed, during which Barnum patted Yellow Bear affectionately on the
head; the Indian would respond with smiles and bows of pleasure and
gratitude. “If the blood-thirsty little villain,” Barnum continued,
“understood what I was saying, he would kill me in a moment; but, as
he thinks I am complimenting him, I can safely state the truth to you,
that he is a lying, thieving, treacherous, murderous monster. He has
tortured to death poor, unprotected women, murdered their husbands,
brained their helpless little ones; and he would gladly do the same to
you or to me if he thought he would escape punishment. This is but a
faint description of the character of Yellow Bear.” Then Barnum gave
his pet another pat on the head, and the introduction was finished,
with grateful bows from Yellow Bear and roars of laughter from the
audience.

After a week at the Museum the Indians discovered that people were
paying for admission. They were insulted and left the next day for
Washington, feeling a tremendous loss of dignity. Barnum felt relieved
when he saw them depart without any attempts to wreck the Museum.

The Prince of Wales, later King Edward VII, visited Barnum’s American
Museum on October 13, 1860. The Prince was touring the United States,
and Barnum felt that it would be a pity if he were to go back home
without seeing one of the national institutions, so he sent an
invitation. Just an hour before the royal party intended to visit the
Museum, the manager was informed that Barnum’s invitation was accepted.
Barnum was in Bridgeport, and the Prince of Wales was therefore
received by Greenwood, the manager, instead of by the Prince of
Humbugs. With great interest Albert Edward examined The Siamese Twins
and the “What Is It?” According to the _Herald_, this was a deformed,
idiotic negro boy, whom Barnum exhibited as the connecting link between
man and the ape. After looking over the curiosities in the cases, the
Prince of Wales said that he supposed he had seen all, and almost in
the same breath he asked for Mr. Barnum. When told that he was in
Bridgeport, the Prince said, “We have missed the most interesting
feature of the establishment.” The Prince undoubtedly remembered the
jovial gentleman who had brought his General Tom Thumb to Buckingham
Palace for the entertainment of the Queen and her children. Barnum felt
complimented at the Prince’s visit and the royal statement concerning
him, and he was pleased especially because all the newspapers printed
accounts of the visit and the Prince’s words. He also made much of the
fact that the Museum was the only place of public amusement visited
by the Prince in this country. A few days before the Prince’s arrival
Barnum had prepared for the possible visit by having removed to the
cellar a frightful wax figure of Queen Victoria, which had delighted
Museum patrons for nineteen years. It bore the placard, “An exact
likeness of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, taken from life,” but Barnum
feared the Prince might not recognize his mother in the dirty wax which
was supposed to represent her regality.

Barnum called upon the Prince of Wales in Boston and was received
cordially. He reminded the royal visitor that he knew him when he
was a boy in short pants. The streets of Boston were crowded on this
occasion, and Barnum would have had great difficulty getting to the
Revere House if a policeman had not mistaken his appearance for that of
Stephen A. Douglas and shouted with much spectacular respect, “Make way
there for Judge Douglas’s carriage.” The crowd opened a passageway, and
hurrahs for Douglas were shouted all along the route. Barnum took off
his hat, bowed to right and to left, and received the borrowed cheers
with gratitude and pleasure. When Douglas was a candidate for President
in 1860, several newspapers remarked that he looked the image of P. T.
Barnum.

Barnum’s renewed enterprise and the publicity which came to him by
reason of his past reputation contributed largely to the rejuvenation
of the Museum, until as a source of profit it was as valuable as it
had ever been. Sometimes Barnum was lucky enough to gain publicity
from deceptions practised upon him as well as by means of his own
deceptions. His famous Cherry-Colored Cat was an example of both
forms of deception in one. A farmer visited the Museum one day and
informed Greenwood that he had a cherry-colored cat, which he would
sell for twenty-five dollars. Greenwood agreed in writing to pay that
amount, providing the cat was not artificially colored. The farmer
returned with a handsome black cat, and told Greenwood calmly that
his cat was the color of black cherries. Greenwood refused to pay for
this deception, but as soon as Barnum heard about it he was delighted
at a joke he might have perpetrated himself and insisted that the
practical joker was worthy of his hire. He got back his twenty-five
dollars by exhibiting the cat in a paper bag as a mysterious novelty, a
Cherry-Colored Cat. He fooled his patrons precisely as the farmer had
fooled his manager.

In 1861 Barnum created a sensation with whales. He learned that
fishermen had caught a white whale at the mouth of the St. Lawrence
River, and he hurried to Canada to arrange for the capture alive of a
pair of white whales for his Museum. Barnum witnessed the capture and
arranged for the transportation of his whales, and then he started back
to New York. On the way he informed telegraph operators that they might
take from the wire any news about whales addressed to P. T. Barnum and
give it out to their townspeople. The result was a triumphal procession
seven hundred miles long, with plenty of attendant publicity, when
the white whales started on their journey. People gathered at all the
railroad stations to catch a glimpse of the white whales in their long
boxes, filled with sea weed and salt water. Before he left Quebec,
Barnum wrote accounts of the capture and shipment of the whales for the
Quebec and Montreal newspapers, and these were copied in other papers.
Despatches telling the progress of the trip were posted on bulletin
boards outside the Museum in New York, and the excitement in the city
was great. When the whales were finally deposited in their tank, built
specially for their reception in the basement of the Museum, thousands
rushed to see them.

But neither Barnum nor any of his assistants knew the daily diet of
a whale, and they had neglected to provide salt water in the tanks.
The Museum cellar was badly ventilated, and all these factors caused
the sudden death of the notorious animals. A _Tribune_ editorial
expressed the mock hope, “May both whales meet again in the open
seas of immortality.” Barnum was not discouraged by this unforeseen
catastrophe, and the publicity he had aroused was too valuable to
waste. He ordered pipes laid between the Museum and New York Bay so
that sea water could be pumped into the new tank he ordered for the
second floor, where new whales could get plenty of fresh air. This
tank, according to Barnum’s own estimates, was twenty-four feet square
and lined with slate and French plate glass at a cost of $4,000. Two
whales were soon on their way to New York, and soon they died. Barnum
ordered two more. The public was now excited, and the necessary
controversy was created by the statement in some of the newspapers that
Barnum’s whales were mere porpoises. Professor Agassiz, of Harvard,
visited the animals and gave Barnum a certificate that they were
genuine white whales. The publication of this authoritative statement
silenced all comment by amateur newspaper naturalists.

It was Barnum’s contention that more persons are humbugged by believing
too little than by believing too much. “Many persons,” he wrote, “have
such a horror of being taken in, or such an elevated opinion of their
own acutness, that they believe everything to be a sham, and in this
way are continually humbugging themselves.” In illustration he gave the
instance of a Yankee lady who visited the Museum to see the whales.
Barnum knew her personally, and after she had watched the whales she
called at Barnum’s office. “Mr. B., it’s astonishing to what a number
of purposes the ingenuity of us Yankees has applied india-rubber,”
she said. The whales, in her opinion, were constructed by Barnum of
india-rubber and compelled to rise to the surface at regular intervals
by means of a bellows puffing air into their bodies. Barnum realized
that it would be useless to argue against such an ingenious conviction,
and he therefore begged his friend to keep the secret to herself,
assuring her that she had been the only person acute enough to discover
it. Whenever he met the lady in later years, she assured him that she
never had revealed his secret, and never would so long as she lived.

Barnum advertised his whales in screaming captions daily. The following
is a sample:

BARNUM’S AMERICAN MUSEUM

After months of unwearied labor, and spending

NEARLY TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS
NEARLY TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS
NEARLY TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS

in capturing and transporting them from that part of the Gulf of
St. Lawrence nearest Labrador, the Manager is enabled to offer his
visitors

TWO LIVING WHALES,
TWO LIVING WHALES,
TWO LIVING WHALES,
TWO LIVING WHALES,
TWO LIVING WHALES,
TWO LIVING WHALES,

a male and a female. Everybody has heard of WHALES

IN NURSERY TALES AND “SAILOR’S YARNS,”
IN NURSERY TALES AND “SAILOR’S YARNS,”

everybody has read of WHALES in story, song, and history, and
everybody

WANTS TO SEE A WHALE,
WANTS TO SEE A WHALE,
WANTS TO SEE A WHALE,
WANTS TO SEE A WHALE,

and now they have the opportunity. Barnum has

CAPTURED TWO OF THE LEVIATHANS,
CAPTURED TWO OF THE LEVIATHANS,
CAPTURED TWO OF THE LEVIATHANS,

has built a small ocean in his Museum, filled it from the briny
deep, and there

THE TWO LIVING WHALES,
THE TWO LIVING WHALES,
THE TWO LIVING WHALES,
THE TWO LIVING WHALES,

measuring respectively fifteen and twenty feet in length, may
be seen at all hours sporting in their native element. Who will
miss the opportunity of seeing them? Another may not offer in a
lifetime. Embrace this ere it be too late.

LAST TWO DAYS OF
WILLIAM TILLMAN AND WILLIAM STEDDING,
The Colored Steward and German Sailor of the
SCHOONER S. J. WARING,

Who slew three of the piratical crew, and rescued themselves and
the vessel from their power.

WHAT IS IT? OR, MAN MONKEY.
MADAGASCAR ALBINOS,
PURE WHITE NEGROES, OR MOORS.
SEA LION, MAMMOTH BEAR SAMSON, with a variety of other
living Bears; MONSTER SNAKES, AQUARIA, HAPPY
FAMILY, LIVING SEAL, WAX FIGURES, &c.

In the Lecture-Room, a great Dramatic Novelty is offered,
EMBRACING FARCE, VAUDEVILLE, and BURLETTA,
with a brilliant and talented company, including
LITTLE LOLA, THE INFANT WONDER,
MR. and MRS. C. B. REYNOLDS,
MISS DORA DAWRON, DOUBLE-VOICED SINGER,
LA PETITE ADDIE LE BRUN,
The favorite Juvenile Danseuse, always popular.
MARIE; THE CHILD OF SORROW,
With a laughable farce, every day at 3 and 7¾ o’clock.
Admission to all, 25 cents; Children under 10, 15 cents.

When his last pair of white whales died Barnum utilized his tank for
the abode of a still greater wonder. He obtained for an engagement of
several weeks at the Museum the first and only hippopotamus that had
ever been exhibited in America. He advertised his hippopotamus as “The
Great Behemoth of the Scriptures,” and as such the animal was visited
by clergymen, naturalists, theological students, and devotees of the
Bible, as well as by the common people, whose curiosity was aroused by
the controversy created by the theologists and scientists. Barnum’s
advertisements were a great factor in the popularity of the animal;
the following will serve to show his style of sonorous statement and
ecstatic hyperbole, which later developed into the roaring phrases of
the circus press agent:

BARNUM’S AMERICAN MUSEUM

SECOND WEEK OF THAT WONDERFUL
LIVING HIPPOPOTAMUS,
FROM THE RIVER NILE IN EGYPT,
THE GREAT BEHEMOTH OF THE SCRIPTURES,
AND THE MARVEL OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM.

The history of this animal is full of interest, and to every
class, especially the educated and intelligent, but above all
to the biblical student, who has read with interest the glowing
description of

THE GREAT BEHEMOTH

in the Book of Job. He is strictly an

AMPHIBIOUS ANIMAL,

living in the water and out of it; under the water, or on the top
of it; floats on its surface with perfect ease, or beneath the
surface, midway between the top and the bottom. In their natural
state these animals are wild and ferocious; though on the land,
they are not very formidable, but when pursued they fly to the
rivers,

DESCEND TO THE BOTTOM AND WALK ACROSS,

frequently appearing on the opposite side without the least
indication of their course on the surface of the stream. If
exasperated by assaults, in the water they are the most

FRIGHTFUL ANTAGONISTS,

their gigantic proportions and herculean strength giving them power
over every opposing force, frequently destroying whole boat-loads
of men and their boats, crushing with their huge jaws everything
that comes in their way.

In the Museum the specimen here exhibited has an

ARTIFICIAL OCEAN OR RIVER,

where he is to be seen in all his natural peculiarities, floating
on, and swimming beneath the surface, walking on the bottom
several feet beneath, exhibiting, in short, all the peculiarities
of his nature; and to perfect the scene a native

ARABIAN KEEPER, SALAAMA,

who is himself a curiosity as a specimen of that historic tribe
of men, who exhibits all the stolidity and Arabian dignity of
that Oriental race; the only man who can control or exhibit his
Hippopotamiship, is in constant attendance. They are both to be
seen at all hours, DAY and EVENING.

This is the

FIRST AND ONLY REAL HIPPOPOTAMUS

ever seen in America. He is engaged at a cost of many thousands of
dollars, and will remain

A SHORT TIME ONLY.
A SHORT TIME ONLY.

Also just obtained at great expense, and now to be seen swimming in
the large tank in the Aquarial Hall,

A LIVING SHARK,

besides a great variety of other living Fish, Turtles, &c., &c.

WHAT IS IT? OR, MAN MONKEY.
SEA LION, MAMMOTH BEAR SAMSON, MONSTER SNAKES,
AQUARIA, HAPPY FAMILY, LIVING SEAL, &c.
The Lecture-Room Entertainments embrace
PETITE DRAMA, VAUDEVILLE, BURLETTA, and FARCE.
By a company of rare musical and dramatic talent.
MISS DAWRON, DOUBLE-VOICED VOCALIST,
MLLE. MATILDA E. TOEDT,
The Talented Young Violinist, &c.

Admission to all, 25 cents; Children under 10, 15 cents.

The description of the behemoth in the Book of Job and Barnum’s
description of the hippopotamus as given above do not tally exactly.
And a comparison of the two leaves the impression that the author of
the Book of Job was the better press agent:

“Behold now behemoth, which I made with thee; he eateth grass as an
ox.

Lo now, his strength is in his loins, and his force is in the navel
of his belly.

He moveth his tail like a cedar: the sinews of his stones are
wrapped together.

His bones are as strong pieces of brass; his bones are like bars of
iron.

He is the chief of the ways of God: he that made him can make his
sword to approach unto him.

Surely the mountains bring him forth food, where all the beasts of
the field play.

He lieth under the shady trees, in the covert of reed and fens.

The shady trees cover him with their shadow; the willows of the
brook compass him about.

Behold, he drinketh up a river, and hasteth not: he trusteth that
he can draw up Jordan into his mouth.

He taketh it with his eyes: his nose pierceth through snares.”

JOB xl., 15–24.

Barnum advertised his behemoth “for a short time only,” then added
another week “by special request,” and continued a “farewell week”
through many months of public curiosity.

By such enterprises and expedients as the Indian chiefs, the whales,
and the behemoth, “The Art of Money-Getting” and the Prince of Wales,
Barnum recovered his fortune and redeemed his reputation for success
and cunning. He was once more a venerated Prince of Humbugs because
he was able to maintain a palace, and many of those who had seen in
his downfall a subject of righteous retribution saw in his revival the
happy achievement of deserving merit.

Before the reopening of the Lecture Room in 1864 with a dramatization
of Dickens’s _Great Expectations_ Barnum delivered the following rhymed
speech, which in bare outline sums up some of the characters and
oddities Barnum had introduced to the public until 1864, when he was
fifty-four years old:

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:

“That Prince of Humbugs, Barnum,” so it appears
Some folks have designated me for several years.
Well, I don’t murmur; indeed, when they embellish it,
To tell the truth, my friends, I rather relish it,
Since your true humbug’s he, who as a host,
For the least money entertains you most.
In this sense I’m a “humbug,” I succumb!
Who as a “General” thing brought out Tom Thumb?
Who introduced (you can’t say there I sinned)
The Swedish Nightingale, sweet Jenny Lind?
Who brought you Living Whales from Labrador?
The Hippopotamus from Nilus’s shore,
The Bearded Lady with her (h)airs and graces,
The Aztec Children with their normal faces,
The Twins of Siam--rarest of dualities--
Two ever separate, ne’er apart realities?
The Family of Albinos? the Giraffe?
The famous Baby Show that made you laugh?
The Happy Family--cats, rats, doves, hawks, harmonious?
Their voices blend in tones euphonious.
The great Sea Lion from Pacific’s coast,
The “Monarch of the Ocean,” no empty boast;
Old Adam’s Bears, cutest of brute performers,
In modern “peace meetings” models for reformers.
That living miracle, the Lightning Calculator,
Those figures confound Hermann the “Prestidigitator.”
The Grand Aquaria, an official story
Of life beneath the waves in all its glory;
The curious “What Is It?” which you, though spunky,
Won’t call a man and cannot call a monkey.
These things and many more time forbids to state,
I first introduced, if I did not originate;
“The World’s Seven Wonders,” pooh! let them invite you,
Here “seven” saloons all wonder-full delight you.
To call this “humbug” admits of no defense,
For all is shown for five and twenty cents.
And now, good friends, to use less rhyme than reason,
To-day re-opens our dramatic season;
Therefore I welcome you! And though we’re certain
To raise “Great Expectations” with the curtain,
And “play the Dickens” afternoon and nightly,
I bid you welcome none the less politely
To these my “quarters,” merry and reliable,
That yours are always welcome ’tis undeniable!
And Patrick Henry like I say, I boast of it,
If that be “humbug,” gentlemen, “make the most of it.”

CHAPTER XI

THE DWARFS’ DUEL, OR THE MARRIAGE OF THE MIDGETS

General Tom Thumb had exhibited himself throughout the United States on
his own account with great success, and after Barnum had recovered from
bankruptcy with his aid the General returned to his own management.

In December, 1861, a dwarf visited Barnum at the Museum, who promised
to be a great success with the public. He was seventeen years old,
twenty-nine inches high, and weighed twenty-four pounds. He had a
well-shaped body, a pretty head, and the sharp tongue which is such an
asset in a midget. His name was George Washington Morrison Nutt, and
he was the son of Major Rodnia Nutt, a New Hampshire gentleman farmer.
Barnum instructed an agent in New England to proceed immediately to
Manchester, New Hampshire, and to offer Major Rodnia Nutt as much
as $30,000 for the privilege of exhibiting his son for three years.
In addition to this salary of $200 per week Barnum offered to pay
all expenses of board, clothing, costumes and travel, as well as
the expenses of any companion Major Nutt might select for his son.
The dwarf was also to enjoy the profits of all the sales of books,
pictures and autographs. This high offer is explained by the postscript
of Barnum’s letter to his agent: “I hear that several showmen are
after him. Nail him, and don’t let them get ahead of you. Get him on
lower terms if you can. Get privilege of continuing engagement two
years longer, if possible, on same terms. Payments always to be made
weekly. P. T. B” Several other showmen wanted the services of George
Washington Nutt, but none was able to offer $30,000, the price which
Barnum was finally compelled to pay, and by reason of which the dwarf
became popularly known as “The $30,000 Nutt.”

Barnum rechristened his new dwarf Commodore Nutt, after the manner
of General Tom Thumb, and he was dressed in naval uniform. His
presence at the Museum was proclaimed by large posters and newspaper
advertisements, which brought immediate results. Two Shetland ponies,
a miniature coachman and footman in livery, gold-mounted harness and
elegant carriage in the shape of a huge English walnut, were Commodore
Nutt’s properties. When he made his first appearances, Commodore Nutt
resembled General Tom Thumb in his youth. Tom Thumb, meanwhile, had
grown more portly, but many Museum patrons insisted that Commodore Nutt
and General Tom Thumb were one and the same person, and that Barnum
was a humbug. Tom Thumb was just then touring in the West. When the
controversy had grown to proper dimensions, Barnum persuaded General
Tom Thumb to return east and to exhibit at the Museum on the same
platform with Commodore Nutt. In August, 1862, the rivals, advertised
as “The Two Dromios,” appeared together. Many persons visited the
Museum again to settle their doubts on this momentous question, and
some of them went away convinced more than ever that it was all a
deception. It was confidently stated by those who had visited General
Tom Thumb in his childhood that Commodore Nutt was General Tom Thumb,
and that the stout, small man labeled General Tom Thumb was a newcomer.
The continued controversy increased receipts and delighted Barnum.

In 1862 Barnum visited Washington with Commodore Nutt, and they were
received at the White House by President Lincoln. At the time Lincoln
was busy with the Civil War, but he was interested in Barnum and his
dwarf. When they called at the White House a special cabinet meeting
was in progress, but Lincoln had left word that Barnum and the
Commodore were to be shown in at once. They were introduced by Lincoln
to the members of his cabinet, and when Commodore Nutt shook hands
with Chase, Secretary of the Treasury, he remarked, “I suppose you are
the gentleman who is spending so much of Uncle Sam’s money?” Stanton,
Secretary of War, spoke up, claiming that credit, and the Commodore
said, “Well, it is in a good cause, anyhow, and I guess it will come
out all right.” Lincoln was pleased with this remark, and he bent
his long body down to take the little Commodore’s hand, as he said:
“Commodore, permit me to give you a parting word of advice. When you
are in command of your fleet, if you find yourself in danger of being
taken prisoner, I advise you to wade ashore.” “I guess, Mr. President,
you could do that better than I could,” answered the Commodore, as he
gradually looked up the long expanse of Lincoln’s legs.

As a contrast to the “Two Smallest Men and Greatest Curiosities
Living,” Barnum engaged Anna Swan, the Nova Scotia giantess, who was
seventeen years old and was supposed to be the tallest woman in the
world. Her features were attractive, and in spite of her enormous
size she was admired for her beauty. For many years she was a leading
attraction at the Museum; later she married Colonel Bates, a giant, and
they toured England with success.

In the same year, 1862, Barnum discovered another dwarf, a young
girl, Lavinia Warren, who lived with her parents in Middleboro,
Massachusetts. Lavinia Warren, whose name at baptism was Mercy Lavinia
Warren Bumpus, was born October 31, 1841. She traced her pedigree to
William, Earl of Warren, who married Gruneda, daughter of William the
Conqueror. Lavinia had two older brothers and two older sisters, and
they were all more than six feet tall. She had two younger brothers
of normal size and a younger sister, Minnie Warren, who was also a
dwarf. Lavinia’s father was six feet in height, and her mother was a
tall woman. After she was ten years old she stopped growing, and at
that time was twenty-four inches high and weighed twenty pounds. She
went to school in Middleboro and was taught housework by her mother.
Throughout her girlhood she lived the life of a normal person; she
was extremely sensitive about her abnormality and determined that it
must not make any difference. She studied hard, and at the age of
sixteen became a school teacher in the Middleboro school, where she
was always able to maintain proper discipline in spite of her size.
She was satisfied with this occupation for life. Then a cousin, who
was a traveling showman, visited the Bumpus house and suggested that
Lavinia should travel with his show. She was eager to see the country,
and, after gaining the reluctant permission of her parents, she went
West with her cousin, whose show was located on board a Mississippi
River boat that stopped for exhibitions at all important towns on the
river. During her travels Lavinia Warren met General Grant and Stephen
A. Douglas. The latter tried to kiss her, but she was conscious of her
womanhood and drew back with becoming modesty. Douglas did not bother
her further.

Barnum heard of Lavinia Warren in 1862, and he engaged her for several
years, including the privilege of a foreign tour. Before exhibiting
Lavinia Warren at the Museum, Barnum placed her in a suite at the Fifth
Avenue Hotel, where she was visited by fashionable society and popular
Civil War generals, including the Vanderbilts and the Astors and
Generals McClellan, Burnside, Rosecrans and McPherson. Barnum purchased
jewels and an elaborate wardrobe for Lavinia, and when society admirers
had stimulated general curiosity sufficiently, he exhibited her to the
public at the Museum.

When Lavinia Warren exhibited at Barnum’s American Museum, the
spectacle of “The Two Dromios” had ended; General Tom Thumb was on
a vacation in Bridgeport, his home, and Commodore Nutt was the only
other dwarf at the Museum. The Commodore was about five years younger
than Lavinia Warren, but age has never acted as a check on affection,
and in this respect at least these midgets did not differ from
ordinary men and women, for it was not long before Commodore Nutt was
fascinated. Lavinia Warren was well-mannered, demure, intelligent, and
she had pretty pink cheeks. The Commodore was a sprightly, gay boy of
seventeen, whose susceptibility to a woman’s charm seemed in no way
limited by his size.

Among the many presents of jewelry which Barnum made to Lavinia for her
use in her exhibitions was a small ring, which was still too large for
her tiny fingers. Barnum, inadvertently, suggested that she give it to
the Commodore as a present. The Commodore was delighted; he regarded
the ring as a token that his obvious interest was reciprocated.
Lavinia was uneasy, for, as she confided to Barnum, she could only
regard the Commodore as “a nice boy,” while she considered herself a
serious-minded woman; had she not taught school? She continued to treat
the Commodore kindly, but she refused to encourage his attentions.

Meanwhile, General Tom Thumb was spending his time in Bridgeport with
his ponies and his yacht, which were his favorite sources of amusement
since he had come of age. He visited New York one day and dropped in to
see his friend Mr. Barnum at the Museum. He was introduced to Lavinia
Warren, and after chatting pleasantly with her for a short time the
General hurried to Barnum’s private office. As soon as they were alone,
he asked Barnum for detailed information about Lavinia and her family.
Tom Thumb looked up at his friend earnestly and said with emphasis in
his diminutive treble voice, “Mr. Barnum, that is the most charming
little lady I ever saw, and I believe she was created on purpose to
be my wife!” There was a pause. Barnum refused to express any opinion
on this statement. “Now, Mr. Barnum,” the General continued, “you’ve
always been a friend of mine, and I want you to say a good word for me
to her. I’ve got plenty of money, and I want to marry and settle down.
I really feel as though I _must_ marry that young lady.”

The little General was excited, but determined. Barnum was amused, and,
indulging his inordinate love of a pun,--and that pun in particular,
since he had already used it once on Jenny Lind,--he said, “Lavinia
is already engaged, General.” “To whom? Commodore Nutt?” the General
asked with suspicion and jealousy in his voice. “No,” said Barnum, “to
me.” The General was immensely relieved, and he insisted that Barnum’s
contract must not interfere with his happiness. “I hope you will favor
my suit with her?” he asked. “Well, General,” Barnum said, “I will not
oppose you in your suit, but you must do your own courting. But I tell
you, Commodore Nutt will be jealous of you, and, more than that, Miss
Warren is nobody’s fool. You will have to be careful, if you want to
succeed.”

The General was confident and active. He abandoned his yacht and
neglected his ponies. Much of his time was now spent at his sister’s
house in New York City, and every day he visited the Museum for
pleasure. Commodore Nutt grew jealous, and he resented the General’s
frequent intrusions. When the rivals were left alone in the Museum
dressing-rooms one day, the Commodore laid the General flat on his
back, for the Commodore was wiry and alert, while the General, who
was eight years older, was portly and slow. Although physically the
General was at a disadvantage, in his courtship he had the advantages
of a man of wealth and leisure over at person who must work every
day for his living. While Commodore Nutt was entertaining the Museum
patrons, General Tom Thumb was entertaining Lavinia Warren. Sundays
and evenings, when Lavinia was at leisure and the Commodore was not
present, the General chatted shyly with her, and by his constant
presence he indubitably established in her mind the reason for it.
Finally, satisfied that he had made discreet and sufficient progress,
General Tom Thumb returned to his neglected family in Bridgeport. But
before he left New York he begged Barnum to invite Lavinia Warren to
the Barnum house in Bridgeport for the week-end. He wanted his mother
to meet Lavinia.

On the following Friday, when the Commodore and Lavinia were sitting in
the Museum Green-Room, Barnum said, “Lavinia, would you like to go up
to Bridgeport with me to-morrow and stay until Monday?” “Thank you,”
she said, “it will be a great relief to get into the country for a
couple of days.” “Mr. Barnum,” said the Commodore, “_I_ should like to
go up to Bridgeport to-morrow.” “What for?” asked Barnum innocently. “I
want to see my ponies; I haven’t seen them for several months.” Barnum
was afraid that he could not spare both Lavinia and the Commodore from
the Museum, he said. But the Commodore insisted that he could perform
at half-past seven Saturday night and catch the eight o’clock train for
Bridgeport. Barnum did not wish to lose the Commodore’s friendship, and
Lavinia did not seem to object to his company at the week-end party.
Barnum confessed that he knew nothing of Lavinia’s opinion of the
rivals. At the time he believed that she wished the presence of the
Commodore to prevent a declaration by the General, but she confided
nothing to him.

General Tom Thumb waited with his best coach at the Bridgeport railroad
station on Saturday morning. The coachman was dressed up for the
occasion with a broad velvet ribbon and a new silver buckle on his
hat. The General drove Barnum and Lavinia to Barnum’s house, and then
he took Lavinia for a drive. Stopping with her for a few minutes at
his own house, he showed her the rooms which his father had ordered
to be constructed midget size, and also showed her the gorgeous
diminutive furniture which filled those rooms. Then he drove with her
to East Bridgeport and pointed out his real estate. At luncheon he was
delighted when Lavinia, in answer to Barnum’s question about her drive,
said: “It was very pleasant; it seems as if you and Tom Thumb own about
all of Bridgeport.”

The General returned to Barnum’s house for dinner, and he brought his
mother along. She did not yet know that her son intended matrimony, but
she was delighted with Lavinia Warren. Taking Barnum aside, the General
asked for an invitation to spend the night at “Lindencroft,” Barnum’s
new Bridgeport residence. “I intend,” he explained, “to ask her to
marry me before the Commodore arrives.”

After dinner Lavinia and General Tom Thumb played backgammon. At nine
o’clock Barnum yawned ostentatiously and said he would like to retire,
but that some one must wait up for the Commodore. General Tom Thumb
volunteered, “if Miss Warren will remain also.” Lavinia explained that
she was used to late hours, and the two dwarfs waited for the third.
The Barnum family retired, excepting two young girls, who had been told
of the situation, and who were interested in its dénouement. They took
up positions on the hall stairway, where they could watch and listen in
darkness. It is to their curiosity that we are indebted, via Barnum,
for the detailed report of what happened that evening.

Backgammon grew tiresome, and the General finally suggested that
they had had enough. There were a few minutes of meditative silence.
Then the General drew from his small, inside coat pocket a large,
much-folded paper, and, handing it to Lavinia, he asked her if she knew
what that was. “It is an insurance policy,” she said. “I see you keep
your property insured.” “But the beauty of it is,” said the General
with a cunning smile, “it is not my property. And yet I get the benefit
of the insurance in case of fire.” He unfolded the large insurance
policy, and the two little heads bent over its wide expanse. “You will
see,” the General demonstrated, “that this is the property of Mr.
Williams. But here, you will notice, it reads, ‘Loss, if any, payable
to Charles S. Stratton, as his interest may appear.’ The fact is, I
loaned Mr. Williams three thousand dollars, took a mortgage on his
house, and made him insure it for my benefit. In this way, you see, I
get my interest, and he has to pay the taxes,” he wound up triumphantly.

“That is a very wise way, I should think,” Lavinia said.

“That is the way I do all my business,” the General answered, and he
returned the large insurance policy to his pocket. “You see, I never
lend any of my money without taking bond and mortgage securities, then
I never have any trouble with taxes; my principal is secure, and I
receive my interest regularly.” Thus any one, and especially Lavinia,
could see what a smart little, rich little man he was. This exposition,
and the romantic morning drive around the real estate, made his point.

He drew his chair closer. “So you are going to Europe soon,” he said,
although the fact was well known to both of them.

“Yes,” Lavinia answered. “Mr. Barnum intends to take me over in a
couple of months.”

“You will find it very pleasant,” Tom Thumb said, “I have been there
twice; in fact, I have spent six years abroad, and I like the old
countries very much.”

“I hope I shall like the trip, and I expect I shall,” said Lavinia.
“Mr. Barnum says I shall visit all the principal cities, and he has
no doubt I will be invited to appear before the Queen of England, the
Emperor and Empress of France, the King of Prussia, the Emperor of
Austria, and at the courts of any other countries we may visit. Oh! I
shall like that; it will be so new to me!”

“Yes, it will be very interesting, indeed. I have visited most of the
crowned heads,” said the small man of the world. “But don’t you think
you’ll be lonesome in a strange country?” he asked anxiously. Lavinia
did not think she would be lonesome. “I wish I was going over,” Tom
Thumb said. “I know all about the different countries, and I could
explain them all to you.”

“That would be very nice,” Lavinia admitted.

“Do you think so?” He moved his chair closer.

“Of course,” she said calmly, without emphasis. “It would be pleasant
to have some one along who could answer all my foolish questions.”

“I should like it first-rate, if Mr. Barnum would engage me,” said the
General.

“I thought you said the other day you had money enough and were tired
of traveling,” Lavinia said, slyly teasing him.

“That depends upon my company while traveling,” said the General,
gallant and bold.

“You might not find my company very agreeable,” suggested Lavinia.

“I would be glad to risk it,” said the General.

“Well, perhaps Mr. Barnum would engage you if you asked him.”

“Would you really like to have me go?” the General asked, as he
insinuated his arm around the back of the chair. He did not dare to
touch her yet.

“Of course I would,” she said gently.

The General’s arm boldly encircled her small waist, and he turned her
towards him. “Don’t you think it would be nicer if we went as man
and wife?” Lavinia was surprised, and she removed the General’s arm.
When questioned further, she said that she did think it was all very
sudden, but the General did not agree with her. He finally argued away
her doubts with a kiss, and she consented to marry him if her mother
granted permission.

A few minutes later a carriage drove up, and the bell rang. Commodore
Nutt entered. “You here, General?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes,” Lavinia answered for him. “Mr. Barnum asked him to stay the
night, and we were waiting for you.”

“Where is Mr. Barnum?” asked the Commodore.

“He has gone to bed, but a supper has been prepared for you,” Tom Thumb
said.

“I am not hungry, thank you,” said the Commodore brusquely. “What room
does Mr. Barnum sleep in?” He was told, and he went up to see Barnum,
who was reading in bed.

“Mr. Barnum,” the Commodore asked, “does Tom Thumb _board_ here?”

“No,” said Barnum. “Tom Thumb does not _board_ here. I invited him to
stop over night, so don’t be foolish, but go to bed.”

“Oh, it’s no affair of mine; I don’t care anything about it. Only I
thought he’d taken up his residence here.” And he went off to bed, but
not to sleep.

Ten minutes later Tom Thumb rushed into Barnum’s room. “We’re engaged,
Mr. Barnum! We’re engaged! What do you think of that!”

“Is that possible?” asked Barnum.

“Yes, sir, indeed it is, but you mustn’t mention it. We’ve agreed to
tell no one, so don’t say a word. I’m going to ask her mother’s consent
Tuesday.”[17]

The next day, Sunday, Lavinia said nothing about the event of Saturday
night. She treated Commodore Nutt with her usual cordiality, and as
General Tom Thumb went home early in the morning, the Commodore was
once more in good humor, for, although he was suspicious, he was still
uncertain of the exact extent of the General’s progress. On Sunday
evening the General had a short conversation with Lavinia, and that
night Lavinia and the Commodore went back to New York together. There
is no report of their conversation on the train.

The General sent a good friend to Lavinia’s mother, with a letter, and
the friend also urged the suit personally. On the following Wednesday
the General went to New York, where he waited in Lavinia’s company
for her mother’s answer. Both of them entered Barnum’s private office
Wednesday afternoon, and Tom Thumb said: “Mr. Barnum, I want somebody
to tell the Commodore that Lavinia and I are engaged, for I’m afraid
there will be a row when he hears about it.” “Do it yourself, General,”
was Barnum’s suggestion. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare do it,” said Tom Thumb.
“He might knock me down!” “I will do it myself,” Lavinia decided.

The General retired, and Barnum sent for Commodore Nutt. When the
Commodore entered, Barnum said: “Commodore, do you know what this
little witch has been doing?” The Commodore had no idea. “Well, she
has been cutting up one of the greatest pranks you ever heard of. She
almost deserves to be shut up for daring to do it. Can’t you guess what
she has done?”

He looked at Barnum in silence for a moment, and then in a low,
trembling voice, he said, looking full at Lavinia, “Engaged?”

“Yes,” said Barnum, “actually engaged to be married to General Tom
Thumb. Did you ever hear of such a thing?”

“Is it so, Lavinia?” the Commodore asked earnestly.

“Yes, it is really so,” said Lavinia.

The Commodore turned weak and pale. He choked, turned on his tiny heel,
and when he got to the door, he just managed to say in a broken voice,
“I hope you may be happy.”

“That’s pretty hard,” Barnum said to Lavinia.

“I am very sorry,” said Lavinia, “but I could not help it. That diamond
and emerald ring you asked me to give him caused all the trouble.”
Lavinia Warren was placing too much responsibility on a small ring.

Half an hour after Barnum told him the news, Commodore Nutt returned to
the private office. “Mr. Barnum,” he asked, “do you think it would be
right for Miss Warren to marry Charlie Stratton if her mother should
object?” “No, indeed,” said Barnum. “Well, she says she will marry him
anyway; that she gives her mother the chance to consent, but if she
objects, she will have her way and marry him.” Barnum reassured the
Commodore. He would not permit such disobedience, he said, and if Mrs.
Warren objected to the match, Barnum intended to put an end to it by
insisting on the terms of the contract with Lavinia and taking her to
Europe immediately. The Commodore was joyful. “Between you and me, Mr.
Barnum,” he said, “I don’t believe she will consent.” But the Commodore
was wrong. Mrs. Warren consented, but only after she was convinced that
the match was not prompted by Barnum for the purpose of making money.

When the Commodore’s last hope was destroyed, Barnum, endeavoring to
comfort him, said, “Never mind, Commodore, Minnie Warren is a better
match for you anyhow. She is two years younger than you, and Lavinia is
older.” “Thank you, sir, but I would not marry the best woman living. I
don’t believe in women,” was the Commodore’s reply.

Barnum suggested that Commodore Nutt act as best man at the wedding,
with Minnie Warren as bridesmaid. The Commodore refused without giving
any reason. A few weeks later he told Barnum that Charlie Stratton
had asked him to act as best man, and that he had accepted. “And when
I asked you, you refused,” said Barnum. “It was not your business to
ask me,” the Commodore answered. “When the proper person asked me, I
accepted.”

III

The public announcement of the forthcoming wedding of General Tom
Thumb and Lavinia Warren created great popular excitement. The levees
held at the Museum daily by Lavinia Warren were crowded beyond the
capacity of the space, and she sold daily three hundred dollars’ worth
of photographs of herself. The receipts at the Museum were more than
$3,000 each day, and Barnum offered General Tom Thumb, who was on
exhibition with his fiancée, $15,000 if he would postpone the wedding
for one month and continue the joint appearances. “No, sir,” the
General said excitedly, “not for fifty thousand dollars!” “Good for
you, Charlie,” said Lavinia, “only you should have said one hundred
thousand.”

Barnum’s profits were so large that he could well afford a fine
wedding. He determined to make it a grand occasion, because he wanted
to do the right thing by his exceptional wards, he tells us, but he was
also doing a good thing for his Museum. Many accused Barnum of having
arranged this diminutive marriage on a large scale as an advertisement.
“Had I done this,” he wrote later, “I should at this day have felt no
regrets, for it has proved, in an eminent degree, one of the ‘happy
marriages.’” But he did not arrange the attachment General Tom Thumb
felt for Lavinia Warren, and it is probable that the match was for him
a financial loss, because it meant the end of his lucrative contract
with Lavinia Warren and the renunciation of a European tour which would
have brought him large profits.

It was suggested to Barnum that he hire the Academy of Music and charge
admission to the wedding ceremony. But that impressed even Barnum with
its lack of dignity; there was always something sacred to him about
any church ceremony, which aroused his sense of propriety as nothing
else could. He had promised the couple a respectable wedding, and he
intended to see that they had one. Preparations were made for one of
the most imposing social events of the time. Two thousand invitations
were issued to New York’s notorieties, plutocrats and celebrities. As
much as sixty dollars was offered for one of these private invitations,
but none was sold by Barnum.

The _Herald_ printed a long protest against Barnum’s part in the
wedding. The motive for it is difficult to understand, for Mr. and Mrs.
James Gordon Bennett were among the invited guests, and Mrs. Bennett
sent the couple a miniature silver tea set. The _Herald_ wrote:

“The American press and public have been exceedingly lenient with
Barnum. They have allowed him to make money by humbugging innocent
people, and more money by selling a book telling how well his
humbugs have succeeded. Recently, however, he has taken altogether
too bold an advantage of this leniency. Having secured a dwarf
woman, he has been exhibiting her at the Museum for some time
past as the betrothed of another dwarf, called General Tom Thumb.
How this match was arranged, we do not care to know; but we are
informed that it is to be consummated at Grace Church to-morrow
with all the display of a fashionable wedding. Of course, we
have no objections to the marriage, and no desire to forbid the
bans. Miss Warren is a woman and Tom Thumb is a man, no matter
how small they may be, and they have as good a right to be wedded
as any other man and woman. This will be by no means the first
time that dwarfs have been married and lived happily ever after.
We do object, however, to Barnum’s share in the transaction, and
particularly to his attempt to make money by the public exhibition
of the intended bride and all the paraphernalia....

“By his connection with this miniature marriage, Barnum has injured
himself sadly in the estimation of virtuous people. There is such
a thing as going a little too far even with patrons so indulgent
as Americans. The marriage vows ought not to be trifled with for
the interest of a showman. The exhibition of Miss Warren at the
Museum, the display of Miss Warren’s wedding dress, Tom Thumb’s
wedding shirt, Miss Warren’s wedding shoes, and Tom Thumb’s wedding
stockings in store windows on Broadway, and all the other details
of Barnum’s management of this matter, are offensive to delicacy,
decorum, modesty and good taste. Why should men and women be so
much more eager to see Miss Warren after she was engaged to Tom
Thumb than before? What class of ideas did Barnum appeal to when he
advertised her engagement so extensively? One had only to listen
to the conversation of silly countrymen and countrywomen as they
stood gaping at the ‘little Queen of Beauty,’ or to open his ears
to the numerous jokes in circulation upon the subject, in order to
receive a sufficient answer to these questions. What Barnum will
do when the wedding is over nobody can tell. Doubtless he intends
to exhibit the couple after the marriage ceremony. There will be
a crowd to see the little people married, and certainly there
would be a greater crowd to see them encouched, as the princes and
princesses of France were exhibited during old monarchical times.
We advise Barnum not to attempt this, however. He has already
overstepped all ordinary barriers, and must be satisfied. Those
persons who have encouraged him by their wish to see Miss Warren
and her dry goods have our sincere compassion. We hope that the
wedding will pass off pleasantly to-morrow, and that no speculating
Barnum will henceforward overshadow the happy pair.”

There was a part of the population who visited the Museum in order
to comment lasciviously on this unusual engagement and its probable
results, but this could hardly be blamed on Barnum. There was a larger
part of those present who visited the couple because to them a marriage
between two “cute” personalities was a “cute” spectacle, and it was for
this effect that Barnum was undoubtedly striving. He had never before
in his career catered to the propensities towards lewdness inherent in
men and women, and he never did so again; there is no reason to believe
that by this wedding he wished to attract those interested in abnormal
sex suggestions. The _Herald’s_ contention, based as it was on the
deep-rooted antagonism of James Gordon Bennett to Barnum’s personality,
was far-fetched, to say the least.

The wedding of General Tom Thumb and Lavinia Warren took place at Grace
Church, Tuesday, February 10, 1863, when the General was twenty-five
years old, and his bride twenty-two. The governors of several states,
members of Congress, army generals, millionaires, and men and women of
old New York ancestry were the spectators. President Lincoln and his
wife sent the couple a “gorgeous set of Chinese fire screens.” Mrs.
Cornelius Vanderbilt gave them “a coral and gold-set brooch, ear-rings
and studs of the finest workmanship,” and Mrs. August Belmont sent “a
splendid set of silver chaste charms.”

The neighborhood of Grace Church was crowded as if for a public
procession, and people waited hours for the privilege of seeing the
diminutive bride and groom enter the church. The invited guests were
attired in full dress, and the women wore what a contemporary called
“opera costume.” In front of the altar a platform three feet high had
been erected and covered with Brussels carpet in order that the little
couple could be seen and could see.

At noon Barnum and the bridal party arrived at the church, followed
by Commodore Nutt and Miss Minnie Warren. General Tom Thumb had
respectfully applied to Bishop Potter to perform the ceremony, and the
Bishop had consented, but pressure was brought to bear on his sense of
propriety, and he finally decided that it would be better for him to
take back his promise. Two clergymen read the services, and Mr. Morgan
played operatic selections on the church organ.

After the marriage was performed, the wedding party drove to the
Metropolitan Hotel, where thousands of enthusiastic citizens were
waiting for them. A reception was held in the hotel parlors, and so
great was the confusion resulting in the effort to reach the couple,
who were mounted on another dais, that it was necessary to shut the
doors. Lavinia Warren in white satin, the skirt decorated with a
flounce of “costly point lace,” with a long train, bowed and smiled
from her platform. She also wore “_tulle_ puffings,” and “a _berthe_
to match.” Her hair was waved and “rolled _à la Eugenie_, elaborately
puffed in _noeuds_ behind, in which the bridal veil was looped.”
“Natural orange blossoms breathed their perfume above her brow,” wrote
an observer, “and mingled their fragrance with the soft sighs of her
gentle bosom.” Tom Thumb and Commodore Nutt were in full dress suits
with white corded silk vests and blue silk undervests.

At three o’clock in the afternoon two thousand boxes of wedding cake
were distributed, and the wedding presents were placed on exhibition in
the hotel parlors. In the evening the couple were serenaded by the New
York Excelsior Band, and General Tom Thumb made a speech of thanks from
one of the balconies of the Metropolitan Hotel.

Strenuous objections were made by some of the Grace Church pewholders
against the clergymen who allowed the church to be devoted to what one
of them described as “a marriage of mountebanks, which I would not
take the trouble to cross the street to witness.” But this indignant
pewholder wanted to know why he had been excluded on that day from
his pew. The Rev. Dr. Taylor, the responsible clergyman, replied that
the wedding had been private, decorous and beautiful, and that it
was not possible for him to refuse the church to any couple so long
as no admission charge was asked. But the protests continued, and an
attempt was also made to blackmail Barnum. Soon after the wedding a
woman called at the Museum and showed him a copy of a pamphlet called
“Priests and Pigmies.” She said that she intended to issue this
pamphlet, which she assured him said some frightful things about him,
unless he wished to purchase the copyright for a large sum. Barnum
laughed and said: “My dear madam, you may say what you please about
me or about my Museum; you may print a hundred thousand copies of a
pamphlet stating that I stole the communion service, after the wedding,
from Grace Church altar, or anything else you choose to write; only
have the kindness to say something about me, and then come to me, and
I will properly estimate the money value of your services to me as an
advertising agent. Good morning, madam.”

In the course of their honeymoon, General Tom Thumb and Mrs. Tom
Thumb visited Lincoln at the White House, where he gave a dinner and
reception for them. Lincoln liked Lavinia because her face resembled
his wife’s. The dwarfs retired from public life for a few months, but
soon they were weary of their privacy, and together with Minnie Warren
and Commodore Nutt they toured Europe for three years.

Several times it was rumored that Commodore Nutt and Minnie Warren
were married. Barnum met the Commodore after his return from Europe.
“Are you married yet, Commodore?” Barnum asked. “No, sir; my fruit is
plucked,” he answered. “You don’t mean to say you will never marry?”
“No, not exactly,” was the Commodore’s reply, “but I have decided
not to marry until I am thirty.” “I suppose you intend to marry one
of your size,” Barnum hinted. “I am not particular in that respect,”
said the Commodore. “I think I should prefer marrying a good, green
country girl to anybody else.” But when he died in 1881 at the age of
thirty-three, he was still a bachelor.

It was said that the Commodore became “a fast young man” after his
disappointment, and when he made advances to Minnie Warren, she refused
him because of his past. In 1874 Major Newell, known as General Grant,
Jr., was added to the troupe of famous dwarfs. The Major and Minnie
were married in 1877. In July 1878, a baby was about to be born to
them. Neighbors in Middleboro, Massachusetts, where they lived with
General and Mrs. Tom Thumb, saw Minnie cutting baby clothes from doll
patterns, one-sixth the size of ordinary baby clothes. A girl was born
and died four hours later. Minnie died of exhaustion soon afterwards.
At birth the baby weighed five pounds, ten ounces. Major Newell later
went to England, where he was very popular. He married an Englishwoman
of normal size, and when he died at the age of sixty he left a widow
and two children.

General Tom Thumb and Mrs. Tom Thumb had one child, who died of
inflammation of the brain two and a half years after her birth. The
General and his wife, together with the other dwarfs, visited Queen
Victoria, Napoleon III and the Empress Eugénie, Pius IX, Victor
Emmanuel and William I, of Germany. When they toured England in 1865,
the tax assessors estimated the receipts at between ten and twenty
thousand pounds a year. In 1872 they made a tour of the world with
Commodore Nutt and Minnie Warren, visiting Australia, China and Japan,
as well as the principal European countries. When they arrived in
Japan, General Tom Thumb and Sylvester Bleecker, who managed the tour
and wrote a book about it, visited one of the famous mixed bathing
pools, where men and women bathe together without the formality of
clothes. “Mr. Bleecker,” said General Tom Thumb, “if we tell this to
the folks at home, they will not believe us; but it is _so_! Men and
women bathing together with not a rag upon them, and they don’t mind it
a bit! Write and let P. T. [Barnum] know what we have seen. If he had
that place, just as it is--men, women and children, all in the United
States, it would be the biggest show he ever had.”

When he was young, according to Barnum, General Tom Thumb was miserly,
and he spent no penny that could be avoided. In later life he spent
thousands of dollars on yachts, horses and precious stones. Before
leaving for Europe he asked Barnum to sell his sailing yacht and buy
him a steam yacht for thirty or forty thousand dollars. In his letter
he explained that when he was not using it, his crew could use it to
tug vessels in and out of Bridgeport harbor, and thus pay their own
wages and eventually the entire cost of the yacht. His tastes ran
along conventional American lines: after he was eighteen years old
the General smoked cigars regularly, and a few years later he became
a third-degree Mason. General Tom Thumb’s dimensions made very little
inward difference to his character. He was very much a man of the
world as soon as he was old enough to think. It was his body that he
sold to the public, and it was his body that he always comforted; it
is doubtful if he had much of a soul. Between him and the Bridgeport
business man there were no essential differences, if we disregard
for the moment the all important difference in size. And it was this
similarity to the normal business man, the seemingly incongruous fact
that in spite of his size he thought and acted like any one else, that
made his appeal as a curiosity so great. His dumpy, portly figure,
straight wisps of beard, thin, irregular mustache, and sharp, stern
eyes, give the impression of a wistful caricature of the American man
of business. And when he died at the age of forty-five, on July 15,
1883, he was buried with the ritual of the Free and Accepted Masons.

Not long after the General’s death Mrs. Tom Thumb married Count Primo
Magri, an Italian dwarf, who received his title of nobility from Pope
Pius IX. Count Magri, with his brother, Baron Ernesto Magri, traveled
with General and Mrs. Tom Thumb. The General had spent too much money
on yachts and horses, and Mrs. Tom Thumb was not rich when her husband
died. After many years of exhibiting with her second husband, they kept
a general store for automobile tourists in Middleboro, Massachusetts.
The store was called “Primo’s Pastime,” and was open only in the
summer, when the proprietor and his wife were not exhibiting at Coney
Island.

Mrs. Tom Thumb died at the age of seventy-seven on November 25,
1919. In order to get money enough to return to Italy Count Magri
was compelled to sell his wife’s effects, which brought only $300.
On October 31, 1920, he died at Middleboro, aged seventy-one, and he
was buried by the Grand Rapids, Michigan, Lodge of the Benevolent and
Protective Order of Elks.

CHAPTER XII

THIS WORLD, AND THE NEXT

After he had sensationally married his dwarfs, to the immense credit of
the American Museum, Barnum had time in his fifty-fifth year for rest,
reading and recreation, but he did not take it. He wrote a book, he
became a state legislator, he developed East Bridgeport real estate, he
lectured on Success and on Temperance, and he projected forerunners of
what was to be his admission card to immortality: The Circus.

The book was _The Humbugs of the World_, the most revealing book Barnum
wrote, although it is written in general terms for the information
and guidance of his contemporaries rather than for the instruction or
benefit of mankind. _The Humbugs of the World_ tells most about Barnum
because it is abstract and subjective, and in it he gives us a better
impression of his own character than in all the anecdotes of all his
autobiographies.

_The Humbugs of the World_ begins with a definition of the scope of
humbug by the man who styled himself “Prince of Humbugs”: “A little
reflection will show that humbug is an astonishingly widespread
phenomenon--in fact, almost universal.... I apprehend that there is
no sort of object which men seek to attain, whether secular, moral or
religious, in which humbug is not very often an instrumentality.” We
all use humbug in our business, said Barnum, and religious humbugs in
his opinion were a large division of the subject. In his discussion of
humbug in commercial life, Barnum seems most accurate:

“Business,” he wrote, “is the ordinary means of living for nearly
all of us. And in what business is there not humbug? ‘There’s
cheating in all trades but ours,’ is the prompt reply from the
boot-maker with his brown paper soles, the grocer with his floury
sugar and chicoried coffee, the butcher with his mysterious
sausages and queer veal, the dry-goods man with his ‘damaged goods
wet at the great fire,’ and his ‘selling at a ruinous loss,’
the stock-broker with his brazen assurance that your company is
bankrupt and your stock not worth a cent (if he wants to buy it),
the horse jockey with his black arts and spavined brutes, the
milk man with his tin aquaria, the land-agent with his nice new
maps and beautiful descriptions of distant scenery, the newspaper
man with his ‘immense circulation,’ the publisher with his ‘Great
American Novel,’ the city auctioneer with his ‘Pictures by the Old
Masters,’--all and every one protest each his own innocence, and
warn you against the deceits of the rest. My inexperienced friend,
take it for granted that they all tell the truth--about each other!
and then transact your business to the best of your ability on your
own judgment. Never fear but that you will get experience enough,
and that you will pay well for it too; and towards the time when
you shall no longer need earthly goods, you will begin to know how
to buy.”

But in Barnum’s opinion there was one more thorough humbug than all
the others: “The greatest humbug of all is the man who believes--or
pretends to believe--that everything and everybody are humbugs.” Then
follows this detailed definition of the chronic cynic:

“We sometimes meet a person who professes that there is no virtue;
that every man has his price, and every woman hers; that any
statement from anybody is just as likely to be false as true, and
that the only way to decide which, is to consider whether the truth
or a lie was likely to have paid best in that particular case.
Religion he thinks one of the smartest business dodges extant,
a first-rate investment, and by all odds the most respectable
disguise that a lying or a swindling business man can wear.
Honor he thinks is a sham. Honesty he considers a plausible word
to flourish in the eyes of the greener portion of our race, as
you would hold out a cabbage-leaf to coax a donkey. What people
want, he thinks, or says he thinks, is something good to eat,
something good to drink, fine clothes, luxury, laziness, wealth.
If you can imagine a hog’s mind in a man’s body--sensual, greedy,
selfish, cruel, cunning, sly, coarse, yet stupid, short-sighted,
unreasoning, unable to comprehend anything except what concerns
the flesh, you have your man. He thinks himself philosophic and
practical, a man of the world; he thinks to show knowledge and
wisdom, penetration, deep acquaintance with men and things. Poor
fellow! he has exposed his own nakedness. Instead of showing that
others are rotten inside, he has proved that he is. He claims
that it is not safe to believe others--it is perfectly safe to
disbelieve him. He claims that every man will get the better of you
if possible--let him alone! Selfishness, he says, is the universal
rule--leave nothing to depend on his generosity or honor; trust him
just as far as you can sling an elephant by the tail. A bad world,
he sneers, full of deceit and nastiness--it is his own foul breath
that he smells; only a thoroughly corrupt heart could suggest such
vile thoughts. He sees only what suits him, as a turkey-buzzard
spies only carrion, though amid the loveliest landscape. I
pronounce him who thus virtually slanders his father and dishonors
his mother, and defiles the sanctities of home, and the glory of
patriotism, and the merchant’s honor, and the martyr’s grave and
the saint’s crown--who does not even know that every sham shows
that there is a reality, and that hypocrisy is the homage that
vice pays to virtue--I pronounce him--no, I do not pronounce him a
humbug, the word does not apply to him. He is a fool.”

In this virulent exposé of the cynic, Barnum was right from his point
of view to call that type of mind a fool’s, for that type of mind is so
seldom successful. Barnum, as he indicates clearly in _The Humbugs of
the World_, was constantly on the look-out for deception of different
species, but his attitude was never that of the chronic cynic. His
profound belief in Christianity--particularly in Universalism--and the
ultimate perfectibility of man, whether in heaven or on earth, made it
possible for him to denounce sincerely those who doubted man and God,
and at the same time to use energetically the opportunities offered by
the present imperfect state of society. He was not his own last word
in degradation, the cynical humbug, because he had a sincere faith in
spiritual values. It is true that he capitalized man’s machinery of
Christianity for the purposes of the show business, but he himself
believed piously and with sincerity in the immediate and ultimate
efficacy of that machinery. Barnum felt enough to be no worse than
his contemporaries, and he knew enough to be no better. He had so much
sincere belief in the popular Christian ideals, and so much ability in
the practice of his profession, that he was accepted by mankind as an
honest as well as a successful man.

To be a humbug, by Barnum’s sanitary definition, was not to be
dishonest. His humbug was not a cheat, nor an impostor, and he excluded
counterfeiters, forgers, confidence men and pickpockets from his select
company of happy deceivers. However, even Barnum’s distinction between
humbug and dishonesty is vague, and one that allows latitude for
personal opinion in specific instances. Almost every one would disagree
with a few of Barnum’s examples of humbug, preferring to characterize
them as pieces of thievery, and there are those who would accept some
of his stories of imposture as merely innocent deceptions. No subject,
based as it is on varying standards of honesty, could offer more room
for difference of opinion, which is why Barnum’s consideration of it is
such an excellent index of his own moral character. The true humbug,
said Barnum, is the man who advertises his wares in an _outré_ manner,
but who gives his customers their money’s worth after he has attracted
their patronage. He wrote in _The Humbugs of the World_: “And whenever
the time shall come when men are kind and just and honest; when they
only want what is fair and right, judge only on real and true evidence,
and take nothing for granted, then there will be no place left for any
humbugs, either harmless or hurtful.” Meanwhile, he felt it was his
legitimate privilege to supply the demand.

After making it clear that the difference between a thief and a Barnum
is a great one, the author exposed various humbugs in detail. Barnum’s
book contains chapters on the spiritualists of his day, adulterations
of food and of drink, fraud in auctions, lottery deceptions, bogus
oil and coal stocks, the Dutch tulip speculations, the South Sea
Bubble, patent medicines, the Moon Hoax, ghosts and haunted houses,
witchcraft, magic, adventurers, vampires, religious impostures and
heathen humbugs. Many of these subjects, and others in the book which
are too detailed to mention, do not fall within the scope of Barnum’s
definition of a humbug; most of them are treated entertainingly, even
if they were perpetrated by swindlers and impostors, with whom Barnum
usually had no patience, and of whom he had no understanding. His sense
of honesty and propriety as expressed in this book is great enough to
lead the reader to believe that he was guilty of his own accusation
in that he condoned deception only in the show business, and believed
firmly that cheating in other trades was indefensible.

And even in his own trade practices which were distasteful to him,
but no worse than some of his own acts, come in for rigorous moral
condemnation. In discussing advertising he is very hard on the man who
dares to deface landscape with billboards: “Any man with a beautiful
wife or daughter would probably feel disagreeably, if he should find
branded indelibly across her smooth white forehead, or on her snowy
shoulder in blue and red letters, such a phrase as this: ‘Try the
Jigamaree Bitters!’... A lovely nook of forest scenery or a grand rock,
like a beautiful woman, depends for much of its attractiveness upon the
attendant sense of freedom from whatever is low; upon a sense of purity
and of romance. And it is about as nauseous to find ‘Bitters’ or ‘Worm
Syrup’ daubed upon the landscape, as it would be upon the lady’s brow.”

Barnum’s favorite example of the harmless humbug type, who retained
his integrity along with his notoriety, was Monsieur Mangin, the
French pencil maker, to whom a chapter of _The Humbugs of the World_
is devoted. Mangin used to drive through the Champs Elysées, the Place
Vendôme, the Place de la Bastille, or the Place de la Madeleine, in a
large, ornamented carriage drawn by two bay horses. When he stopped
his horses in one of the populous Parisian streets, his servant would
hand him several large portraits of himself, which he would hang on
the sides of the coach. Then gradually Monsieur Mangin would change his
clothes, substituting for his hat a burnished helmet, a velvet and gold
tunic for his modest business coat, steel gauntlets for his gloves. A
shining brass cuirass covered his breast. The servant would also change
into a medieval costume and then would play the organ which occupied
part of the carriage. A large crowd collected rapidly. Mangin would
rise, and in a calm, dignified, and solemn manner address his audience:

“Gentlemen, you look astonished! What is the name and purpose
of this curious knight-errant? Gentlemen, I will condescend to
answer your queries. I am Monsieur Mangin, the great charlatan of
France! Yes, gentlemen, I am a charlatan--a mountebank; it is my
profession, not from choice, but from necessity. You, gentlemen,
created that necessity! You would not patronize true, unpretending,
honest merit, but you are attracted by my glittering casque, my
sweeping crest, my waving plumes. You are captivated by din and
glitter, and therein lies my strength. Years ago I hired a modest
shop in the Rue Rivoli, but I could not sell pencils enough to pay
my rent, whereas, by assuming this disguise--it is nothing else--I
have succeeded in attracting general attention, and in selling
literally millions of my pencils; and I assure you there is at this
moment scarcely an artist in France or in Great Britain who doesn’t
know that I manufacture by far the best black-lead pencils ever
seen. When I was modestly dressed, like any of my hearers, I was
half starved. Punch and his bells would attract crowds, but my good
pencils attracted nobody. I imitated Punch and his bells, and now I
have two hundred depôts in Paris. I dine at the best cafés, drink
the best wine, live on the best of everything, while my defamers
get poor and lank, as they deserve to be. Who are my defamers?
Envious swindlers! Men who try to ape me, but are too stupid and
too dishonest to succeed. They endeavor to attract notice as
mountebanks, and then foist upon the public worthless trash, and
hope thus to succeed.”

In Paris Barnum met Mangin at a café and was introduced. Mangin
had read the French edition of the autobiography, and he had been
much impressed with Barnum’s methods and their success. Barnum had
seen Mangin in his working clothes and he was delighted. Mangin
outlined his policy, which coincided perfectly with Barnum’s lifelong
practice: “First, attract the public by din and tinsel, by brilliant
sky-rockets and Bengola lights, then give them as much as possible for
their money.” After congratulating each other for an hour on their
respective successes with the public, they parted, and as he got ready
to leave Mangin told Barnum that he had a humbug in his head that would
double the sale of his pencils. “Don’t ask me what it is,” he said,
“but within one year you shall see it for yourself, and you shall
acknowledge Monsieur Mangin knows something of human nature.” Barnum
was curious; but soon afterwards he read in the newspapers that Mangin
had died, leaving 200,000 francs to charity. His praises were sung
in all the newspapers of France and Great Britain. After six months
Mangin appeared again in Paris in the same cuirass and helmet, with
the same chariot and bays, and the same servant in robes of velvet
and gold. Barnum met him again, and he said that his sudden death had
quadrupled the sale of his pencils and had given him a six months’ rest
in the country. “You Yankees are clever,” he said, “but none of you has
discovered that you should live all the better if you would die for
six months.” Mangin died a few years later and left his heirs half a
million francs.

Although Barnum disliked the conceited manner in which Mangin clapped
him familiarly upon the back and assured him that Monsieur Mangin
was equal to the Yankee humbugs, he recognized in the Frenchman a
true humbug of the ideal type, whom Barnum would have been proud to
recognize as one of his disciples. Notoriety at any cost to dignity,
even if it had to be sought in the grave, was legitimate, if the
pencils were good; whatever the deception he admitted, Barnum pointed
with pride to the fact that after all the Museum show was always worth
more than twenty-five cents. In _The Humbugs of the World_ Barnum did
recognize that dignity was advisable for some professions. He regarded
advertising as a necessity for every individual who had goods or
services to sell, but he did not advise the banker or insurance broker,
who aim to be the custodians of the people’s money, to adopt his
methods of hyperbole. Clergymen, lawyers, and physicians, he admitted,
needed different tactics, and he often changed his own methods to meet
the particular demands of an occasion. His own methods were successful
because his taste was varied as well as crude; he never repeated
himself. Tom Thumb was followed by Jenny Lind, whose successor was
the white whale, for Barnum realized early in his career what many
panderers to public taste who merely copied him, failed to realize:
that a baby does not play with a rattle for twenty-one years.

A large, and by far the most interesting, section of _The Humbugs of
the World_ is devoted to religious humbugs: “The domain of humbug
reaches back to the Garden of Eden, where the father of lies practised
it upon our poor innocent first grandmother, Eve.” This, said Barnum,
was the first and worst humbug on the human race, and next after that
in scope and damage were the heathen humbugs. In his opinion all
heathen religions--and by a heathen religion he meant any religion
besides Christianity and Judaism, whose Bible is used in Christian
churches--“always were, and are still, audacious, colossal, yet shallow
and foolish humbugs. It is a curious fact that the heathen humbugs
were all solemn. This was because they were intended to maintain the
existing religions, which, like all false religions, could not endure
ridicule.”

Throughout this section of his book of revelations, Barnum was treading
dangerous ground too recklessly for the good of his own faith. The
glorious truths which some millions believed were revealed in other
religions besides Christianity were to Barnum humbugs similar in
nature to the great heathen god on whom some travelers had held a
_post-mortem_ examination. As Barnum told the story in his book
these Christians stole into the innermost sacred rooms of the heathen
temple, where the awful god of a savage tribe reposed. They found the
god wrapped in numerous cloths, and sacrilegiously they unwound the
coverings until they had removed more than an hundred cloths. The
god grew smaller and smaller, until at last, after all the coverings
were removed, the fierce, great heathen god proved to be nothing
but a cracked soda-water bottle. Barnum would be shocked at the
investigations that, in the manner of the inquiring travelers, some
liberal thinkers have made into the miracle of the Resurrection, but it
would have been well for him, before denouncing an onion because it was
nothing but peels, to be certain that potatoes grew in his own garden.

Barnum was sincerely pious and devoutly religious, and it is
significant of the narrow scope of his mind that he could stop
completely and bow faithfully before his own brand of worship, while he
was virulent in his attacks on any forms of religious devotion whose
adherents were not patrons of the American Museum in large numbers. He
even went further than this personally in his dogmatism: he narrowed
the truth down to Universalism, which he accepted as his own faith
early in life, and which many equally devout Christians thought one
of the most flagrant forms of Christian humbug. He did not attack in
_The Humbugs of the World_ other Christian sects or Judaism, for that
would have been too dangerous for the welfare of the Museum; he took
out his contempt upon the so-called heathen religions, with their
oracles, sibyls and auguries. But even in these he saw some comfort,
for they were a sign to him “how universally and naturally, and humbly
and helplessly too, poor human nature longs to see into the future, and
longs for help and guidance from some power higher than itself.” “Thus
considered,” Barnum believed, “these shallow humbugs teach a useful
lesson, for they constitute a strong proof of man’s inborn natural
recognition of some God, of some obligation to a higher power, of some
disembodied existence; and so they show a natural human want of exactly
what the Christian revelation supplies and constitute a powerful
evidence for Christianity.”

The history of religious controversy would be much simpler if all
adopted Barnum’s view, but his assumptions are rather large, and his
proofs are childishly vague. If he had anything but an _a priori_
faith, there was ample opportunity within the scope of his book to
announce it, and by neglecting to particularize some of the evidences
of Christian preëminence, he leaves his own dear faith wide open to
attack with his own thunder. The religious section of _The Humbugs of
the World_ suggests the conclusion that Barnum’s theological philosophy
was comparable to the conviction of the soldier who believed that every
one was out of step except himself.

The nearest Barnum allowed himself to approach criticism of his own
gods was a paragraph of condemnation of the long and “windy prayers” of
young, inexperienced clergymen, which he likened in mild and forgiving
terms to the prayer-mills of the heathens. There is no recognition,
however, of a possibility that Mohammedans, Buddhists, and followers
of Confucius may have real faiths as well as the humbugs incidental
to those faiths. Christianity’s humbugs he ignored altogether, except
in the matter of ordeals practised in faraway medieval days, and he
pointed out their absurdities only to prove “how much more preferable
is our American principle of separation in all matters of State and
Church.” Even this criticism was omitted in the English edition of
_The Humbugs of the World_. Barnum’s whole nationalist theology and
Christian philosophy can be narrowed down to a simple assertion, to the
effect that we, the Americans, are the greatest members of a Christian
world. He never said this in so many words, for he had too many friends
in England and France, but there was no necessity for regarding the
feelings of Mohammedans or Chinese, for after all were not these
peoples merely subjects for exhibition to a curious Christian world?

Personally, Barnum’s religion was an acute form of Universalism. He
wrote a pamphlet which was published by the Universalist Church called
“Why I am a Universalist,” in which he revealed his whole religious
philosophy and much of his character. In this pamphlet, which was
written one year before Barnum’s death, but which is discussed here
because it is appropriate, he showed clearly that it was impossible
for him to conceive that every one will not eventually seek and find
salvation. He said that he could not believe that in order to complete
their paradise the angels need a sight of the evil ones roasting in
hell. He craved a salvation where The Woolly Horse, The Fejee Mermaid,
and Joice Heth would not be thrown up to him as the sins of his days
upon earth. In “Why I am a Universalist” Barnum wrote; “All Christians
pray for the salvation of sinners, and yet profess to believe it will
never be. The first essential of prayer is that it be in faith. The
Universalist Church is the only one that believes in success.” And it
must have been unbearable to the pious and practical mind of Barnum
even to entertain the idea of eternal failure in the matter of the
end of all. Such a faith in the “ultimate holiness and happiness of
all mankind” was natural, almost inevitable, to Barnum’s character.
Success on earth depended for him upon natural resource of ambition and
energy, a dash of luck, stirred up in a whirlpool of notoriety. But
it all depended upon ourselves. In eternity the rules were different.
There was an absolute monarch, and the only comfort to a man who,
like Barnum, was used to a thorough dependence upon his own head and
hands, was the faith that this Great Dictator was a benevolent despot,
and that paradise was a museum, in which all the varieties of human
curiosities lived in harmony with no embarrassing attempt to delineate
good from bad, and in which there was no wilful segregation of types on
the part of the Creator, who in His everlasting mercy made them all in
His own image.

Against all the texts which urged repentance before it was too late,
Barnum placed the one psalm which twenty-six times declares, “His mercy
endureth for ever.” His Universalism allowed wide latitude for work on
earth, coupled with faith hereafter, and set no specific time limit, as
Barnum expressed it, for repentance. There was no promised punishment
for a Universalist who neglected the forms of repentance before his day
of death. It was the only possible religion for a Barnum, and he was
so grateful for its existence that besides remembering the church in
his will and endowing a natural history museum at Tufts College, the
Universalist college, he often argued strenuously and picturesquely
in the effort to aid the dissemination of its doctrines. When he was
seventy-three years old, he told a reporter for the _New York Sun_:
“I believe in the ultimate holiness and happiness of all mankind. The
idea of a sufficiency of repentance is revolting to common sense.
Suppose a case: A pirate, who has killed in cold blood a hundred men,
is caught, repents on the gallows, and says, ‘I am sorry for what I
have done, and am going to Jesus.’ A certain proportion of those he has
killed, say fifty per cent., having been cut off in their sins, without
time for repentance, are supposed to be damned. Is it conceivable, as
consistent with the justice of God, that the repentant pirate shall
look over the battlements of heaven down upon those fifty whom he sent
to hell, and complacently congratulate his redeemed soul upon his luck
in having had time to repent before he was hanged? No: I can’t believe
in that.... Now I don’t think that fear is the proper thing to incite
people to do good. Putting punishment away off in a dim and indefinite
future is not making much of a present influence. It reminds me of a
chap who was caught by a deacon in the act of stealing a piece of silk.
‘Don’t you know that you will have to pay for that silk at the day of
judgment?’ said the deacon. ‘I’d no idea you gave such a long credit,
or I’d have taken two pieces,’ replied the thief. All sects do good in
their way, but I prefer to have my children believe as I do--not as I
was taught in my youth, however--in a God of love, instead of cruelty
or vindictiveness, and that His chastisements are only parental and
disciplinary.”

Barnum often tried to convert those of other beliefs, and especially
clergymen, which would seem to indicate that the anxiety which his mind
suffered at the thought that he might not be saved was greater than he
would have cared to admit. He met on the street his old friend, the
Rev. C. A. Stoddard, editor of _The New York Observer_, a religious
publication. “Is it possible,” Barnum asked, “that the _Observer_ still
sticks to the old doctrine of endless suffering?” “The _Observer_
doesn’t budge an inch from its lifelong creed and doctrines,” answered
the Rev. Mr. Stoddard proudly. “Surely you must lose numerous
subscribers who at this day of the ‘new orthodoxy’ cannot believe that
there are childless mothers in the Paradise of God?” said Barnum. “The
places of such subscribers,” the clergyman replied, “are readily filled
by those, who, like myself, loath the thought of spending an eternity
in the company of Judas.” “But cannot Infinite Power, Wisdom, and
Goodness conquer, purify, and win even the betrayer of our Saviour,
who on the cross prayed for the forgiveness of his murderers?” asked
Barnum. The religious editor replied, with a good-natured, patronizing
smile, “Judas would require considerable fixing up before he would
be fit to come in close contact with the holy angels and saints in
heaven.” “True,” said Barnum, “but will not you and I need some ‘fixing
up’ for that state of perfect holiness without which no man can see
God?” The Rev. Mr. Stoddard admitted that both of them would need such
fixing up, “but evidently,” Barnum reflected sadly, “he cannot as yet
see a chance for Judas.” Judas worried Barnum: it may be that deep in
his consciousness, so deep that he himself felt its distressing murmurs
but vaguely, he realized that the temptation of thirty pieces of silver
would have been difficult for a practical American man of business
to resist. Many of the _Observer’s_ subscribers probably thought it
natural that Barnum should take such an interest in Judas, but many
more forgave him because his profits were considerably greater than
thirty pieces of silver, and in justice to him it must be admitted that
his crimes were not of a tremendously serious nature.

But there were days of depression and remorse, when Barnum, goaded
by his sincere piety, feared that he would roast in hell for the
Buffalo Hunt, General Tom Thumb’s age, the model of Niagara Falls,
The Fejee Mermaid, and The Woolly Horse, and maybe for sins which he
kept carefully to himself, and then he could clutch at the comfort of
Universalism, which offered him the hope of condonation for mankind,
and the assurance that he could share in the general pardon.

III

But such doubts of his future and anxiety for his past could only
occupy minutes in the busy days of such an active mind as Barnum’s
always was. The smooth operation of the Museum allowed him time
for other activities and gave him money to devote to them. His
preoccupation with the autobiography and his interest in humbugs could
not occupy all that time and required no money. East Bridgeport real
estate filled in the gap. His bankruptcy had not discouraged him from
business activity, and he was still infatuated with the development of
his ideas for a model suburb.

After the destruction of “Iranistan” by fire, Barnum built
“Lindencroft,” a modest house, as impressive as its neighbors, but
not extraordinary in its architecture. During the period of Barnum’s
recuperation from bankruptcy East Bridgeport had grown into the
consummation of his hopes. Other large factories had followed the
Wheeler & Wilson sewing machine buildings, and there were now many
neat houses for mechanics and laborers where six years before there
was nothing but farm land. It was one of Barnum’s greatest pleasures
until the end of his life, he tells us, to drive through “those busy
streets, admiring the beautiful houses and substantial factories, with
their thousands of prosperous workmen, and reflecting that I had, in so
great a measure, been the means of adding all this life, bustle, and
wealth to the City of Bridgeport.”

As soon as he had repurchased some of his former holdings in his pet
suburb, Barnum renewed his activities as a real estate operator with
a philanthropic turn of mind. He began a campaign for the sale of
houses and put notices in the Bridgeport newspapers urging “Every Man
to Own the House He Lives In.” He offered to lend money at six per
cent. to any number, not exceeding fifty “industrious, temperate, and
respectable individuals who desire to build their own houses.” The
houses were to be paid for in small weekly, monthly, or quarterly
instalments, in amounts of not less than three per cent. per quarter.
The owners could engage their own builders and build according to any
reasonable plan, subject always to Barnum’s approval, but he himself
bought materials in bulk, and he offered to build “nice dwellings,
painted and furnished with green blinds,” for $1,500 each.

Many took advantage of either of these two offers, but many more held
back. There was one slight difficulty. Mr. Barnum’s contracts of sale
included a temperance pledge and a clause promising the renunciation
of the use of tobacco. It puzzled Barnum and worried him that many men
really preferred to pay rent month after month in dirty tenements,
where they could drink, smoke, and beat their wives in freedom, to the
opportunity which he offered them of living under his management in
“nice dwellings, painted and furnished with green blinds.” Moralizing
on the subject in his autobiography, he wrote in his bewilderment:
“The money they have since expended for whisky and tobacco would have
given them a house of their own, if the money had been devoted to that
object, and their positions, socially and morally, would have been
better than they are to-day. How many infatuated men there are in all
parts of the country who could now be independent and even owners of
their own carriages but for their slavery to these miserable habits!”

There was even a clause in the contracts of sale providing that if the
door yards of the model cottages were not kept clean P. T. Barnum had
the right to arrange for their cleaning at the expense of the owners
of the houses. If these conditions were accepted, Barnum sometimes
advanced as much as seven-eighths of the purchase money, and accepted
in payment instalments as low as ten dollars. But the nice dwellings
were the pride of his heart, and it concerned him even more than the
profits of his enterprise that no tobacco juice should stain those
pretty green blinds, and that the happy, smiling New England mechanics
should not give off fumes of whisky as they came to pay him their rents.

There were enough sober, thoughtful, economical laborers to take
advantage of Barnum’s offers, and the new suburb prospered rapidly.
A horse car line, in which Barnum owned ten per cent. of the stock,
was soon in operation. The toll bridges operated by Barnum and Noble
were bought by the City of Bridgeport and opened to the public free
of charge. East Bridgeport became a recognized part of the City of
Bridgeport, and streets were named for Barnum and his daughters,
Caroline, Helen, and Pauline; but none was called Charity, in the
proper fear, no doubt, that no one would live in it.

It was inevitable that before the end of his career Barnum should go
into politics. He had always been a pseudo-public character, whose
immense notoriety was a political asset, and several times he had been
asked to run for office. In the early days of his youthful editorial
career, when he was the _Herald of Freedom_, Barnum was a strict
Jacksonian Democrat. In 1852, after Jenny Lind’s tour had raised his
esteem and increased his fortune, Connecticut Democrats offered him
the nomination as governor of that state, but, though the party
was in power, and election would not therefore have been difficult,
he declined the honor. In spite of his decision, several votes were
cast for him in the state convention. Barnum continued to be a loyal
Democrat for many years, declaring upon one occasion that if he thought
there was a drop of blood in his veins that was not democratic he would
let it out if he had to cut the jugular vein, for he seemed to be under
the impression that democratic and Democratic meant the same things.
When the Democratic Party advocated secession, Barnum disagreed with
his party and became a Republican and a strong supporter of President
Lincoln. During the close and exciting presidential campaign of
Lincoln just before the Civil War, he aided the “Wide-Awake” clubs in
Bridgeport, and when the war broke out in 1861, Barnum, who was in his
fifty-first year, sent four substitutes to the front and contributed
money to the Union cause. He also aided in disturbing a Bridgeport
pacifist meeting, where he was hoisted on the shoulders of some
soldiers, and from that vantage point he made a speech which was said
to be “full of patriotism” and “spiced with humor.” He was so active as
a member of the Bridgeport Prudential Committee during the draft riots
that he was threatened with violence to himself and the destruction
of his home by fire. Sky rockets were always kept in the cellar at
“Lindencroft,” in case Barnum should need aid from the arsenal or
friends in other parts of the city.

In 1865 Barnum accepted the nomination of the Republican Party for a
seat in the Connecticut legislature. He did this, he tells us, so that
he might enjoy the privilege of voting for the Fourteenth Amendment
to the Constitution, by which slavery was to be abolished forever. It
is difficult to understand Barnum’s reluctance to enter politics: he
loved to make speeches, he was a “good mixer,” and he had a profound
interest in improving his fellow citizens by forcing his own standards
upon them. It may be that he felt that he could use his time to better
financial advantage as a private citizen, and it may be that he shrank
from the necessity for answering criticism of his character, which
would have caused him embarrassment had he accepted the nomination for
governor.

Barnum was elected to the Connecticut legislature. During his term of
office he fought the railroads in their efforts to raise commutation
rates, and in this fight he defeated the New Haven Railroad lobby. It
was while he was speaking on this railroad bill in the legislature at
Hartford on July 13, 1865, that Barnum received a telegram from his
son-in-law, S. H. Hurd, informing him that the American Museum was in
flames. Barnum makes much of the fact in his autobiography that he laid
the telegram upon his desk and continued his successful speech against
the railroads.

The fire in the Museum had started in the engine room, where a small
engine pumped sea water for the aquaria. Smoke soon rose into the
upper floors and filled the galleries of curiosities and animals.
Monkeys jabbered, cats miaoued, dogs barked, parrots screeched, bears
growled, a kangaroo made his own familiar cry of distress, and the
birds fluttered wildly against their cages. Before long 40,000 people
had been attracted by the noises and the flames. Efforts were made
to rescue some of the animals, but few of them were saved, the only
survivors of the fire being one bear, the educated seal, some birds,
and a couple of monkeys. The crowd was delighted with the opportunity
to see the curiosities free of charge, and the giantess, the fat lady,
the Albino girl, and some of the ladies of the _corps de ballet_,
who had lost all of their wardrobe except their ballet skirts, were
followed down Fulton Street by a large and enthusiastic audience. Two
white whales, who had arrived one week before the fire, were burned
to death and steaming when Barnum saw them afterwards. The newspapers
of the following day published long descriptions of the fire and
editorials on the subject; practically the entire front page of the
_Herald_ was devoted to it. Most of the newspapers attempted peculiar
humor on the subject of the burned animals.

Barnum’s insurance was worth only $40,000, and he estimated the value
of the lost Museum collection at $400,000. This disastrous fire tempted
Barnum to retire. He considered devoting the rest of his years to
East Bridgeport, possibly with the autobiography as recreation, and
when he asked his friend Horace Greeley for advice, Greeley said,
“Accept this fire as a notice to quit, and go a-fishing.” But fishing
requires solitude and quiet, repose and a fatalistic satisfaction with
whatever chance throws in the way. Fish are not caught by publicity,
and that was the only bait Barnum had ever previously used. He wrote
in his autobiography that his temptation to retire was offset by two
worthy considerations. More than one hundred and fifty men were thrown
ruthlessly out of employment by the fire, and would be kept out of
employment, he thought, if he were to retire; also, he was long since
convinced that his Museum was an institution, and that New York needed
such an one as he had provided for more than twenty years. It may also
have occurred to him, although he does not say so, that a museum was a
profitable investment for capital.

Barnum’s insurance was not his only asset after the fire. His wife
still owned the lease to the Museum property, which had increased
tremendously in value since he had renewed it fifteen years before. A
real estate agent offered the lease for sale at $225,000, and James
Gordon Bennett bought it for $200,000 with the intention of building
a new home for the _New York Herald_. Bennett also purchased the land
on which the Museum stood and the building for $500,000, and soon
afterwards he read in other newspapers that he had paid the largest
sum for a piece of property of its size that had ever been paid for
any property in any city in the world. He was more frightened than
flattered by this statement, and he arbitrarily canceled the purchase.
Then he attempted to get his $200,000 back from Barnum, but Barnum had
already invested the money in bonds, and he refused to take back the
lease.

The following day the _New York Herald_ refused the advertisement
of the Winter Garden, where Barnum was managing a temporary museum
until the Chinese Museum rooms at Broadway and Prince Street could
be remodeled. Barnum was a member of the Producing Managers’
Association, which included in its number Lester Wallack, Wheatley,
Stuart, and the other theatrical leaders of the period. A committee
of the Association visited Bennett to protest against the exclusion
of Barnum’s advertisement, but Bennett insisted that he would not
publish Barnum’s advertisements, and that he had the right to run his
business in his own way. The managers did not dispute this point, but
they claimed the same privilege, and the next day every theatrical
advertisement was withdrawn from the _Herald_. The _Herald_ had also
been employed as the job printer for most of the New York theaters,
and this business was taken elsewhere. Bennett continued to print some
of the withdrawn advertisements, hoping to bring back the managers
to his newspaper, but then the producers printed in other newspapers
above their advertisements, “This Establishment does not advertise in
the _New York Herald_.” The _Herald_ retaliated by printing editorials
almost every day for several months on the corrupt and inartistic state
of theatrical representation in New York, and Bennett praised Tony
Pastor’s Bowery show as the kind of entertainment New York needed,
for Pastor was not one of the protesting managers. Bennett’s virulent
publicity caused the managers to prosper, and it was estimated that the
_Herald_ lost $75,000 each year in advertising and printing contracts.
Finally the owner of Barnum’s Museum property sued Bennett, and he was
compelled to take over the property at the original price. The managers
continued their boycott of the _Herald_ for two years.

During one of the meetings of the Producing Managers’ Association
Barnum was urged by Lester Wallack to take a drink during the recess
provided by tradition for that purpose. “Excuse me, Mr. Wallack,”
said Barnum, “you know my record, and I am sure you will respect my
intention of keeping it up. It has been the boast of my life that no
man has ever seen a drop of anything stronger than water pass my lips
for many years. Be kind enough to turn your backs!” The managers turned
their backs, and when they turned again Barnum’s glass was empty, but
whether he had filled it was never determined; all were too considerate
to ask.

After James Gordon Bennett’s death, Barnum again advertised in the
_Herald_. James Gordon Bennett, the younger, recalling his father’s
animosity against Barnum, tried to renew the feud in the pages of
the _Herald_. Barnum was in London at the time, and he wrote the new
editor: “Young man, I knew you when you rode the hobby-horse which I
bought for Tom Thumb, and which your father and mother brought you to
see, and I have a right to give you some advice.” What that advice was
Barnum never said, but the _Herald_ soon forgot its feud and praised
the circus as much as its contemporaries.

Four months after the Museum fire Barnum reopened his Museum in a
granite building at Broadway and Prince Street, with new curiosities
gathered from all over the country.

After one term in the Connecticut legislature, Barnum intended to
return to private life, but one of the directors of the New York and
New Haven Railroad remarked that if he could help it, Barnum would not
be in the next legislature. Barnum accepted the challenge, and he was
reëlected in 1866.

He was nominated for Congress by the Republicans in 1867. His
Democratic opponent was William H. Barnum, not a relative, who was
the political boss of Fairfield County, the district for which they
were nominated. During the summer of 1867 Barnum entertained many
political guests at his Bridgeport home, among whom were the Speaker
of the House of Representatives and several United States senators.
It is likely that he foresaw for himself a career of usefulness and
notoriety as a federal law-maker and national entertainer. The campaign
was highly competitive, for both Barnums had advantages which appealed
to large numbers of their constituents. P. T. Barnum sent his opponent
a challenge to debate the issues of the day on one evening each week
until election, in order that the people might be enabled to vote
understandingly. He promised in his letter to conduct his part of
the debate with fairness, consideration, and proper respect for his
adversary. But W. H. Barnum was one of the most astute politicians in
the state of Connecticut, and he apparently realized that to appear
on the same platform with P. T. Barnum, the famous lecturer and
entertainer, would be to practise bad psychology, for he declined the
kind offer. It was rumored that votes were being bought at wholesale
by the Democratic Barnum, and a loyal Republican wrote P. T. Barnum,
asking if he did not intend “to fight fire with fire.” Barnum grasped
the opportunity of publishing the request and his reply in the
_Bridgeport Standard_ and the _New York Tribune_, two newspapers which
always remained friendly to his interests and his activities. His reply
is characteristic because of its sonority and righteous invective:

“Your kind letter of the 20th inst. has caused me painful emotions.
I now wish to say, once for all, that under no conceivable
circumstances will I permit a dollar of mine to be used to
purchase a vote or to induce a voter to act contrary to his honest
convictions.

“The idea that the intelligent reading men of New England can be
bought like sheep in the shambles, and that the sacred principles
which have so far guided them in the terrible struggle between
liberty and slavery can now, in this eventful hour of national
existence, be set up at auction and knocked down to the highest
bidder, seems to me as preposterous as it is shameful and
humiliating. But if it is possible that occasionally a degraded
voter can thus be induced to ‘sell his birthright for a mess of
pottage,’ God grant that I may be a thousand times defeated sooner
than permit one grain of gold to be accursed by using it so basely!

“I will not believe that American citizens can lend themselves to
the contemptible meanness of sapping the very life-blood of our
noble institutions by encouraging a fatal precedent, which ignores
all principle and would soon prevent any honest man, however
distinguished for his intelligence and loyalty, from representing
his district in our national councils. None could then succeed
except unprincipled vagabonds, who, by the lavish expenditure of
money, would debauch and degrade the freemen whose votes they
coveted.

“No, sir! Grateful as I am for the distinguished honor of receiving
a unanimous nomination for Congress from the loyal Union party in
my district, I have no aspiration for that high position if it is
only to be attained by bringing into disgrace the noble privilege
of the _free elective franchise_. Think for a moment what a deadly
weapon is being placed in the hands of tyrants throughout the
civilized world, with which to destroy such apostles of liberty
as John Bright and Garibaldi, if it can be said with truth that
American citizens have become so corrupt and degraded, so lost to a
just estimate of the value and true nobility of the ballot, that it
is bought and sold for money.

“My dear sir, any party that can gain a temporary ascendancy by
such atrocious means, not only poisons the body politic of a
free and impartial government, but is also sure to bring swift
destruction upon itself. And so it should be.

“I am unaccustomed to political life, and know but little of the
manner of conducting a campaign like the present. I believe,
however, it is customary for the State Central Committee to assess
candidates, in order that they shall defray a proper portion of
the expenses incurred for speakers and documents to _enlighten_
the voters upon the political issues of the day. To that extent I
am willing and anxious to be taxed; for ‘light and knowledge’ are
always desired by the friends of human rights and of public order.

“But I trust that all money used for any other purpose in the
pending election will come from the pockets of those who now (as
during the rebellion) are doing their utmost to aid traitors, and
who, still unrepenting, are vindictively striving to secure at
the ballot-box what their Southern allies failed to accomplish on
the field of battle. If any of our friends misapprehend my true
sentiments upon the subject of bribery, corruption, and fraud, I
hope you will read them this letter.

“Truly yours,
“P. T. BARNUM.”

And in a postscript he appended a copy of the Connecticut law of
bribery in elections.

But “the intelligent reading men of New England” apparently could
be bought “like sheep in the shambles,” and they poisoned “the body
politic of a free and impartial government” by electing W. H. Barnum
instead of P. T. Barnum. The forces of corruption, fraud, bribery, and
rebellion gained a victory, possibly temporary, but still a victory.
After the election some voters in Bridgeport contested the election
of William H. Barnum, charging that it had been procured by bribery,
the importation of voters from other states, and by the use of forged
naturalization papers for foreigners. But they were not successful, and
“the noble privilege of the free elective franchise” was brought into
disgrace by the presence in the national councils of the Democratic
candidate for more than eight years thereafter.

Possibly P. T. Barnum’s defeat was not due altogether to fraud, if any
fraud was practised. There was much honest opposition to the presence
of P. T. Barnum, of the American Museum, in Congress. The opposition
was national as well as local. The _New York Nation_, uninspired by
the heat of Connecticut factions, felt that Barnum’s place was in a
museum, and some Republicans in Connecticut felt that Congress was not
a museum. “A circular in opposition to the nomination of P. T. Barnum”
was distributed to Connecticut voters; it was made up of excerpts from
newspapers throughout the state, and these papers not only opposed
showmanship in Congress, but also discussed Barnum’s moral character.
The _Hartford Press_ wrote:

“The Republicans of the Fourth District have, in the nomination
of Mr. P. T. Barnum for Congress, selected a man of world-wide
reputation. Unfortunately his widest reputation _is not his best_.
Mr. Barnum is called a ‘humbug,’ and he accepts the title, under
his own definition of the term. He believes in carrying on the
‘show business’ in the humbug manner, and frankly avows his course
and justifies it. _We_ cannot regard it _as he does_. We cannot
agree that it is right to _paint a common dove_ and then exhibit it
as a _rare and singular variety of that bird_.”

The tenor of the other comments in the circular was the same.
Barnum was denounced as a candidate for Congress because he was the
self-confessed Prince of Humbugs, and no other congressman had ever
before admitted the charge.

It is unfortunate for the story of his life that Barnum was never
admitted to Congress. His speeches, which in his own small district
of Connecticut were “full of patriotism” and “spiced with humor,”
would have been uncontrolled in the national assembly. In introducing
General Oglesby, Governor of Illinois, at a political meeting in
Bridgeport a few years after his defeat for Congress, Barnum referred
to the distinguished guest as “a veritable Sucker,” an allusion to the
popular nickname for early Illinois settlers, who drew their drinking
water through long reeds to purify it. “This Sucker,” said Barnum, the
political chairman, “of fifty-five has lately gone and married a young
wife. I cannot blame him for that; if he can afford such a luxury, it
is nobody’s business.”[18]

Though he would not have added dignity to the House of Representatives,
Barnum’s speeches could not have been anything but distinctive, if it
is permissible to judge from the few political orations he delivered
during his short political career. His speeches in Congress would
have amused the nation, if they did not contribute to its political
philosophy, and on the strength of his originality and notoriety he
might have become a senator and a candidate for President of the United
States, but the sudden check to his political activities forced him to
confine his talents for oratory to the show business. He was urged at
one time to be the candidate for President of the United States on the
Prohibition ticket, but he refused that honorary position.

Barnum asserted several times in his autobiography his reluctance to
enter public life: “As I have already remarked, politics were always
distasteful to me. I possess naturally too much independence of mind,
and too strong a determination to do what I believe to be right,
regardless of party expediency, to make a lithe and oily politician.
To be called on to favor applications from office-seekers, without
regard to their merits, and to do the dirty work too often demanded
by political parties; to be ‘all things to all men,’ though not in
the apostolic sense; to shake hands with those whom I despised, and
to kiss the dirty babies of those whose votes were courted, were
political requirements which I felt I could never acceptably fulfil.”
But Barnum’s vanity and the feeling that he was deserving made it
impossible for him to resist any distinction which was offered to him.
Besides, he now had plenty of leisure which needed occupation.

During this period of his career Barnum often lectured throughout the
country. In 1866 he lectured on “Success in Life” under the auspices of
the Associated Western Literary Societies, touring Ohio, Pennsylvania,
Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Missouri and Iowa. For this work he
received one hundred dollars and his expenses for each lecture. He
delivered five lectures each week at these terms from the summer of
1866 until New Year’s Day, 1867. Before this tour he had lectured in
Virginia, Ohio, Kentucky, and Illinois for other organizations, and as
soon as he finished the second tour he took up the work of campaigning
for Congress, so that his vocal powers must have been inexhaustible.
He apparently took great interest in the advance publicity of his
lectures, and there is a letter from him to an agent on this subject:

“DEAR SIR,

“Yours of yesterday is recd. I am glad you are advertising so
thoroughly. Much depends upon that. You will be so good as to send
the notices to the Mayor and to Mr. Ainsworth. It would be very
well to say in the advertisements that I have taken legal steps to
prevent the publication of the Lecture.

“I think I had better leave here at 3.30 and arrive at 5.10 on
Wednesday unless you think that would be too late. I shall require
a table or desk about 4 feet high and a _good light_, although I
shall have much to say without notes. But notes are necessary for
the _statistics_.

“I enclose you the General’s autograph. There should be a one sheet
bill posted early Wednesday morning--reading

GO AND HEAR
BARNUM
His Amusing and Instructive Experiences in the
‘Art of Money-Getting.’ TO-NIGHT

“I propose to have one or two thousand such bills printed in 2
colors so that they will be good for any place where I am to speak.
I will send you say 100 of these bills on Tuesday and will write
you what they cost, and you can use them or any portion of them or
not as you please. They will doubtless be cheaper & more effective
than you could get a single hundred for.

“Truly yours,
“P. T. BARNUM.

“P. S. The _Manchester Weekly Advertiser_ says: ‘The audience
_thoroughly enjoyed_ the lecture _from the beginning to the end_,
and our opinion is that it was _decidedly clever_, and just what we
should expect from Mr. Barnum.’

“You can do as you think proper about inserting the above in
Wednesday’s advertisement--or the small bills. B.”[19]

Barnum devoted to charity the proceeds of his lectures, except
those delivered on “The Art of Money-Getting” immediately after his
bankruptcy. Barnum’s lectures do not read well. They were filled with
homely sentiments, platitudes, and the jokes he had used so often
before. Although he exhibited flashes of wit, he was not a great
humorist. He would have done well to consider Josh Billings’s “Hints to
Comik Lekturers”:

“No man kan be a helthy phool unless he was nussed at the brest of
wisdom.

“Those who fail in the comik bizzness are them who hav bin put out
to nuss, or bin fetched up on a bottle.

“If a man iz a genuine humorist he iz superior tew the bulk ov hiz
aujience, and will oftentimes hav tew take hiz pay for hiz services
in thinking so.”

The New Museum on Broadway was not so successful as the old, and Barnum
joined with Van Amburgh, of Van Amburgh’s Menagerie, in an effort to
form a large traveling show, consisting of Barnum’s curiosities and Van
Amburgh’s animals, which would tour the country in summer and exhibit
at the Museum in winter. Van Amburgh was the most popular lion tamer in
the show business, and he was also a good showman: he literally made a
lion lie down with a lamb in one of his cages, and he also introduced a
little child to lead them.

Barnum owned forty per cent. of the stock of the new enterprise, and he
lent it his valuable name as general manager, but he did not take an
active part in its management. The new combined museum and menagerie
was more popular than any other place of amusement in New York, and
Barnum made many efforts to add to its collections. John Greenwood,
formerly manager of Barnum’s American Museum, was sent abroad in the
_Quaker City_, on the same voyage of the ship in which Mark Twain
traveled with the Innocents Abroad, and this trip resulted in many new
curiosities from the Holy Land. The following letter to a friend in
London, written about the time of the partnership with Van Amburgh,
will illustrate one of Barnum’s methods of collecting material:

“MUSEUM, NEW YORK, Dec. 20, ’67.

“MY DEAR LINDSAY--OR LINDLEY:

“It is so long since we have met, or communicated, I have forgotten
how to _spell_ your _name_!

“I had hoped to have seen you last summer on my way to the Great
Exposition, but the continued illness of my wife prevented me from
going over _at all_. I am glad, however, to hear a good account
from you by the Tom Thumb party--Kellogg Wells &c.

“I have a singular sort of commission for you to execute for me.
It is to look at some wild animals for me to add to my Zoölogical
Collection. Ordinarily I send such things to my friend Fillingham,
but lately I think a circus & menagerie Co. here have enlisted him
in their service, hence I wish you to make the inquiries for me
_without communicating_ the same to _Fillingham_ or _anybody else_.

“I want to purchase any of the following animals at a reasonable
price--Zebras, Gnu or horned horse--a small Rhinoceros--Giraffe,
Hippopotamus--Polar Bear--African Wart Hogs, Lamas--Striped &
spotted Hyenas, double humped Camels--Kangaroos & almost any other
animals not natives of this country. I have written the Secry
of the Zoölogical Gardens, Regents Park, so it is not necessary
to apply there, but I want you to apply in person or by note to
_Jamrack_ the great animals man in London, also to any other
persons in London who trade in living Wild Animals--and also write
to such parties in Liverpool or any other part of Great Britain
as keep wild animals on exhibition or for sale. ☞ Don’t let them
know or suspect _who_ you apply for. Let them think it is for some
traveling concern in Great Britain or France, & especially don’t
let _Jamrack_ suspect America, for he has an agent here and as
soon as you can get lists of animals & prices please write them
to me. Possibly it might pay to put an advertisement in the _Era_
for me once saying the advertiser wishes to buy the wild animals
of a Zoölogical Garden or Collection, or will buy at reasonable
prices wild animals of almost any description, and especially
Zebra, Gnu or horned horse (here go on & name the others which I
have mentioned). If you think it would also be advisable to put it
once in the _Times_ or _Telegraph_ you can do so, although I don’t
want to expend money on uncertainties & can hardly think it will
help much to advertise, except perhaps once in _Era_--but of that I
leave you to judge, only don’t do _more_ than one insertion in one
or all of the papers named above. Hoping to hear from you soon &
not wishing you to take steps which will incur much expense I am

“Your old friend,
“P. T. BARNUM.”

Barnum planned to form the nucleus for a public zoölogical garden in
New York from his menagerie, and he also planned to make his Museum
collection a public institution, which would eventually be taken over
by the government and opened to the public free of charge. For this
purpose he persuaded President Andrew Johnson to give him a letter of
instruction to consuls abroad to collect as much material as possible
for Barnum’s Museum. Barnum’s scheme was indorsed by leading citizens
and editors, including Horace Greeley, William Cullen Bryant, Henry
Ward Beecher and Simeon Draper. General Grant donated the hat he had
worn during his Civil War campaigns to Barnum’s Museum. But on March 3,
1868, the new Museum was burned to the ground.

[Illustration: BARNUM, THE VETERAN SHOWMAN

A caricature by Spy drawn from life in 1889 for “Vanity Fair,” London.

_Houdini Collection_]

[Illustration: BARNUM’S BRIDGEPORT HOME

“IRANISTAN--AN ORIENTAL VILLA”]

It was one of the coldest days of that year, and the elements combined
to advertise Barnum, for the streams of water that were played upon the
blazing building froze into sparkling coverings of ice, and the next
morning a gorgeous spectacle was presented free of charge to thousands
of New Yorkers, who stood in the cold all day to watch the lights and
shades the sun made on the ice-covered ruins. The sight is noted in the
annals of the time as a picture no artist could have painted.

Barnum lost much money in the fire, and Van Amburgh’s collection of
lions and tigers died painfully. This time Barnum determined he would
retire and devote himself entirely “to serious reflections on the
ends and aims of human existence,” social pleasures, and intellectual
pursuits. George Wood, proprietor of Wood’s Museum, Barnum’s most
important rival, offered him three per cent. of his receipts for the
right to say that Wood’s Museum was the successor to Barnum’s Museum.
He thus capitalized his valuable name, and he was firmly convinced that
now his public life was ended. The organization which was to make his
name most famous, the circus, was not even present in the recesses of
his mind.

He bought more Bridgeport real estate, planted trees, laid out streets,
and continued his endeavors to improve the City of Bridgeport in spite
of the strenuous opposition of those whom he characterized as “old
fogies.” He himself was sixty years old at the time. “Conservatism,”
Barnum said in this connection, “may be a good thing in the state,
or in the church, but it is fatal to the growth of cities.” In spite
of the conservatives, however, he was able to consummate his plans
for Seaside Park, a lovely tract of municipal land off Long Island
Sound, and to-day a bronze statue of P. T. Barnum, cast when he was an
aged man, looks tranquilly with sad eyes across the wide stretch of
Long Island Sound, as if he were searching tirelessly, but somewhat
wearied, for new curiosities in the distance.

The health of Mrs. Barnum had been delicate for many years, and she no
longer felt fit to manage “Lindencroft.” Barnum sold the house, and
soon afterwards he purchased land near his beloved Seaside Park. Here
he built a house, which was described by a friend and admirer as “a
pleasant mélange of Gothic, Italian, and French architecture.” The new
home was christened “Waldemere,” an Americanization of _Waldammeer_,
“Woods-by-the-Sea.”[20] Whenever the master of the house was at home, a
white silk flag with the initials “P. T. B.” in blue was hoisted on the
“Waldemere” flagpole for the information of his friends and visiting
admirers. Barnum also purchased for $80,000 a New York City mansion on
Fifth Avenue at Thirty-ninth Street.

Thus having made elaborate provision for the comfort of his leisure,
Barnum sat down to enjoy it, and soon afterwards he discovered that
he had nothing to do that was enjoyable. Reading was only a pastime,
writing without a special purpose tiresome, and friends were always
occupied with their own business. He took up lecturing again, but
he could not find in it a constant occupation. The arrival of an
English friend, John Fish, who had based his success in his Manchester
cotton mill on Barnum’s principles of success as laid down in the
autobiography, suggested travel. Barnum showed John Fish and his
young daughter, Nancy, the United States. They visited Niagara Falls,
Washington, Cuba, and New Orleans, and then went to California. On
this trip Barnum stopped off at Salt Lake City, where he lectured to
a select audience of Mormons, including many of the wives of Brigham
Young. By invitation he visited Brigham Young at the presidential
mansion, known as the Bee-Hive, and he was received cordially.
“Barnum,” said Brigham Young, “what will you give me to exhibit me
in New York and the eastern cities?” “Well, Mr. President,” said
Barnum earnestly, “I’ll give you half the receipts, which I will
guarantee shall be $200,000 per year, for I consider you the best show
in America.” “Why didn’t you secure me years ago when I was of no
consequence?” asked Brigham Young. “Because you would not have ‘drawn’
at that time,” was Barnum’s reply.

In San Francisco Barnum discovered another valuable dwarf. He was
smaller than General Tom Thumb, and handsome; his father, Gabriel Kahn,
a German, asked Barnum to exhibit his son, and Barnum could not resist
the temptation. He hesitated, for he had determined to retire, but the
dwarf was pert in both German and English, and Barnum finally engaged
him for a long term of years, christening him immediately “Admiral
Dot, the Eldorado Elf.” Admiral Dot was exhibited in San Francisco for
three weeks under Barnum’s management, and his levees were crowded.
Then the party returned to New York. Admiral Dot was joined later by a
nephew, known as Major Atom. Barnum was also financially interested in
the world tour of General Tom Thumb, Mrs. Tom Thumb, Minnie Warren, and
Commodore Nutt and his brother, Rodnia Nutt. He also arranged a tour
for The Siamese Twins in Great Britain. Interest was aroused in this
enterprise by the previous announcement that they were visiting Great
Britain to consult eminent surgeons with a view to their separation.
Of course, they had no intention of becoming by a stroke of the knife
merely two Siamese, instead of The Siamese Twins, but the publicity was
effective.

All these enterprises, however, were only silent partnerships, and
Barnum was not satisfied with such comparative inactivity. His
energies, unassuaged by travel and entertainment, insisted upon a wider
outlet, and in 1870, when he was sixty years old, he organized the
first forerunner of what was later to become the famous Barnum & Bailey
circus.

CHAPTER XIII

THE CIRCUS

An immense traveling show, combining all the elements of the museum,
menagerie, and variety performance, was not Barnum’s own conception,
at least in 1870, when he first joined some other showmen in the
organization of such a combination. It is true that forerunners of the
circus were present in “Barnum’s Great Asiatic Caravan, Museum, and
Menagerie,” and in Barnum’s and Van Amburgh’s Museum and Menagerie,
but these were nothing in comparison with the enterprise which was now
projected. W. C. Coup and Dan Costello, showmen of experience, called
upon Barnum during the period of his semi-retirement and urged that he
form with them a great traveling show. They asked for the power of his
name and for any financial support he was willing to supply, and they
arrived at the correct time, for, tired of doing comparatively nothing,
Barnum approved of all their plans. In 1869 he had decided that it was
time for him to devote himself “to serious reflections on the ends
and aims of human existence,” and he had no thought of engaging in
the circus business. In 1870 he was making preparations with his new
partners for the huge exhibition which they suggested, and which was
larger than anything Barnum had ever previously attempted.

In his autobiography Barnum was in the habit of giving himself credit
for the origin of anything with which his name was associated, and
his partners, realizing the immense asset of the name of Barnum in
their enterprises, were willing to be silent, at least until their
retirement. W. C. Coup published many years after the end of his
association with Barnum an interesting book of circus recollections,
_Sawdust and Spangles_. In his book he printed the following letter
which Barnum wrote him in October, 1870:

“BRIDGEPORT, Oct. 8, 1870.

“MY DEAR COUP: Yours received. I will join you in a show for
next spring and will probably have Admiral Dot well trained this
winter and have him and Harrison in the show. Wood will sell all
his animals outright, and will furnish several tip-top museum
curiosities. You need to spend several months in New York arranging
for curiosities, cuts, cages, bills, etc. All things got from Wood
I will settle for with him and give the concern credit. We can make
a stunning museum department. If you want to call it _my_ museum
and use my name it may be used by allowing me the same very small
percentage that Wood allows for calling himself my successor (3
per cent. on receipts). You can have a Cardiff Giant that won’t
crack, also a moving figure, Sleeping Beauty, or Dying Zouave--a
big Gymnastic figure like that in Wood’s museum, and lots of other
good things, only you need time to look them up and prepare wagons,
etc., etc.

“Yours truly,
“P. T. BARNUM.

“I will spare time to look up the show in New York when you come. I
think Siamese Twins would pay.”

“A Cardiff Giant that won’t crack” referred to the then famous
curiosity, a huge figure, supposed to have been dug up in the small
town of Cardiff, New York, and presented on exhibition as a fine
prehistoric relic. Soon after the exhibition of the original Cardiff
Giant, the figure began to show seams and other signs of artificial
manufacture. Barnum planned the manufacture of a prehistoric relic
without blemishes.

Coup devoted time and energy to the organization of the Greatest Show
on Earth, and Barnum supplied advice and some financial support. On
April 10, 1871, the show opened in Brooklyn, New York, with the largest
area of tent canvas that had ever been spread for a circus, and the
show boasted that it employed more men, horses and animals than any
previously organized in the United States or Europe. There were wax
works, dioramas, the Sleeping Beauty, and the Dying Zouave--mechanical
figures which breathed evenly, and gasped realistically for
breath--Swiss Bell Ringers, and the Cardiff Giant, who did not crack.
Admiral Dot, the Eldorado Elf, and Colonel Goshen, the Palestine Giant,
exhibited together, the Admiral sometimes occupying the Colonel’s hand
as a seat. Esau, the Bearded Boy, and Anna Leake, the armless woman,
were other special attractions.

But the greatest attraction of the opening season was the family
of Fiji Cannibals, whom Barnum was supposed to have obtained from
the Fiji Islands with the aid of the United States consul. These
man-eating cannibals, according to Barnum, had been captured in war
by King Thokambau and rescued from death and consumption as food by
Barnum’s agent at Na Vita Levu. King Thokambau accepted a bond for
the safe return of his captives, and a large sum of money for their
use in Barnum’s circus. “Accompanying them,” wrote Barnum, “is a
half-civilized Cannibal woman, converted and educated by the Methodist
missionaries. She reads fluently and very pleasantly from the Bible
printed in the Fijian language, and she already exerts a powerful
moral influence over these savages. They take a lively interest in
hearing her read the history of our Saviour. They earnestly declare
their convictions that eating human flesh is wrong, and faithfully
promise never again to attempt it. They are intelligent and docile.
Their characteristic war dances and rude marches, as well as their
representations of Cannibal manners and customs, are peculiarly
interesting and instructive. It is perhaps needless to add that the
bonds for their return will be forfeited. They are already learning to
speak and read our language, and I hope soon to put them in the way
of being converted to Christianity, even if by so doing the title of
‘Missionary’ be added to the many already given me by the public.”

Another great attraction of the first season was the giraffe. “Other
managers,” Barnum explained, “gave up trying to import giraffes several
years ago, owing to the great cost and care attending them. No giraffe
has ever lived two years in America. These very impediments, however,
incited me to always have a living giraffe on hand, at whatever
cost--for, of course, their scarcity enhances their attraction and
value as curiosities.” The giraffe’s long neck was always of great
advertising value to the circus.

The success of Barnum’s circus was almost immediate, but it was not
spontaneous. While Barnum was enjoying the fruit of his past activities
at his home in Bridgeport, Coup was preparing the country for the
Barnum show. The name of Barnum was a great attraction, for his thirty
years of association with the public in the amusement business carried
his name and reputation everywhere throughout the United States and in
many of the important countries of Europe. General Tom Thumb, Jenny
Lind, and the American Museum formed a background of notoriety which
finally made Barnum’s name, and later the name of Barnum & Bailey,
a household expression and a national institution. During the first
season Barnum was present with the show in all the large cities, and he
exploited his personality and reputation for the benefit of his circus.
Frequently he delivered lectures on temperance at the Y. M. C. A. in
a city where the circus was performing. “My managers and assistants,”
Barnum wrote, “insist that my free lectures, especially in the large
cities, result to my pecuniary disadvantage, as fully satisfying
many who otherwise would patronize the exhibition to gratify their
curiosity. However, as our immense pavilions are always crowded, I can
see no real cause for complaint.” No doubt there were enough people
who, after seeing Barnum, still wanted to see the giraffe and the Fiji
Cannibals.

But in its first year the factor that contributed more than any other
to the success of Barnum’s circus was W. C. Coup’s advance publicity
and advertising and his excellent transportation arrangements. Every
other circus had previously been confined to a town and its immediate
vicinity for its patronage; Coup ordered his advertisers to post their
bills as far as fifty and seventy-five miles from the place where the
circus would exhibit, and his advance brigade of bill posters, it was
said, posted more bills in one week than other circus companies posted
in an entire season. Coup then arranged with the leading railroads of
New England and New York to run special excursion trains at reduced
fares to points where the Barnum Circus pitched its tents. Often the
attendance at the circus was in this way brought up to a total of
twice and three times the population of the town visited. The gross
receipts of the first season were more than $400,000, and this sum did
not include the profits from candy stands, incidental concerts and
side-shows.

Coup noticed that in the larger towns the receipts averaged from $5,000
to $7,000 a day, and in the smaller towns they fell to $2,000 a day.
This led him to consider the possibility of transporting the Barnum
show by rail, thus making sufficiently long trips to eliminate all
towns where the receipts were likely to fall below $5,000. Barnum tells
in his autobiography how he triumphed over all other showmen because
of his high-handed enterprise and his liberal outlay of money. He
particularly records how he startled his partners, Coup and Costello,
when he decided to transport the circus by rail. But these statements
were not true. All his associates in the circus who have left any
records of their opinions agree that in his last years Barnum was
inclined to be niggardly and conservative, traits which would have
been fatal to the success of such a gigantic enterprise as he was then
conducting. It was Coup who negotiated with the railroads for the
transportation of the circus, and who informed Barnum arbitrarily that
during the season of 1872 the circus would be transported by rail. The
innovation startled Barnum, and he protested vigorously. Even after
rail transportation had been demonstrated as successful, Barnum urged
that it should be abandoned in favor of the old wagons, confining the
show to short trips. But Coup refused to listen to Barnum, and he
so perfected the details of loading and unloading that it was made
possible to make trips of one hundred miles each night, give the
far-famed street parade in the morning, and an afternoon and evening
performance in each city visited. His system of railroad transportation
also made it possible to carry a much larger show about the country,
and during the first season of rail transportation the receipts of
the circus were more than one million dollars, according to Barnum’s
own figures. These tremendous figures of profits and expenditure were
enough to frighten a younger man than Barnum.

For the winter months, when the circus could not travel, Barnum and
Coup hired the Hippotheatron, on Fourteenth Street, New York, and
they used some of their curiosities and performers in this continuous
museum, menagerie and circus. Part of the show was also sent during the
winter on a tour of the southern states, and in 1872 Barnum accompanied
the show on this trip. On December 24, 1872, the Hippotheatron was
destroyed by fire, and Barnum found himself in possession of nothing
but two elephants and one camel, besides the part of the show which was
then exhibiting in New Orleans. He immediately, so he wrote, cabled
his agents in Europe to obtain duplicate curiosities and new animals
and properties, and he telegraphed his son-in-law: “Tell editors
I have cabled European agents to expend half million dollars for
extra attractions; will have new and more attractive show than ever
early in April. P. T. Barnum.” Coup, meanwhile, had provided for the
reorganization of the show, and in 1873 it was able to take the road
with a larger collection of performers, curiosities and animals than
during its first tour.

The Barnum show depended for its patronage upon its size, and in 1872
Coup and Barnum added another ring under their tent. This was the
first two-ring circus, a development which was followed by every other
large show in the country, and which eventually grew into the famous
three-ring circus which has been universally adopted in this country.
The three-topped tent circus, with its two separate rings, and later
three separate rings, had great advertising advantages over its smaller
rivals. The very fact that the spectator was offered more than he could
possibly see was such a glamorous inducement for him to spend his money
that he usually forgot the obvious disadvantage of not being able to
see it all. This large-sized show, inaugurated by Barnum and Coup, has
always been deplored by circus performers from an artistic point of
view, for they have always seen in its immensity no opportunity for the
display of individual merit. Clowns and acrobats have considered that
their decline in individual popularity was due to the increase in the
magnitude of circus presentation, for it was impossible to do stirring
or excruciating things in the air, in animal cages, or on the sawdust
when two other groups were occupied in distracting the attention of the
audience at the same time. Circus clowns like Grimaldi are no longer
popular personally, because the maximum time allowed for an individual
performance under the Barnum & Bailey régime, which came a few years
later than the Barnum and Coup show, was six minutes. Bailey is said to
have imported a famous English clown, who could not possibly shorten
his act, he insisted, to less than twenty minutes. Bailey paid the
clown’s expenses back to England. But psychologically the three-ring
circus proved a great success, and brought huge financial profits. The
size of the circus gave body to the statement that it was the Greatest
Show on Earth, and Barnum’s show when it finally combined with Bailey’s
was certainly the largest: throughout Barnum’s career largest and
greatest were synonymous.

In September, 1873, Barnum visited Europe for the purpose of attending
the International Exhibition at Vienna. In England he met again his
old friend John Fish, and he traveled throughout the country with Fish
and his daughter, Nancy. While Barnum was in Europe, Coup obtained
a lease on the old New Haven Railroad depot at Madison Avenue and
Twenty-seventh Street, New York, and he determined to build what
is now Madison Square Garden, where the Barnum & Bailey circus has
performed for many years. Barnum declined absolutely to join Coup in
this enterprise until Coup cabled him that he had plenty of offers of
capital and did not need his aid. Then Barnum determined to join the
enterprise. In his autobiography Barnum presented a different version
of his reaction to the plan for Madison Square Garden. If we are to
believe him, he received letters from Coup and his son-in-law that
the New Haven depot was available. “I immediately telegraphed them
to take the lease, and within twenty-four hours from that time I was
in telegraphic communication with seventeen European cities where I
knew were the proper parties to aid me in carrying out a grand and
novel enterprise.” The grand and novel enterprise was the construction
of Madison Square Garden on the site of the New Haven depot and the
operation there of a gigantic place of amusement, combining all the
features of the circus, museum and menagerie, which was to be called
the Great Roman Hippodrome. Coup’s health broke down from overwork on
the Madison Square Garden project. He went to Europe and later sold
out his interest in Barnum’s show. Costello had already left the show.
Coup was a bold adventurer. Later he invested all his capital in the
New York Aquarium, where he had a valuable collection of aquaria and
several giraffes and elephants. His partner was a German, who insisted
that the Aquarium must be kept open on Sunday. Coup would not consent
to this, and since they could not settle the difference of opinion,
Coup coolly suggested that they flip a coin to determine which partner
should own the giraffes and other large animals, and which should take
the aquaria, which were far more valuable. Coup lost, and by the flip
of that coin he lost the fortune he had spent years of a wandering
circus life in gaining.

While Barnum was in Hamburg in November, 1873, he received a cablegram
from his son-in-law, S. M. Hurd, informing him that his wife, Charity
Hallett Barnum, had died on November 17, 1873. Barnum wrote in his
autobiography that it was difficult for any one to imagine the anguish
he suffered by thus being suddenly separated from a companion of
forty-four years. “But when the intelligence,” he continued, “is not
only unlooked for, but, as in my case, it finds the sorrowing husband
four thousand miles away from the bedside of his dead wife, alone,
in a strange land, where his native tongue is not spoken: when he
reflects that children, grandchildren, and other kindred are mourning
over the coffin where he is needed, and where his poor stricken heart
is breaking to be, the utter loneliness of that mourner cannot be
truly comprehended. Long accustomed as I have been to feel that God
is good, and that His ways are always right, that He overcometh evil
with good, and chastens us ‘for our profit,’ I confess the ‘cloud’
seemed so utterly black that it was hard to realize it _could_ have
a silver ‘lining’; and my tongue ceased to move when I attempted to
say, as surely we all ought unhesitatingly at all times to say, ‘Not
my will, but Thine be done.’” But apparently there was a silver lining
even to this black cloud, for, less than one year later, Barnum married
Nancy Fish, the young daughter of his English friend and traveling
companion.[21]

When he returned to New York, the show, which had opened as the Great
Roman Hippodrome at Madison Square Garden, was larger than ever, and
he was greeted with cheers by the crowd assembled in the immense
building. This applause Barnum took as a gratifying tribute to his
enterprise as manager of a monster exhibition. President Grant and
his cabinet, governors of states, and judges visited the great show
and congratulated Barnum on a stupendous achievement. When he arrived
home in Bridgeport, his friends and neighbors gave him a complimentary
dinner to place on record their “esteem for his liberality and energy
in private enterprise and in promoting the industries and public
improvement of our city.” In his speech of gratitude Barnum said that
night would “ever stand out a red letter day on the calendar of my
history.”[22]

In London Barnum had contracted with Sanger Brothers for duplicates of
their costumes and properties belonging to the Sanger show, known as
the Great Congress of Nations. In December, 1874, the show returned to
New York and again filled Madison Square Garden with an enthusiastic
audience. King Kalakaua, the first King of the Hawaiian Islands to
visit this country, and one of the first reigning sovereigns ever
entertained here, visited Barnum’s show and enjoyed himself. King
Kalakaua had been received with great enthusiasm by the newspapers and
the public on his tour, which began at San Francisco and ended in New
York. Kalakaua’s predecessor on the Hawaiian throne, King Kamehameha V,
had visited this country when he was Prince Lot, before the American
Civil War. He was thrown out of a New York street car because he was
considered “nothing but a dressed-up nigger.”

Barnum sent King Kalakaua an invitation to watch the Greatest Show
on Earth, and when the King arrived at Madison Square Garden, P. T.
Barnum was in the arena, ready to conduct his guests to the royal
box, decorated tastefully with the United States and Hawaiian flags.
There was a capacity audience in Madison Square Garden to greet Barnum
and the King. A great display of fireworks, which formed the word
“Kalakaua” in letters of blue and red, followed the entry of the King,
and His Majesty was much pleased. The King was particularly impressed
by the horse race between lady jockeys, and he handed the winner a
white rose. He was also interested in Admiral Dot, the Eldorado Elf,
who presented his portrait free of charge. During an intermission the
cry went up from the audience, “King Kalakaua! King Kalakaua!” Barnum
invited the King to answer the call by riding around the arena with
him in an open carriage. There was much cheering and waving of hats
and handkerchiefs for Barnum and His Majesty, while the band played
“Hail to the Chief.” After the performance King Kalakaua visited behind
the scenes, where he was introduced to the “gauzy ballet girls.”
Barnum then gave him a Christmas present of a handsomely bound copy of
the _Life of P. T. Barnum Written by Himself_. A New York newspaper
remarked editorially on this reception: “They [Europeans] will be
astonished that any man on earth would have had the presumption to
propose making a show of a living monarch, albeit his kingdom may
not be the most extensive in the world, and we confess that, in our
opinion, the only human being on the footstool who would have the
temerity to show up a King is our worthy countryman, Phineas T.
Barnum.” The King seemed to realize that he was being made part of the
Greatest Show on Earth, for as he and Barnum stepped into Barnum’s
carriage he murmured philosophically, “We are all actors.”

In March, 1875, some of Barnum’s fellow citizens in Bridgeport
recognized his preëminence and civic spirit by offering him the
Republican nomination for mayor. He wrote in his autobiography that he
refused the nomination until he was assured that it was intended as a
compliment and would be sustained by both parties. But the Bridgeport
newspapers of the period do not tell the same story. Barnum’s election
was contested bitterly by his Democratic opponent, Frederick Hurd,
and Barnum was elected by only 141 votes; he was the only municipal
official of the Republican ticket who was elected, and his colleagues
in his administration were all his political opponents. In his
inaugural address Barnum said: “It is painful to the industrious and
moral portions of our people to see so many loungers about the streets,
and such a multitude whose highest aspirations seem to be to waste
their time in idleness or at baseball, billiards, etc.” He also assured
the Gentlemen of the Common Council that “Honesty is always the best
policy.”

Barnum opened his administration by declaring war on whisky dealers,
and one of his first measures was an attempt to enforce the Sunday
closing law for saloons. His administration also advocated public
ownership of the water works, although he himself was one of the
largest stockholders in the private water company. One of his most
unpopular measures was his advocacy of a fifteen per cent. reduction in
the salaries of all civic employees, including the mayor. The reduction
was designed to aid the city in its financial difficulties, but men
who were dependent for their livelihood upon their municipal salaries
were not so eager for the reform as was the mayor, whose circus was
earning more money than ever. After one year as mayor, Barnum refused a
renomination.

III

The circus season of 1876 was one of special features. That year was
the centenary of the Declaration of Independence, and Barnum made the
most of it. In the list of attractions were patriotic numbers that
succeeded in stirring national enthusiasm, and the printed program
contained this boast:

“And the Star Spangled Banner
In triumph shall wave
O’er the grandest of shows
Even Barnum e’er gave.”

There was a Goddess of Liberty, “a Gigantic Live American Eagle,”
which was scheduled to “hover overhead”; groups of patriotic figures,
including a man dressed as the Father of His Country and other
appropriately costumed Revolutionary heroes, marched in a triumphal
procession around the arena. “A stupendous chorus of several hundred
thoroughly trained voices,” led by Señora Donetti and J. Russell Haynes
as soloists, sang “My Country, ’Tis of Thee,” while the Goddess of
Liberty “triumphantly waved the stars and stripes over the splendid and
animated scene.”

Barnum’s patriotism was one of those sincere beliefs of his which
he was able to enjoy personally and to profit by financially at the
same time. But his patriotism was as nothing in sincerity or value to
him compared with his piety. Barnum’s personal piety was one of the
greatest assets of the Greatest Show on Earth. The church had been
opposed to shows, and especially to the circus, since the first circus
toured America, and at one time the Methodist Church in its regulations
provided that any Methodist who attended the circus automatically
forfeited membership in the church. But Barnum’s show was not only
attended by clergymen and their most pious parishioners, but even
reviewed in most of the religious publications of the country. “That
the Church should ever tolerate, patronize, or even recognize as an
educator the circus,” wrote Barnum, “was a possibility that probably
entered into the dreams of no man but myself, and perhaps no man but
myself believed it possible to organize a circus which should respect
the Church and all pertaining to it.” It was true; Barnum accomplished
both these things, which combined to form one of his most valuable
assets, and he alone of all showmen could have done it, because his
personal reputation for piety, temperance, and abstinence was universal.

Barnum forced recognition upon his clerical friends. His show was
always advertised as “Barnum’s Great Moral Show.” The unobjectionable
character of its performances was stressed unremittingly in its
programs. And then in Barnum’s program notes each year appeared this
notice: “The gentlemen having charge of my advertising department will
address a letter, containing tickets, to each of the clergy of every
denomination, resident in the towns where we exhibit, which will admit
them and their wives, free of charge, to my entire combination of
exhibitions. It sometimes happens, however, that my agents are not able
to procure the names of all the resident clergy. Should any be omitted,
they will receive a cordial welcome by calling either on me in person,
or on my Treasurer, at the ticket wagon, any time before or during the
entertainment. My exhibitions contain nothing that professed Christians
do not approve.” Though he gave passes liberally to clergymen and to
editors,--and for the latter he sometimes supplied transportation from
their distant homes,--Barnum told others that “we never issue one to
the big show except to editors, clergymen, or orphan asylums, or to
persons who render us equivalent service in some way.” He had printed
a card which he handed to those who bothered him for free passes, that
read:

FREE PASSES

In those days there were no passes given.
Search the Scriptures.
“Thou shalt not pass.”--_Numbers_ xx. 18.
“Suffer not a man to pass.”--_Judges_ iii. 28.
“The wicked shall no more pass.”--_Nahum_ i. 15.
“None shall pass.”--_Isaiah_ xxxiv. 10.
“This generation shall not pass.”--_Mark_ xiii. 30.
“Beware that thou pass not.”--_2d Kings_ vi. 9.
“There shall no strangers pass.”--_Amos_ iii. 17.
“Neither any son of man pass.”--_Jeremiah_ li. 43.
“No man may pass through because of the beasts.”--_Ezekiel_ xiv. 15.
“Though they roar, yet they cannot pass.”--_Jeremiah_ v. 22.
“So he paid the fare thereof and went.”--_Jonah_ i. 3.

The clergymen were grateful for their passes, and sometimes mentioned
the circus from the pulpit, advising their congregations to attend this
strictly moral exhibition, of interest and instruction to all. The
show depended for its success on winning the patronage of thousands of
persons in small towns who rarely saw any newspapers except country
weeklies, but who seldom missed Sunday attendance at church. By
reiteration in his advance notices and his programs, and by careful
supervision of the show itself, Barnum impressed upon his patrons the
fact that his circus was reputable and moral. “The reverend clergy and
school teachers of both sexes throughout our land are among my firmest
friends,” Barnum wrote in his program notes for 1879, “and strongest
supporters of my great moral exhibition. I am both a husband and a
father, and I will _never_ place any entertainment before the public
that a Christian mother cannot patronize in every department, with her
innocent daughters, with pleasure and profit.” Not a broad joke nor a
suggestive gesture was allowed a clown in Barnum’s Great Moral Show. In
his program he assured his patrons: “I desire to elevate the morals and
refine the tastes of my patrons. In fine, I aspire to make the world
_better_ for my having lived in it.”

His success in this particular was recognized in many different ways by
his contemporaries, and all were effective as advertising. An important
religious paper, _The Examiner and Chronicle_, wrote a review in which
the editor said: “Barnum’s Great Show is well worthy everybody’s
seeing. It is not too much to say that it is the greatest exhibition of
its kind in the world.” “Amusement is necessary to us all,” said _The
Christian at Work_, “and when we can combine instruction and amusement,
as in this case, we see no reason why we should not be gratified in
this respect, and our children as well.” Henry Ward Beecher, Theodore
L. Cuyler, E. H. Chapin, the most notorious ministers of their day,
wrote endorsements for Barnum’s show and in public utterances expressed
themselves as satisfied that he was a force for great moral good. The
Rev. Robert Collyer, minister of the Church of the Messiah in New York
City, saw Barnum enter the church one evening after the services had
begun and quietly take a back seat. Dr. Collyer announced from the
pulpit: “I see P. T. Barnum in a back pew of this church, and I invite
him to come forward and take a seat in my family pew. Mr. Barnum always
gives me a good seat in his circus, and I want to give him as good
in my church.” Barnum said of this incident, “I thought the reverend
gentleman had the courage of his convictions to a most unusual degree,
and I was grateful to his congregation for the gravity with which they
listened to this very remarkable ‘pulpit notice’ and made way for me
as, with some embarrassment, I took the prominent seat so peremptorily
indicated.” If Barnum was embarrassed then, it was for the first and
last time in his life.

Barnum’s genius for astute showmanship never was displayed to greater
advantage than when he harnessed his caravan to the church by the
straps of his personal piety; since his piety was sincere and his show
carefully moral throughout, his plea for moral support was responded
to with enthusiasm by a large body of clergymen and churchgoers, who
admired solemnly Barnum’s personal virtues and giggled contentedly at
the antics of his clowns. This admiration for him and his enterprise,
which was based psychologically on Barnum’s own continual reiterations
of his own merits and those of his show, was often productive of
personal results. In his advance notes for 1879 Barnum wrote: “One
charming old lady in Boston, with a troop of happy grandchildren in
her train, shook me cordially by the hand and, with a face beaming
with smiles, said to me: ‘Oh, Mr. Barnum, I don’t know how to thank
you enough for the pleasure you have afforded these darlings. I never
saw them so happy before in all their lives; and they have learned so
much in your delightful Museum and wonderful Menagerie. It is better
than all the books in Natural History they ever read. I enjoyed it too;
I shall never forget this day as long as I live; neither will they. I
tell you, Mr. Barnum, you are doing a great deal of good. You deserve
canonizing more than many of the saints. God bless you!’ and with
another shake of the hand she left me, surrounded by her happy charge.”
Even granting the possibility that this particular old lady of Boston
was a mythical press agent figure, the incident recorded is one that
must have occurred to him often.

Barnum was frequently approached personally by his patrons, and the
thrill of such admiring contact never lost its power to satisfy him.
He occupied in the sentiments of his host of patrons a position more
enviable for the satisfaction of natural, human vanity than that of
any other public figure in the world. His personality was removed
from the stress and conflict of political controversy, which makes
enemies as well as friends, and by nature of his contributions to a
nation’s amusement he was accepted with a cordiality that was never
bestowed even upon a President of the United States. His reception was
more familiar and more general than that of any other public person:
instead of a world figure, he was a world character, and the kindly
manifestations of his genial success were an immense source of comfort
to his old age. Whenever possible he was present at the circus in all
the large cities to enjoy the triumph which he had so justly earned.
And his presence invariably increased the gate receipts. Many people
came to look at the famous Barnum and remained to look at the other
curiosities, while of those larger numbers who were attracted by the
show itself, few missed the opportunity to look at Barnum. He once
heard a small boy in Toronto ask his father excitedly, “Say, Pa, which
cage is Barnum in?” In Erie, Pennsylvania, he was watching the circus
performance and caught the conversation of a farmer and his wife,
who were sitting behind him. They had not seen a circus since their
childhood and were emotionally aroused by its manifold wonders. When
a young equestrian rode round the ring, standing on his head on the
horse’s bare back, the farmer jumped to his feet, waved his straw hat,
and shouted with enthusiastic excitement, “I’ll bet five dollars that’s
Barnum! There ain’t another man in America who can do that but Barnum!”
Barnum did not disillusion him.

The name and personality of Barnum became a strong American legend,
and it was recognized as such by some of his more unscrupulous rivals.
Barnum wrote in his autobiography: “Nearly every circus and menagerie
in the country has lately added what is called a ‘museum,’ and in some
cases they have employed a man named, or supposed to be named, Barnum,
intending to advertise under the title of ‘Barnum’s Show,’ thereby
deceiving and swindling the public. The trick is very transparent, and
can be successful, if at all, only in very rural regions, where the
newspapers fail to penetrate. The whole public knows that there is
but one P. T. Barnum, and but one show in the country of sufficient
importance to bear his name.”

Another factor in the spread of the Barnum legend was his
autobiography. It was sold at the circus for one dollar, fifty cents
less than the published price, and, so anxious was Barnum to increase
its circulation, each purchaser was entitled by his purchase to a
fifty cent ticket to the entire show, so that the book was sold at
the circus for less than half its published price. The cost of the
autobiography to Barnum, he told Major J. B. Pond, was nine cents a
copy, because he ordered a million copies of the book. Barnum told a
reporter for the _Buffalo Courier_, who found him at “Waldemere” in the
act of adding another appendix to the book, that he sold 100,000 copies
each year at the circus. “Nearly every family buys one or more of my
book,” Barnum said. “As the multitudes pour out of my canvas tents at
the close of each exhibition, every third person seems to have a book
under his arm.” “That must be a funny sight,” said the reporter. “Yes,”
said Barnum, “it looks as if they were coming out of a circulating
library.” When the same reporter expressed his astonishment at the
magnitude of Barnum’s circus, Barnum said, “My business is to astonish
as well as to please.”

But in spite of his support from the church, his personal notoriety,
and the extent of his advertising, Barnum’s show was not alone in the
field. There were many circus troupes touring the country, and at least
one other was as large as Barnum’s, that owned by Cooper & Bailey.
So great was circus rivalry that circus men stopped at nothing to
hinder the progress of a competitor. W. C. Coup wrote in _Sawdust and
Spangles_ that a circus company once burned a railroad bridge after
crossing it so that a rival show could not get to its next stand.

The rivalry manifested itself in Barnum’s advertisements. He plastered
the country with large bills, reading, “Wait for Barnum. Don’t spend
your money on inferior shows.” He also attacked competitors in his
program notes, and when he chronicled the glory of his curiosities
he frequently offered rewards for those who could honestly equal
them. In 1879 he promised $10,000 “to any person who can show that
the bare expenses of running my establishments during the last six
years has not averaged more than _the entire gross receipts_ of any
other show during the same time, which has ever traveled either in
this country or Europe, and in making this offer I promise every
facility for learning the facts.” Barnum was proud of his menagerie and
sure of its preëminence. He printed the following offer: “While most
exhibitions advertise more animals than they possess, and many which
the advertisers never saw, I hereby solemnly agree to forfeit and pay
$50,000.00 if the proprietors of any Menagerie now in the country can
show that they have incurred the same expense, and if an equal number
of rare wild animals was ever before seen in any traveling exhibition
in this country or in Europe, or anywhere on the face of the whole
earth. I am thoroughly in earnest in making this proposition, and
pledge my honor and my money for its due fulfilment.” This magnificent
menagerie included, “the only Two-Horned Rhinoceros ever exhibited
in America, which cost me $16,000.00”; a Black, Double-Humped Camel,
“as dark as Erebus,” and “by his side in strong contrast, another
Double-Humped Camel perfectly White.” Then there was “the remarkable
anomalous pachyderm from the interior of Africa, which even the savants
of Europe have not been able to classify. It has the head of the
hippopotamus, the tusk of the elephant, the hide of the rhinoceros,
the body of the lion, and the feet of a camel. It weighs nearly two
tons and has been named from its peculiar form and strange combination,
the ELEPHANTUS-HIPPO-PARADOXUS; as it paradoxically combines several
animals in one.” The zoölogical boast continued:

“To the perfecting of this grand Zoölogical Collection, I have made
Earth, Sea, and Air pay tribute, and my brave rangers, hunters,
and agents have traveled to the uttermost parts of the Earth to
complete it; braving the dangers of the jungle, the miasma of the
morass, the arid, burning plains, the snows of the Polar Circle,
the simooms of the desert, the ferocious cannibals of the African
forests, and ‘the pestilence that walketh by noon-day’ in the
dread lagoons and poisoned swamps of India. This superb and only
exhaustive Zoölogical Collection in the United States contains
more costly and rare specimens of natural reptiles, amphibia,
and wild denizens of every clime and country than have ever been
before presented to the public, and form a Vast Living School
of Instruction, where the student may spend hours in wondrous
contemplation, looking ‘from Nature up to Nature’s God.’”

The foregoing sounds as if Barnum had stepped out, and the circus
press agent had stepped in. But he took personal interest in all the
publicity of his huge show, and he undoubtedly approved all blurbs
which he did not write himself. These Barnum circus advertisements
have a grandiose intensity that is unsurpassed in the history of
advertising. There is a Walt Whitmanlike fervor in Barnum’s exhortation
to the public not to miss his free street parade:

“Come from your fields, your workshops, your offices, your stores
and homes! Gather your families--your friends--your neighbors, and
make a holiday for once! Secure an eligible position by 9 o’clock
in the morning, and see the gorgeous procession--then troop along
to the acres of snowy canvas, and devote the rest of the day
to seeing my Grand Museum, my School of Automatic Wonders, the
Tattooed Greek Nobleman, Giants and Dwarfs, my Gigantic Menagerie,
my Twenty Trained Imported Stallions, and my Magnificent Circus!
Then you can go home happy, having enjoyed yourselves innocently
and learned much that will afford you pleasure hereafter. Then for
a night’s refreshing sleep and a good day’s work to-morrow.”

But in spite of all the wonders of the Barnum show, as advertised,
Cooper & Bailey continued to prosper and enjoy some of the patronage
that Barnum thought was exclusively his. Barnum’s programs and advance
publicity began to question the honesty of other shows. One year this
verse was used:

“Others may issue paper lies,
But we show all we advertise.”

In another paragraph Barnum suggested that other showmen advertise
things that are not included in their shows, and dare not advertise
some of the things they have. The bitter rivalry between Barnum’s
show and the show now owned by Cooper, Bailey and Hutchinson, which
was called “Great London Circus, Sanger’s Royal British Menagerie,
and Grand International Allied Shows,” came to a crisis when a baby
elephant was born in the Bailey show, the first baby elephant ever born
in captivity. Barnum, realizing the value of this feature, telegraphed
Bailey an offer of $100,000 for the baby elephant. Bailey refused, and
as soon as his show reached Barnum’s territory, Bailey issued bill
posters and small handbills with a reproduction of Barnum’s telegram,
under the spreading caption, “What Barnum Thinks of the Baby Elephant.”
Barnum was anxious for peace, and he offered J. L. Hutchinson, one of
Bailey’s partners, a free partnership in his show if Hutchinson would
persuade Bailey to combine with Barnum. In 1880 Bailey reached an
agreement with Barnum, and the combined shows were organized under the
firm name of Barnum, Bailey & Hutchinson. Cooper was dead, Hutchinson
soon retired, and the firm became Barnum & Bailey, the Greatest Show on
Earth.

[Illustration: LETTER-HEAD OF BARNUM, BAILEY & HUTCHINSON

In all his enterprises Barnum used his envelopes and letter-heads to
advertise his face and his business.

_Westervelt Collection_
]

James Anthony Bailey was the perfect partner for P. T. Barnum, for they
were opposites in character, but never antagonists in their business
relations. Bailey was born to the name McGinnis in Detroit, Michigan,
on the Fourth of July, 1847. His father died of cholera during an
epidemic, and his mother died soon afterwards. He could not agree with
his brothers and sisters, and school teachers were always an annoyance.
He ran away from home and worked with a traveling show whose advance
agents were Frederick H. Bailey and Benjamin Stevens. Bailey gave
young McGinnis his first job, took care of him, and the boy, wishing
to forget his brothers and sisters and to avoid detection, took the
name of Bailey. In later years he never admitted to the name McGinnis,
and he once discharged a clown who boasted that he knew the boss well
and had played marbles with him when his name was McGinnis. During the
Civil War Bailey was a sutler’s clerk, and after the war he traveled
with several small shows. He finally became a partner in Cooper &
Bailey and traveled with his show throughout the United States,
Australia and South America.

The contrast between Barnum and Bailey extended even to their physical
characteristics: Barnum was more than six feet tall, robust, strong,
and corpulent after middle age; Bailey was short, thin, alert, and
nervous. Barnum’s disposition was placid, serene, and, after the period
of his bankruptcy and recovery, he could not bring himself to worry
for long about the circus or anything else; Bailey was always worried,
always anxious, and his twitching, electric energy made it impossible
for him to leave the circus grounds until the tents had been struck;
a rain storm, which usually frightened and aroused the elephants to
a state of panic, was a constant source of worry to him, and always
when the skies were clouded he asked every one he met whether he
thought it would rain. Barnum lived for publicity, Bailey hated it:
he objected even to the use of his photograph in the advertisements.
Barnum reveled in the title, “Prince of Humbugs”; Bailey hated every
form of humbug and used his energy as much as possible to make it
unnecessary by obtaining curiosities which people would recognize
readily as unique. This was more expensive than Barnum’s cunning, but
it paid larger returns eventually. Bailey was prodigal with money used
for increasing the size and magnificence of his show, and Barnum was
always complaining about the expense. Bailey was at the circus before
nine o’clock in the morning, and he usually locked up at night; Barnum
in his old age seldom visited the circus except to enjoy his notoriety
in the arena whenever it played in large cities. Bailey and Mrs. Bailey
traveled with the circus in a private railroad car, which was their
home for more than six months every year.

Barnum realized the value of his partner, and he never lost an
opportunity to praise him in the newspapers. “Bailey knows,” he told
a reporter. “Would you believe it, I’ve never been behind the curtain
of our present show [1890]. I don’t know a performer. That’s Bailey’s
business.” And upon another occasion he said: “I want you newspaper
fellows to let the public know how great a man my partner, Mr. Bailey,
is. I’ve never met his equal. He’s got brains--lots of them--and he
knows how to use them. He doesn’t copy any of us, old or young. He’s
original in his methods, and his resources are amazing. I ought to be
jealous of him, and I would be if he were not my partner. How I would
hate to have him for a rival! Don’t forget when you are scattering
around adjectives about this great spectacle to save a good one or two
for Mr. Bailey.” Even Barnum would have admitted that if there was one
asset as useful as the notoriety of P. T. Barnum in making Barnum &
Bailey the Greatest Show on Earth, it was the astute energy of James
Anthony Bailey.

There was one point on which Barnum and Bailey agreed in their general
principles, and that was the value to the circus of temperance. Barnum
advocated it on moral grounds, and Bailey believed in it for the sake
of efficiency. Every contract between Barnum & Bailey and each circus
performer or circus employee contained a clause prohibiting the use of
either malt or spirituous liquors during the period of time covered
by the contract.[23] Barnum knew that drink was a curse, and Bailey
believed that the occupation of a circus performer was too hazardous
without the additional risk of intoxicating influences.

Although Bailey’s achievements were great, the publicity value of
Barnum’s name is not to be underestimated, and Bailey always took it
into account; nor did Bailey object to the exaggeration in circus
advertisements, for he was too discerning not to realize the value of
imaginative words in the description of actual phenomena.

Barnum could always be depended upon, even in his old age, to create
a controversy or cause a laugh. In 1880 Henry Bergh, president of the
Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, who was one of the
constant annoyances of Barnum’s life, caused a controversy that settled
their antagonism forever and gave Barnum excellent publicity. The show
was then exhibiting at the Empire Rink, New York, and one of the main
attractions was Salamander, the Fire Horse, who walked through fire and
came out unscathed. Bergh protested against this cruelty to the horse.
Barnum challenged Bergh to meet him in the circus ring and to discuss
the subject before the public. Bergh did not appear, but he sent his
superintendent, Hartfield, with a squad of twenty policemen to prevent
the cruelty. Barnum entered the circus ring and addressed the audience.
He assured the public that Salamander’s performance had been witnessed
by Queen Victoria, Prince Bismarck and the Emperor of Germany. Then
Salamander was led into the ring by Prince Nagaard, his trainer.
The fire hoops were lighted, and Barnum ran his own hand through
the flaming circles. Ten clowns performed in the hoops of fire, and
then Salamander passed through without fear and was not even singed.
Superintendent Hartfield walked through the artificial fire himself
and was satisfied that it was harmless.

Before the demonstration Barnum told the audience that many years
before Bergh had insisted that the hippopotamus which Barnum was
exhibiting as the Great Behemoth at his Museum must be provided with
a swimming tank filled with water and was satisfied that this was
impossible only when Barnum pointed out that such a pleasure would kill
the beast, although it was necessary for the whales. Bergh objected
again when he heard that Barnum’s snakes were being fed with live toads
and lizards, although he was assured that they killed their prey before
eating it. Bergh’s letter of protest read:

“I am informed that several live animals were recently thrown
into the cage with your boa constrictor to be devoured! I assert,
without fear of contradiction, that any person who can commit an
atrocity such as the one I complain of is semi-barbarian in his
instincts. It may be urged that the reptiles will not eat dead
food. In reply to this I have only to say--then let them starve;
for it is contrary to the merciful providence of God that wrong
should be committed in order to accomplish a supposed right. But I
am satisfied that this assertion is false in theory and practice,
for no living creature will allow itself to perish of hunger
with food before it--be the aliment dead or alive. On the next
occurrence of this cruel exhibition this society will take legal
measures to punish the perpetrator of it.”

Barnum took measures to punish Bergh. He sent a copy of Bergh’s letter
to Professor Louis Agassiz at Harvard, who wrote in reply:

“I do not know any way to induce snakes to eat their food otherwise
than in their natural manner--that is alive. Your museum is
intended to show the public the animals as nearly as possible
in their natural state. The society of which you speak is, as I
understand, for the prevention of unnecessary cruelty to animals.
It is a most praiseworthy object, but I do not think the most
active members of the society would object to eating lobster salad
because the lobster was boiled alive, or refuse roasted oysters
because they were cooked alive, or raw oysters because they must be
swallowed alive. I am, dear sir, your obedient servant,

“L. AGASSIZ.”

Barnum sent Agassiz’ letter to Bergh and demanded an apology. Bergh
answered that he was convinced more than ever of the necessity for
laboring in the cause of righteousness, when such distinguished
savants were fighting on the other side. He added: “I scarcely know
which emotion is paramount in my mind, regret or astonishment, that so
eminent a philosopher should have cast the weight of his commanding
authority into the scale where cruelty points the index in its favor.”
Evidently Henry Bergh did not like oysters. Barnum gave all this
correspondence to the newspapers, and it created publicity for several
days.

It is interesting in this connection that, in spite of his long
association with animals, or perhaps because of it, there is no
indication in Barnum’s life of any personal love for them. So far as
we know, he did not keep dogs; he never mentions a cat, and he kept
fine horses for his carriage only because they made an excellent
impression on the streets. Animals were a part of his business. But he
had sufficient interest in their welfare to support societies for the
prevention of cruelty to animals. He was the head of such a society
in Bridgeport, and he contributed liberally to a similar society
patronized by Queen Victoria in England.[24] His controversy with
Henry Bergh did not impair his personal respect for the man and his
work, even when they interfered with Barnum’s own interests. In his
will Barnum gave the City of Bridgeport $1,000 “to be used for the
erection of a statue of Henry Bergh, the Distinguished Philanthropist
and founder of the Society for the protection of animals from abuse and
cruelty.” If the City of Bridgeport did not erect the statue, Barnum
provided that the $1,000 was to be donated to any city that would do so.

The greatest single acquisition of the Barnum & Bailey show during its
entire history, from the point of view of the international excitement
which it caused, and the probable financial returns as a result of
that excitement, was Jumbo, the largest elephant in captivity. For
many years Jumbo had been the favorite animal in the collection of the
Royal Zoölogical Gardens in Regent’s Park, London. In his youth Jumbo
was captured by the Hamran Arabs, who sold him to a Bavarian collector,
Johann Schmidt, and in 1861 Schmidt sold him to the Jardin des Plantes
of Paris. The Royal Zoölogical Society traded a rhinoceros for him at a
time when Jumbo showed no signs of becoming a giant; he was an African
elephant, and African elephants take longer to mature than their Indian
brothers.

Barnum had seen Jumbo many times in London after Jumbo had become a
famous giant elephant. Barnum coveted him, but it seemed hopeless
to think of obtaining him. However, an agent was instructed to ask
the Royal Zoölogical Society secretary how much he would take for
Jumbo, and the secretary, much to the surprise and delight of Barnum
and Bailey, replied that he would sell Jumbo for $10,000. The money
was sent immediately, and Jumbo was purchased in the name of P. T.
Barnum. After the sale was completed, it was announced in the London
newspapers. Immediately there was a furor of public indignation, and
Jumbo became the most important question of the day in England.
Hundreds of letters were written to the newspapers by fathers and
mothers whose children had been carried for many years on Jumbo’s back,
and the children themselves wrote sentimental notes, appropriately
misspelled, begging Mr. Barnum not to take from them their dear Jumbo.
The Queen and the Prince of Wales, who had often ridden on Jumbo’s
back, joined in protesting against this outrageous sale of a public
character; John Ruskin wrote indignantly that England had not been in
the habit of selling her pets. Queen Victoria, the Prince of Wales,
and John Ruskin begged the Zoölogical Society to refuse to deliver the
elephant to Barnum, and they promised that the British nation would be
responsible for any damages due to breach of contract. It was almost
as if Barnum had purchased an English institution, like Mr. Gladstone
or the Albert Memorial, and the volume of protest was greater than
it would probably have been had Barnum been successful many years
before in his attempt to carry off Shakespeare’s home. Lord Winchilsea
undoubtedly expressed the view of thousands of Englishmen in his verse
entitled “Jumbo”:

“But since in England’s fallen state
She owns two things supremely great,
Jumbo and Gladstone--(each we find
The most prodigious of their kind)--
And one won’t budge. Then, Barnum, make
A fair exchange, for quiet’s sake!
Take the Right Honorable, and go!
He’ll make the better raree show!
Leave Jumbo.”

Patriotic citizens were indignant with the Secretary of the Royal
Zoölogical Society. He wrote a statement to the press, in which he
claimed that for some time past Jumbo had been a source of constant
anxiety to the directors of the Zoo. “It is well known,” wrote the
secretary, “to all who have had much experience with such animals in
confinement that male elephants, when they arrive at the adult age,
are periodically liable to fits of uncertain temper.” Jumbo was eleven
feet tall and weighed seven tons. In a fit of anger it was likely that
he could cause considerable damage. “The possibility of having to
destroy the animal,” said the secretary, “would be repugnant to the
feelings of all who know and admire him, especially as there seems to
be no reason whatever to suppose that when once the removal is over
he may not be well cared for and live comfortably.” He pointed out
that Barnum & Bailey had more than twenty elephants living together
in the circus menagerie, and the fact that they lived in harmony and
happiness, said the secretary, was proved by the birth of two baby
elephants, “an occurrence hitherto unprecedented in captivity.” The
publication of the letter by Mr. Sclater, secretary of the Royal
Zoölogical Society, occasioned an answer, which was published in
_The Times_ on February 24, 1882, in which the correspondent asked
how often, if ever, it had been found necessary to confine Jumbo or
seclude him owing to his “alleged recently-developed bad temper.” It
was also asked if the Society had already determined to part with
Jumbo before Barnum’s offer of $10,000. The correspondent failed “to
see why the possession of 20 elephants enables the American firm to
make arrangements for their custody so superior to those of our own
Zoölogical Society for four or five animals, and I would ask whether it
is or is it not a fact that one of the animals at Regent’s Park is at
this time expecting that ‘unprecedented occurrence’--viz., an addition
to her family in captivity?” The correspondent also asked whether it
was, or was it not, a fact that this supposedly dangerous animal had
been allowed during the last few days to mix with little children.
“Assuming that the transfer of locality,” he concluded, “will not
affect his daily exhibition, is it quite fair and honorable to accept
so large a price for an animal that will presumably be at least as
dangerous, if not more so (for his removal may not improve his temper),
to the American, as he is said to be to the English children?”

The public was so eager to look at this animal they were about to lose
forever that the Royal Zoölogical Gardens were crowded daily, and
$50,000 were added to its receipts by the farewell receptions of Jumbo.
Jumbo had a passion for buns, and so many were fed to him by his new
ardent admirers that it was feared he would be killed with kindness
before he could be transported. After Jumbo became a national question,
the popular enthusiasm took a form it seems to take often with its
greatest favorites. There were Jumbo cigars, Jumbo letter-heads, Jumbo
ear rings, fans, hats, and cravats, Jumbo underclothing and Jumbo
overcoats, Jumbo boots and Jumbo perfumes. On the menus of London
hotels were Jumbo soups and hash, Jumbo fritters and stews, Jumbo
salads and pies, Jumbo ice-cream and Jumbo kisses.

The editor of the _London Daily Telegraph_ sent the following cable
despatch to Barnum:

“LONDON, February 22, 1882.

“P. T. BARNUM, New York:

“Editor’s compliments. All British children distressed at
elephant’s departure. Hundreds of correspondents beg us to inquire
on what terms you will kindly return Jumbo. Answer prepaid,
unlimited.

LESARGE, _Daily Telegraph_.”

But Barnum was firm. He answered prepaid, and took advantage of the
word unlimited to advertise the Greatest Show on Earth:

“NEW YORK, February 23.

“My compliments to Editor _Daily Telegraph_ and British nation.
Fifty millions of American citizens anxiously awaiting Jumbo’s
arrival. My forty years’ invariable practice of exhibiting best
that money could procure makes Jumbo’s presence here imperative.
Hundred thousand pounds would be no inducement to cancel purchase.
My largest tent seats thirty thousand persons, and is filled
twice each day. It contains four rings, in three of which three
full circus companies give different performances simultaneously.
In the large outer ring, or racing track, the Roman Hippodrome
is exhibited. In two other immense connecting tents my colossal
zoölogical collection and museum are shown.

“In December next I visit Australia in person, with Jumbo and my
entire mammoth combination of seven shows, via California, thence
through Suez Canal. Following summer to London. I shall then
exhibit in every prominent city in Great Britain. May afterwards
return Jumbo to his old position in Royal Zoölogical Gardens.
Wishing long life and prosperity to the British nation, _The Daily
Telegraph_, and Jumbo, I am the public’s obedient servant,

“P. T. BARNUM.”

This reply was published in full in the _Daily Telegraph_, and it
looked to Jumbo’s many new admirers as if there was no longer any
possibility of saving Jumbo for England. And the enthusiasm for Jumbo
increased every day. Four thousand six hundred and twenty-six curious
and sorrowing persons on a certain Wednesday in March, 1882, visited
Jumbo, as against 214 for the corresponding Wednesday of the previous
year. London _Fun_ suggested that the British coat of arms should be
altered by the removal of the lion and the substitution of Jumbo, the
motto reading, “Dieu et Mon Jumbo.” James Russell Lowell, American
ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, remarked in a public speech
that “the only burning question between the two nations is Jumbo.”

But the English did not give up hope of retaining their favorite. Some
of the fellows of the Royal Zoölogical Society brought an action in
chancery for an injunction against the removal of Jumbo. The fellows
contended that the council of the Society had no power under its
charter to sell any animal, and they declared it as their opinion that
“it must be morally wrong for the Council to sell a dangerous animal,
and as a consequence whenever an animal cannot be safely retained
in the gardens it ought to be killed.” “The Society is felt to be
established for the promotion of science, and not for the purposes of
trade,” wrote one of the fellows to the _Times_. This suit in chancery
caused considerable comment in the _Times_. Sir George Bowyer, Fellow
of the Royal Zoölogical Society, wrote that the British Museum had the
power to dispose of duplicates and useless books, but if its trustees
were to sell the Codex Alexandrinus, or some similar rare volume, a
court would intervene. The Society, in the sale of Jumbo, said Sir
George, had disposed of its most valuable and rarest item. There was
only one elephant in the world known to be larger, and he belonged to a
maharajah of India. Sir George refused to believe that the animal was
in the dangerous state of “must,” a term used to designate elephants
with tempers, and refused to admit that if he was he should be removed.
This letter brought one from Major-General William Agnew, who said
that his thirty-four years’ experience in Assam, “where elephants
abound,” qualified him to say that an elephant in a state of “must” was
an elephant to be removed from public gardens. “Among the elephants
I myself owned at different times when magistrate of Goalpara was a
male which became ‘must,’ and after attacking and almost killing its
keeper broke from its stable, and for four days defied all my efforts
for its recapture, which was only effected by the help of a party of
elephant hunters who happened to pass through the station at the time
in question.... I should like to be allowed to say one word more, which
is that it behoves those in authority to see to the safety of Jumbo’s
fellow-travelers on his voyage to America--at least, if he is to be
a passenger in an emigrant ship. For my own part I should be very
sorry indeed to travel with him.” The question was asked in the House
of Commons if the Board of Trade had taken any measures to safeguard
Jumbo’s fellow passengers.

Jumbo’s case then came up before Mr. Justice Chitty in the Court of
Chancery. The _Times_ for March 9, 1882, published a leading article
on the decision. “The case was one into which sentiment and prejudice
have entered so far that the verdict of a jury,” said the _Times_, “if
to a jury we can imagine it submitted, would not have been doubtful.
It needed an impartial Judge to separate the question of propriety and
advisability from the question of legal right.” Mr. Justice Chitty gave
it as his opinion that the Royal Zoölogical Society had the right
under its charter to sell animals without consulting all its fellows.
The fellows had contended that this right was a delegated power, which
was exercised legitimately when a gnu was sold for £150 or a pair of
tigers for £400, but that Jumbo was unique and irreplaceable. Mr.
Justice Chitty said that Jumbo’s mere size did not exempt him from the
power of sale possessed by the Council. A report was read from the
superintendent of the Zoo, written to the Council more than one year
before the sale, in which he called attention to Jumbo’s temperamental
state of mind and asked that he be provided with means for the animal’s
destruction, should he become dangerous. The dissenting fellows urged
the immorality of selling a dangerous animal to the American people,
and the _Times_ wrote in its leader: “Regard for the safety of Mr.
Barnum’s keepers and of the American public does not seem to have
entered into the Council’s deliberations. A celebrated Latin poem
ends with a prayer that Cybele will drive others frantic, but not
the speaker himself. The Council of the Zoölogical Society will tell
Jumbo in effect to crush and trample upon Americans if he will, but
not upon us. This is a somewhat startling application of the principle
of _caveat emptor_.” Mr. Justice Chitty replied to this argument that
the Council of the Royal Zoölogical Society was not the guardian of
the American people. Mr. Justice Chitty finally decided that the sale
was valid, and that Jumbo was Barnum’s rightful purchase. At the last
hearing Mr. Justice Chitty said that he had received a number of
letters with respect to the case. Of course, they had not the slightest
effect upon his mind, he said, but still it was extremely improper that
they should have been sent. Some of the letters were from children. The
_Times_ did not approve of the Jumbo excitement. Its editorial ended:

“People who have no suspicion that the friendly relations between
Russia and Germany have been endangered by Skobeleff’s speeches,
who have a vague idea of the Irish as a tiresome people, who
are far from comprehending the issues raised by the appointment
of the Lord’s Committee, and who confess that they have not
followed the discussions upon Parliamentary procedure, have taken
a keen interest in Jumbo’s destiny. Others have let fall the
thread of public events while they gaped open-mouthed at Jumbo
reconnoitering his trolley. It is well enough that children should
crowd in thousands to the Zoölogical Gardens, and, as a parting
act of kindness, or cruelty, stuff the hero of the hour with buns
innumerable. But it speaks volumes for the fundamental levity of
adult nature that men have, for the last fortnight, given the
first and foremost place in those of their thoughts which did not
regard themselves, not to kingdoms and their destinies, but to
Jumbo. It is too much to hope that we have heard the last of this
famous elephant; but perhaps Jumbo’s future will not monopolize
conversation after Mr. Justice Chitty’s decision of yesterday.”

It was too much to hope that the _Times_ had heard the last of Jumbo;
when the public realized that his departure was inevitable, a wave of
sentimental expression swept over England that surpassed anything that
had gone before. Besides the accounts in newspapers, the illustrated
papers published engravings of Jumbo in various attitudes. Picture
books were published, and one of these contained the following verses
about Jumbo and the female elephant, Alice, who was known as his wife:

“When quite a baby I came here, and now to London folk I’m dear,
They’ll try to keep me yet, I know, from Barnum and his traveling
show.
I have no tusks, for one fine day I had some very merry play,
And ran against a door of oak, and that was how my tusks were
broke.
It grieves me sadly to be sold for just two thousand pounds in
gold,
And could I talk I’d quickly say, ‘I’m treated in a shameful way.’
They chained me up one day, to be shipped across the raging sea,
But I, your faithful friend Jumbo, did not just feel inclined to
go.
Again they tried the nasty chain, but all the efforts were in vain,
For with a very angry frown upon the ground I laid me down.

“I love each little girl and boy who mounts my back for fun and joy,
And hope they’ll leave me here for life with Alice, my dear little
wife.
I love the brave old British flag, of it, my boys, I’ll always
brag,
And you must clearly understand, I do not care for Yankee land.
Leave me with Alice kind and true, leave us together in the Zoo,
And let our friend Squire Barnum know, I can’t go with him in his
show.”[25]

Jumbo himself took an active part in the controversy by lying down in
the Royal Zoölogical Gardens and refusing to go near the large case
constructed for his removal. His admirers were delighted and praised
his intelligence as much as they had previously marveled at his size.
Barnum’s agent cabled to him: “Jumbo is lying in the Garden and will
not stir. What shall we do?” Barnum replied: “Let him lie there as long
as he wants to. The publicity is worth it.” It was said that Barnum’s
agents stimulated the sentiment for Jumbo in England; they may have
started the sentimental ball rolling, but once it started it required
no further attention. The ordinary elephant is afraid of a horse, and
Jumbo, who had not been outside the Gardens for seventeen years, sat
down as soon as he saw a horse. The superintendent of the Society for
the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, who was in attendance to see that
Jumbo was not injured or maltreated, refused to allow the use of a
goad. The superintendent of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Children was also present to see justice done to the favorite of his
charges.

Another difficulty Barnum’s agents experienced was with Jumbo’s size;
there were few steamers with hatchways large enough to drop a huge
elephant down into the hold. Finally, the _Assyrian Monarch_, a British
freight steamer, was chosen. Then the huge box was built, and Jumbo was
led into it several times in order to accustom him to his new quarters.
Finally, when he suspected nothing, he was shut up in the crate and
chained. For an hour he struggled against confinement, and it was
feared he would smash his cage, but the box was placed on wheels, and
ten horses were hitched to the shafts. During the early hours of the
morning Jumbo was led triumphantly to the docks. In spite of the time a
large crowd followed Jumbo on his nine mile trip to the pier. At seven
o’clock he breakfasted and was treated to a large draught of beer by
a lady admirer who had followed him all the way from the Zoölogical
Gardens--Jumbo’s keeper, Matthew Scott, who had been his keeper since
the animal’s childhood, had shared with him everything, including
whisky, beer and cuds of tobacco. At the dock thousands of people
gathered in windows, on roofs, and in boats to bid Jumbo farewell.
He was placed on a lighter ballasted with sixteen tons of iron, and
floated down the Thames to the _Assyrian Monarch_.

A select party sat down to luncheon on board the _Assyrian Monarch_
to bid farewell to Jumbo. William Newman, his American keeper, was
presented with a gold medal by a few fellows of the Royal Zoölogical
Society “to commemorate their appreciation of the coolness and skill of
William Newman.” Mr. Patton, a member of the steamship company which
owned the _Assyrian Monarch_, proposed the toast, “The United States,”
to which General Merritt, the American Consul-general at London,
replied. General Merritt expressed his belief that the possession of
common objects of interest and sympathy tended to unite America and
England in friendship and mutual understanding. He regretted that the
great elephant was not conveyed in an American ship, but expressed the
hope that America would soon have a mercantile marine of her own. The
Consul-general then spoke of the large numbers of the subjects of the
Queen who had left England for America in recent years.

As the boat dropped down to Gravesend, Jumbo received royal honors, the
crews of the training ships mounting the yards as he went by. Baroness
Burdett-Coutts, friend and correspondent of Dickens, admirer of Louis
Napoleon, and collector of Shakespeare folios, took as much interest
in Jumbo as she did in her other hobbies. She traveled by train to
Gravesend on the day of Jumbo’s final departure, and she took with
her a party of Lords and their Ladies. The Baroness had sent ahead
a large box of buns for the use of Jumbo during his passage. Before
the _Assyrian Monarch_ left she gave Jumbo his last bun and bid him
good-by, expressing the opinion that he would find as many warm friends
in America as he had found in England. She shook hands with Newman and
Scott, and the boat departed. A code of signals was arranged by which
news of Jumbo was signaled for more than twenty-four hours after the
_Assyrian Monarch_ passed Dover, and accounts of his health were sent
from The Lizard, the last point on British soil. The ship also carried
elastic bags, into which communications concerning Jumbo were placed
and dropped overboard for the information of the British public.[26]

Jumbo arrived in New York harbor on Sunday morning, April 9, 1882.
Barnum, Bailey, and Hutchinson went down to the ship. The _Tribune_
said that “Mr. Barnum’s nose shone in the morning light, and his eyes
sparkled with boyish eagerness,” as he “clambered nimbly on board
the _Assyrian Monarch_.” “‘Bless my soul!’ he exclaimed. As nobody
complied, he continued, ‘Where’s Jumbo? I didn’t know he was here until
I read of his arrival in the papers this morning.’” When at last he
found himself in front of Jumbo, Barnum was almost moved to tears.
“Dear old Jumbo,” said the showman, who was then seventy-one years old,
“that beast has cost me $50,000,” he added thoughtfully. Mr. Hutchinson
was seized with a fit of coughing, according to the _Tribune_ reporter,
and said that Barnum’s figures were a trifle high, that the actual
cost of Jumbo and his transportation was nearer $30,000. Barnum became
sentimental and reminiscent. He remarked that he had ridden on Jumbo’s
back with General Tom Thumb. “Thirty years ago,” Barnum addressed the
reporters in his squeaky, aged voice, “I brought the biggest thing
New York had ever seen up the bay in the shape of Jenny Lind, and she
cleared $700,000 in nine months.” Then he looked hopefully at Jumbo
and stroked him tenderly. He asked that Jumbo’s dimensions be given to
the press. “How high does he reach up with his trunk?” Barnum asked.
“It’s forty-nine feet, isn’t it?” and he stared suggestively at one
of the keepers. But the keeper did not take the hint. “Twenty-six
feet,” he answered. Barnum remarked, “If I were a showman, I would
have exaggerated it, but there’s nothing like the truth!” “They took
in $2,000 a day after he was sold to me,” Barnum said, “but I let them
keep it; I didn’t want any trouble.” A bottle of whisky was brought
forth for Jumbo. Barnum shouted, “I object to my elephant drinking
whisky,” but in spite of his protests the entire quart of whisky was
poured down Jumbo’s throat, and the animal did not even blink an
eyelash. The whisky was followed immediately by a quart of ale, Barnum
protesting vigorously, but nobody paying any attention to his wishes.
“Look at the evils of intemperance,” he said. “Why, Jumbo would have
been twice as large if Scott hadn’t stunted him by giving him a bucket
of beer every day.”

Barnum had an order from the Secretary of the Treasury, admitting Jumbo
free of duty, on the declaration that he was an animal imported for
breeding purposes. When he first bid for Jumbo, Barnum intended to use
him mainly for breeding purposes, but after England sentimentalized
about the elephant, he was worth more as a curiosity. Jumbo was led up
Broadway to Madison Square Garden, where the circus was then playing.
At first he was frightened by the band music, the crowds, and the
horses, but he soon grew accustomed to his new surroundings. Barnum
told a reporter that in six weeks Jumbo had attracted $336,000 to the
circus.

[Illustration: “THE TOWERING MONARCH OF HIS MIGHTY RACE,” IN NEW YORK

_From a circus pamphlet_]

Before Barnum had purchased Jumbo, the elephant was known only to the
population of London; after the controversy he was known throughout
the British Isles. It was Bailey’s intention, therefore, to take the
Greatest Show on Earth to England with Jumbo and give the entire
population of the British Isles an opportunity to see the animal.
For several years Jumbo was with the Barnum & Bailey show in this
country, while preparations were being made for the extensive foreign
tour. Exhibited with him was a baby elephant, called “Tom Thumb.” On
September 15, 1885, in Ontario, Canada, Jumbo was struck by a freight
train and pinned between it and a train of show cars. The freight train
was derailed and the engine broken. Jumbo’s skull was fractured, and he
suffered internal injuries. He died a few moments later. It was said by
the circus publicity men that Jumbo died in a heroic attempt to rescue
his favorite, the baby elephant, “Tom Thumb.”

[Illustration: BARNUM PORTRAYS JUMBO IN A HEROIC MOOD

_From a circus pamphlet_]

Jumbo’s death was cabled all over the world, and English newspapers
and public mourned his loss. Soon after Jumbo’s death Barnum & Bailey
succeeded in buying Alice from the Royal Zoölogical Gardens. She was
brought to this country and advertised extensively as “Jumbo’s Widow.”
Jumbo’s skeleton was articulated and his skin stuffed. He was thus
exhibited at the show by the side of his widow, and the specimens were
finally given by Barnum to Tufts College, of which he was one of the
founders. That college still uses the head of Jumbo as its emblem.
Three days after Jumbo died, Barnum wrote to Harper Brothers, the
publishers:

“WALDEMERE, BRIDGEPORT, CONN., Sept. 18th, 1885.

PRIVATE

“GENTLEMEN

“Millions of children and adults (myself included) are mourning the
death of _Jumbo_.

“Would you like to publish for the holidays--the life history and
death of Jumbo, with many incidents and anecdotes not heretofore
published By P. T. Barnum Profusely Illustrated? The title can of
course be changed from the above. Probably numerous cuts now extant
can be used. If properly written up, would it not be an interesting
Christmas Childrens book--perhaps on _both_ sides of the Atlantic?
Truly yours,

P. T. BARNUM.

“Messrs. Harper Brothers & Co.”

There is this reply penciled on the letter, apparently a memorandum
from a member of the Harper firm: “If Mr. Barnum would employ some one,
accustomed to writing for publication, to prepare the book (retaining
Mr. B.’s name on title-page) we think it might be a successful venture
and would like to consider the Ms.”[27] This to the author of the _Life
of P. T. Barnum Written by Himself_ and _The Humbugs of the World_!
Barnum could not receive such a suggestion with equanimity.

But in his last years Barnum did allow several juvenile books of
adventure to be written by the circus press agent and published under
his name. Among these are _Lion Jack: A Story of Perilous Adventures
Among Wild Men and the Capturing of Wild Beasts; Showing How Menageries
are Made. By P. T. Barnum_; _Dick Broadhead, A Tale of Perilous
Adventures by P. T. Barnum, author of “Lion Jack,” “Jack in the
Jungle,” “Struggles and Triumphs of P. T. Barnum,”_ etc. The circus
press agent also wrote for Barnum his book called _The Wild Beasts,
Birds, and Reptiles of the World: the Story of Their Capture. By P. T.
Barnum._ These books are written in the familiar style of all juvenile
adventure stories. On page 167 of _Lion Jack_ occurs this sentence:
“‘Up the river, now, and keep a sharp look-out for the hippopotami,’
said the doctor.” The hero, Jack, is a circus-rider, who has all the
virtues of ambitious boyhood and not a vice, a veritable Horatio
Alger, Jr., hero. Barnum himself is introduced by the press agent as
a character in his own story, and he is called “the good-natured,
benevolent-looking, middle-aged gentleman,” designated as “the owner”
of the show, who lived in “a pleasant city on the coast of Long Island
Sound.”

While Jumbo was still a popular favorite, Barnum & Bailey indulged in
another adventure in elephants that created national interest. Two
agents of the Greatest Show on Earth were traveling in the East in
search of human types for the great “Ethnological Congress of Strange
Savage Tribes,” which was the leading feature of the show one year. The
agents, Thomas H. Davis and J. B. Gaylord, visited Burmah. Here they
learned of the extravagance of King Theebaw, who found it difficult to
keep his expenditures within the limits of his enormous revenues. Davis
made a substantial present to the chief priest of the King’s chapel,
in order to obtain confidence at court, and this gift was appreciated
by the King’s favorite wife, who worshiped regularly at the chapel,
which, without the aid of American money, would have fallen into a
state of irreverent decay. Davis spent much time in the company of the
chief priest, who was anxious to return the favor of the American gift.
Davis’s only request was a sight of the Sacred White Elephants, which
were famous throughout the world for their rarity.

The chief priest admitted Davis to the royal stables; he decided
that Barnum & Bailey must have a Sacred White Elephant. Since it was
considered an act of the worst religious profanation for one of the
Sacred White Elephants to leave Burmah or Siam, it was necessary for
Davis to act with care and patience. He made a friend of the prime
minister of Burmah, whose double task was to keep the King always
supplied with money and to restrain the nation from rebellion. The
tasks were daily growing more incompatible, and Davis hinted that he
knew a way by which the King’s treasury would be richer by $50,000.
The prime minister was anxious for the details, but Davis allowed
several weeks of economic worry to pass, in order that the prime
minister might become frantically interested. Meanwhile, he met King
Theebaw several times in audiences, and the King was delighted with
Davis’s American vivacity. Davis learned about the court that the prime
minister was beginning to abandon the interests of the King, who was
headed for ruin, and was thinking of his own pocket, and one day Davis
bluntly offered the prime minister $75,000 for one of the Sacred White
Elephants. The prime minister answered that he valued his life at more
than $75,000, and Davis changed the subject for several weeks. Finally
the prime minister was persuaded that a Sacred White Elephant could be
smuggled out of Burmah without any hint of his part in the transaction.

Davis and Gaylord chartered a wheel steamer at Rangoon and hired
fifteen Mohammedans as their crew, for Mohammedans laugh at the
sanctity of the White Elephant. The distance from the royal stables
to the wharf was three-quarters of a mile. A docile white elephant
was chosen, and he was painted red and blue to disguise him. The real
Sacred White Elephant is not white, but a pinkish gray, differing only
slightly in color from the ordinary elephant, and often distinguishable
only by a few pink spots. The Sacred White Elephant was covered with
trappings and embroidered cloths. When night came, the animal, whose
name was Toung Taloung, was led through the streets to the wheel
steamer. It was then a comparatively simple and safe matter to get him
to Liverpool, and thence to New York.

While the Sacred White Elephant was en route to New York, Barnum, his
partners, and his press agents made preparations for his enthusiastic
reception. A prize of $500 was offered for the best poem commemorating
the arrival in this country of the first Sacred White Elephant to be
seen by profane eyes. This was the method of publicity Barnum had found
so efficacious in the matter of Jenny Lind. The $500 were finally
divided among three of the competitors, and one of the successful poets
was Joaquin Miller, the poet of the Sierras, who apparently needed $500
in a hurry. His contribution read:

THE SACRED WHITE ELEPHANT--TOUNG TALOUNG

By JOAQUIN MILLER

For fifty years good Barnum bought
God’s wondrous creatures every one;
And last, impossible! he sought
To buy the “sun spots” of the sun--
The Sacred Elephant! as soon
Could silver buy the silver moon.

’Twas daring much to gain the prize
Where kings had failed, and more than bold,
And doubtful Europe rubbed her eyes
To see him scatter heaps of gold!
But Barnum gold, and Barnum grit,
And Barnum wit accomplished it.

Salaam! And welcome from Siam,
O sun-crowned of the Orient!
The people cry, from pine to palm,
Thrice welcome to the Occident!
Cry, mottled Monarch of Siam--
Salaam! Salaam! Salaam! Salaam!

They see the storied East in thee,
See vast processions, kneeling priests,
Proud tents beneath the banyan-tree,
Swift chariot wheels, great kingly beasts--
Triumphant Alexanders drawn!
Against the golden door of dawn;

But see! thy temples wrapt in mold,
For all their glorious, ancient years!
Thy people prone, thy priests in gold--
A land of tyranny and tears.
And this the lesson, royal beast,
God recks not pagod: beast or priest.

We both have much to learn, no doubt,
Beneath the bright path of the sun
Where all the nights are blotted out,
And all thy days are blent as one,
You little dreamed the world was best
And wisest as you rounded west.

But welcome to the Christian’s West,
From land of dreams to land of deed.
You teach us much. Yet it were best
You pack this in your trunk to read
To tyrants on returning East:
_We worship neither man nor beast_.

Another contribution, which did not win a prize, but which delighted
Barnum by its “originality and naïveté,” is worth reprinting:

THE WHITE ELEPHANT

By HELEN CONWAY

Columbia sat in most royal state,
Beside the Atlantic’s open gate.
Columbia fair! Columbia great!

But wealth and power hold secret stings;
Tho’ proud of her state and envied by kings
She humanly longed for impossible things.

Lovers a many had fair Miss C.,
But none so dauntless as Pee Tee Bee,
Who brought many treasures from land and sea.

She summoned him near and she said with a sigh:
“Is it true there’s a token which gold may not buy--
And has love no device with which to reply?

“Since Helen eloped with the son of Priam
Never was woman unhappy as I am.
Unless you can bring from the far land of Siam.

“The ‘Rose of the East,’ an elephant white,
Great ‘Toung Taloung,’ so rare a sight!
Oh! deny me not, mine own true knight.

“To this sacred beast they bow the knee
With as great devotion, far over the sea,
As we worship the dollars in our country.”

“Oh, bethink yourself,” cried brave Pee Tee Bee,
Of the elephants _now_ on your hands, Miss C.
Pray, have you forgotten the ‘heathen Chinee’?

“And Patrick and Norah will stay a long while,
They have come with their _trunk_ from the Emerald Isle.
And Indians and Mormons your leisure beguile.”

But Columbia bowed her beautiful head:
“These bring me but sorrow,” she mournfully said;
“Now, listen to me: tho’ I never may wed,

“I will give to that knight my most radiant smile,
Who captures this treasure through danger and trial,
And children and poor men will bless him the while.”

Then up rose the knight without a regret--
“’Tis the hardest task she has given me yet,
But I vow she shall have this rare white pet.”

What magic he used--the means or the way--
A mysterious problem remaineth to-day;
But the elephant came without any delay.

And Columbia smiled on Pee Tee Bee,
As she had not smiled since she took tea
In Boston Harbor with one J. B.

When Toung Taloung arrived in New York in March, 1884, Barnum and
the patrons of his show were astonished that he was not a milk
white in color. He looked very much like any elephant, and the only
distinguishing marks of his sacred value were several leprous-like
pink spots in various places about the ears. Barnum and his partners
made the best of the situation, and insisted in their advertising that
the Sacred White Elephant was not supposed to be white. They obtained
excellent testimonials to the genuineness of their article. General
Daniel B. Sickles, one time Minister of the United States to Siam,
was a member of the welcome party to Toung Taloung, and he pronounced
the elephant to be the best specimen of Sacred White Elephant he had
ever seen. Similar endorsements were also obtained from Colonel Thomas
W. Knox, the only American to whom the King of Siam had presented
the Order of the White Elephant, and from Mr. David Ker, Siamese
correspondent of the _New York Times_.

Accompanying the Sacred White Elephant were two alleged Burmese, Bo
Tchoo and Ba Tchoo, but their names sound somewhat like publicity
Burmese. The following certificate was printed in all the newspapers
and exhibited with the Sacred White Elephant:

“In the year 1245, month of Tasoung Mong, 5th increase at Mandalay.
I, Moung Thee, Second Minister of Royal Elephants, do hereby
certify that the Elephant named ‘Toung Tylongu’ is the specie of
White (Sacred) Elephant, and possesses the qualities and attributes
of such. By Order of

“HPOUNG-DAW-GYEE HPAYAH
“(King and Lord of all White Elephants)
“(Signed) MOUNG THEE
“Second Minister of Royal Elephants.

“W. MALING, Translator.”

Some have said that this Sacred White Elephant of Barnum’s was a
sand-papered and scrubbed elephant of ordinary profane habits, who
was painted. But it is more probable that Barnum was fooled by his
conception of a Sacred White Elephant as really white, and that his
agents thought that a genuine Sacred White Elephant would have enough
publicity value, even if the color was not up to expectations. The
elephant did have great publicity value, but as a curiosity he did
not last long. Most people who visited the Barnum & Bailey circus
were disappointed when they did not see a cream-white elephant, and
Toung Taloung was subsequently returned to the circus winter quarters
at Bridgeport, where he perished in the fire that destroyed those
buildings in 1887.

The Adam Forepaugh circus, one of the strongest rivals of Barnum &
Bailey, determined to have a Sacred White Elephant that would really
be white, but Adam Forepaugh did not trouble to send to Burmah or Siam
for his specimen. The elephant trainers prepared a white elephant by
the sacred use of sufficient paint, and with careful applications every
other day of a preparation that would not too easily wear off, a White
Elephant of Siam, but truly white, was with Adam Forepaugh’s show. Just
at this time the Prince of Siam was traveling in the United States, and
after much trouble he and his suite were persuaded to visit Forepaugh’s
circus and pass upon the elephant. There were no interpreters present.
When the Prince entered, Adam Forepaugh is said to have rushed up to
him, slapped him on the back cordially and vigorously, and said in
American: “There now, Prince, ain’t that the kind of elephants you
have in your country?” The Prince was too astonished, and his suite
too shocked, to deny anything, and they left the circus hurriedly.
Adam Forepaugh took this as a sign of unqualified approval, and he
advertised accordingly.

The Barnum & Bailey show continued to increase in size each year, and
also to increase its receipts. Efforts were continued to supply more
startling novelties and larger performances. “Jo-Jo, the Dog-Faced
Russian Boy,” or “The Great Ethnological Congress of Strange Savage
Tribes,” were supplemented by other attractions each year. The
newspaper reviews of the progress of the circus through the country are
the panegyrics to a victorious army of entertainment. Every town of any
size throughout the East, South, and Middle West of the United States
soon had its “Barnum Day,” heralded weeks in advance by large bills
showing the satisfied smile of the veteran showman.

[Illustration: THE CAPTURE OF JO-JO, THE DOG-FACED BOY, IN SIBERIA BY
ONE OF BARNUM’S AGENTS

_From a circus bulletin_]

During one of the annual tours of the circus the press agent, one M. H.
Warner, kept a diary of events that gives the best possible impression
of the magnitude, crudity and diversity of the enterprise:

April 1 (in Madison Square Garden)--Instantaneous hit of the
Sylvesters and the Julians. Their first season with a circus. Mr.
P. T. Barnum receives an ovation.

April 2--Death of Lottie Stirk, of the Stirk family of Bicyclists.
Little Lottie was only eleven years of age at the time of her
suddenly taking off. She was a bright, pretty, fearless child and
her loss was a sad blow to the members of the Company, who had
christened her “The Pet of the Show.”

April 5--Henry Cooper, the giant, received the joyful tidings that
his wife had presented him with a seventeen pound boy.

April 14--Thousands turned away in the evening. Mr. P. T. Barnum
gives up his private box to a party of pleasure seekers.

April 26--Philadelphia--At the first performance of the Sylvesters,
Lola, one of the trio of mid-air performers, dislocated her
shoulder, and their thrilling trapeze act was taken from the bill.

Mr. Barnum refused an offer of $500 a performance, stating that the
Barnum show was strong enough without his presence.

Principal among the casualties in the ring during the week was a
severe tumble received by Mrs. Adam Forepaugh in the hippodrome
race, and an accident to the Decomas, who fell in their mid-air
bicycle act.

On Saturday, May 1, the menagerie was augmented by birth of a baby
dromedary.

Monday, May 3, Carlyle, Pa.--“Best street parade ever given,”
was the comment on all sides. Indians from the reservation and
the pupils of two female seminaries visit the show. The Gilfort
brothers capture the audience.

Wednesday, May 5, Hagerstown, Md.--Schools suspend and courts
adjourn on account of the show.

Thursday, May 6, Frederick, Md.--Splendid business. Detective
Cooper arrests a professional thief and monte man, and is
complimented by the local press. Trouble in the tiger cage comes
near causing Bockburn to lose his life. His bravery and presence of
mind comes to his rescue.

Monday, May 10, Washington, D. C.--Chinese Legation and Ministers
of foreign lands visit the performance in their native costumes.
Mr. P. T. Barnum is offered a place on the Exposition Grounds to
found the Barnum National Museum and Menagerie.

Tuesday, May 25, Cincinnati, Ohio--William Beecher called to his
home in Philadelphia by a telegram announcing the dangerous illness
of his mother.

Frank Morgan has his leg broken accidentally while skylarking with
some friends.

Saturday, May 29, Louisville, Ky.--Weather warm. Big business.
Capt. Cook Smith, the Kentucky giant, presented with a gold-headed
cane by the chief of police, John Whalan. [Dimensions of the cane
are not stated in the diary.]

Saturday, June 5, Evansville, Ky.--Weather warm. Magnificent
attendance. Robert Eddy, an attaché in the cook department,
accidentally killed by falling between the cars. His mangled
remains were sent to his former home in Chicago.

Monday, June 7, Vincennes, Ind.--The boys distinguished themselves
by assisting to extinguish a burning grist mill located near the
lot. They are thanked by the owner of the building.

Saturday, June 12, Dayton, Ohio.--Mr. Hyatt orders in the “red
seats” again and they are filled with well-pleased thousands.
Weather propitious. James E. Fay leaves to attend his grandmother’s
funeral. A 100-yard foot race between Joe Mayers and W. Spedden for
$5 a side is won by the latter.

Monday, June 14, Columbus, Ohio--Charles Rench, one of the
Stirk family, is surprised at the evening entertainment. He is
called before the vast audience and presented with a magnificent
gold-headed cane by his Columbus friends. Mr. Henshaw eloquently
made the presentation speech. George Sherer is injured while
unloading, his knee being thrown out of joint. The kind-hearted
drivers come to his rescue.

Saturday, June 19, Steubenville, Ohio--Good business to clear
weather. Dick Sands, the champion clog dancer, receives a slight
paralytic stroke and is carefully attended to by the ladies of the
dressing-room. Detective Cooper captures four notorious pickpockets.

Friday, June 25, Youngstown, Ohio--Rain in the afternoon and an
“adventure” with roughs in the evening prove that our canvasmen are
not afraid to “work.”

Monday, June 28, Mansfield, Ohio--Subscriptions amounting to $125
raised by canvasmen for a youth who was injured in the Youngstown
“adventure.” Reported death of a man alleged to have been in
the same. Subsequent investigations by coroner and detectives
exonerate our boys from all blame. Detective Cooper adds five more
crooks to his long list of “circus followers.”

Friday, July 2, Defiance, Ohio--Clever business. Weather clear.
Whitfield stricken with paralysis after the evening concert, and
carried to his birth in car 51.

Saturday, July 3, Toledo, Ohio--Whitfield’s condition pronounced
dangerous, his entire left side being helpless. He is visited
by all the company at the Oliver House, and attended by expert
physicians.

The Arabs celebrate a national feast after a fast of thirty days.
Sheriff, the priest of the tribe, officiates, and Ali Mohamed,
the interpreter, acts as host. Among the number of distinguished
invited guests are Mayor Moore, Manager Cooper, and the editors of
the local papers.

In the evening Miss Venoa receives an injury to her knee in the
ladies’ flat race, which brings to her assistance a doctor from
the audience, and firm friends from each dressing room. No bones
broken, but a vacation recommended.

Sunday, July 4, Detroit, Mich.--In the evening the company
assembled to witness a presentation to Mr. Edwin Fritz, the mail
agent of the show. It consisted of a neat uniform of blue, together
with a silver shield and badge, a present from his associates.

Monday, July 5, Detroit--The seventy-sixth anniversary of P. T.
Barnum’s birthday appropriately celebrated by the company and
congratulatory dispatches are sent to the great showman by all
interested in his success. During each performance the red, white,
and blue colors were worn by each actor and actress.

Saturday, July 17, South Bend, Ind.--The following married
gentlemen are made happy by the companionship of their genial
better halves: Messrs. Hager, Hyatt, Putnam, Newman, Coyle, Door,
and Detective Cooper.

Friday, July 30, Champagne, Ill.--Scorching weather does not
interfere with good business. After the day show the company in
two band wagons and carriages visit the grave of Frank Seymour,
a former member of Forepaugh’s band. Through the energies of Mr.
George Cann, a former friend of the deceased, the grave was found
and appropriate ceremonies were held. Prof. James Robinson’s
band played two solemn dirges. W. L. Marsh executed an artistic
solo on the 1st B♭ trombone, and Mr. James Bigger delivered an
appropriate eulogy. Cooper, the giant, who was also a friend of the
dead musician, arranges with the sexton to properly decorate the
neglected grave. This touching tribute to a brother professional
was favorably commented upon by the press of the surrounding
country.

Saturday, July 31, Bloomington, Ill.--After the day performance a
number of the gentlemen amused themselves at target shooting with
a toy rifle. During this innocent sport Abdellah Ben Said, the
manager of the Arabs, was accidentally shot in the neck by Orrin
Hollis, and subsequently taken to a hospital. All the doctors’
bills, the salary, and the board bill of Abdellah and his wife were
paid by Mr. Hollis. Firearms of all descriptions were prohibited in
the dressing room by Mr. Ducrow.

Sunday, Aug. 1, Peoria, Ill.--An anti-swearing society for 30 days
is organized. A fine of twenty-five cents for every naughty word
was imposed, and “finders were keepers.” Considerable merriment was
indulged in by the “can’t cuss club” during the day, and not a few
dollars changed hands.

Hassen Ali, one of the Arabs, is assaulted by roughs and in the
mêlée his hand broken.

Thursday, Aug. 5, Jacksonville, Ill.--Two clever houses to smiling
weather. Orrin Hollis receives word that Abdellah is rapidly
recovering. He wears his first smile since the accident.

Sunday, Aug. 15, Aurora, Ill.--At midnight a violent wind, rain,
and thunder storm sweeps over the city which totally demolishes the
menagerie and museum tents. The tempest continues for nearly two
hours and tests the bravery and skill of the employees of the lot.
Most all of the cages have to be chained to the ground, and the
elephants guarded rigidly.

During the progress of the tornado two whelp leopards were born.
R. H. King is held responsible for the following conundrum: “Why
was the storm like the city? Because it was a-roarer!” Chestnut
bells were rung.

A stampede of the little elephants is promptly nipped in the bud by
Mr. Frank Hyatt and C. F. Callahan.

At this juncture a word of praise should be extended to the
intrepid canvasmen who never deserted their posts, although danger
to life and limb threatened at every moment.

Thursday, Aug. 26, Oshkosh, Wis.--The events of this day are too
well known to those who peruse “Barnum’s Budget” to demand a
detailed account. Each has his or her individual views upon the
subject, and enough has been spoken and published about it. In
brief: An incipient riot was quelled by the clever management of
Mr. Hutchinson, several arrests were made and a number of attachés
discharged.

A celebrated linguist visits the dressing room and tests the memory
of Ali Mahomet, the Arabian interpreter, as to dead languages. Ali
comes off first best.

The Anti-Swearing society disband.

Mr. Cooper, the giant, receives the sad news of his infant child’s
death.[28]

For some reason, Bailey is never mentioned in this diary of the circus.
He may not have been present with the show during that season. But the
management of a troupe as large as the Greatest Show on Earth was a job
that P. T. Barnum never could have undertaken at his age. If Barnum had
not had the foresight to select Bailey as a partner, it is likely that
the present generation would never have known his name as a showman.
Bailey was able to cope with every calamity quickly and efficiently.
When the winter quarters were burned down on November 20, 1887, all the
animals were destroyed except thirty elephants and one lion. Bailey
ordered a new menagerie by cable, and in six hours he had purchased
enough animals to form a better menagerie than the one destroyed by
fire. The one lion who was saved was found by circus employees in a
barn near Bridgeport. He had been eating sheep, and when the farmer’s
wife heard a noise in the barn, she entered. What she saw in the dark
looked to her like a large dog, and she began to beat the animal with
a broom. The lion was busy with his meal, and he paid no attention to
the blows. When the circus employees arrived and told the farmer’s wife
what she had been beating, she fainted.

CHAPTER XIV

OLD AGE

It was Bailey’s custom often to do things first and then consult
Barnum, or rather, tell him what had been done, so that in his last
years Barnum’s function at the circus was as a huge advertisement.
Whenever his carriage entered the arena at Madison Square Garden, he
received an ovation from the audience. The old man, whose curly white
hair surrounded a shiny bald dome, smiled complacently at the adults,
and sometimes stopped to shake the hands of the children and to ask
them if they were having a good time. “To me there is no picture so
beautiful,” wrote Barnum in his old age, “as ten thousand smiling,
bright-eyed, happy children; no music so sweet as their clear-ringing
laughter. That I have had power, year after year, by providing innocent
amusement for the little ones, to create such pictures, to evoke such
music, is my proudest and happiest reflection.”

One day in 1888 Bailey called Barnum to Madison Square Garden and
announced to him that the circus was going to England. “That’ll cost
a lot of money,” Barnum protested, but Bailey insisted that it would
make more. The circus went to England; and the achievement of its
transportation alone was worth much in advertising value. In 1889
the show opened at the Olympia in London, and Barnum, of course, was
present. He and the show were each received with tremendous enthusiasm
by both the élite and the populace.

Barnum was accepted in London as the jolly, veteran showman. A banquet
was held in his honor at the Victoria Hotel, where more than two
hundred politicians, noblemen and writers, with the Earl of Kilmorey
as chairman and George Augustus Sala as toastmaster, paid honor to the
personality whom they regarded as America’s most representative man. At
the show he was greeted with due homage. Every afternoon and evening
Barnum’s open carriage drove up to the entrance to the arena, drawn by
two fine horses, driven by a coachman and adorned with a footman in
luxurious livery. The performance stopped immediately, and there was a
feeling silence as the old man, tall and portly, but slightly bent with
age, dressed in a frock coat, a turn-down collar and a shirt with an
extraordinary number of ruffles and a big diamond stud in its center,
drove around the enormous arena. At intervals in his progress he would
stop the carriage, rise, remove his shining top hat and call out in his
squeaky, decaying voice, with its sharp Yankee accent: “I suppose you
all come to see Barnum. Wa-al, I’m Barnum.” Then he would make a deep
bow, and the carriage would proceed a little further, when the same
interesting demonstration would occur, until the circuit of the huge
arena was accomplished; the men removed their hats and the ladies waved
handkerchiefs to the ambassador of vast entertainment. In explaining
this daily incident to a reporter, after he had returned home, Barnum
said, “I felt that Barnum’s show with Barnum left out would be as bad
as Hamlet minus the famous Dane.”

The Prince of Wales visited the circus and congratulated Barnum
ostentatiously; the Princess of Wales saw the performance four times,
and when arrangements were made for the return to the United States,
she asked Barnum to delay the departure so that Queen Victoria, who
was at Windsor, might be present. “I said I was very sorry that we
couldn’t wait for the Queen, and that she [the Princess of Wales] had
better tell Her Majesty she was making a mistake in not changing her
plans and coming before we packed up.” The Princess of Wales promised
to convey Barnum’s message to her mother-in-law, and Barnum added,
“Tell her she is missing the greatest spectacle of her life.” When the
Prince of Wales said to Barnum, “It must have cost you a lot of money
to come here,” Barnum answered: “It cost upward of £100,000, your Royal
Highness.” In telling the story to reporters in the United States,
Barnum explained: “The Prince, of course, thought showmen always
speak the truth. As a matter of fact, it did cost half that much, and
I thought I treated Wales very fairly in placing the amount at so
moderate a figure.”

Barnum’s success with royalty was always great because of his
inoffensive familiarity. Familiarity was unusual, and what would have
been insulting and disrespectful in a native subject was accepted in an
American showman as quaint and amusing, the interesting entertainment
of a court fool with an international reputation; and it may be that
he was admired universally by those who enjoyed artificial attainments
because it was impossible for them to envy his achievements.

Barnum asked the young Prince George, now King George V, whether he
was going to stop until the end of the performance. He looked around
cautiously, paused for a moment, and leaning towards Barnum said: “Mr.
Barnum, I shall remain here until they sing God Save Grandmother!”
When Gladstone occupied the royal box one evening with a party of
distinguished guests, he delighted Barnum by requesting that the
showman remain seated by his side during the entire performance.
Barnum later said that the statesman was the best conversationalist he
had ever met, but from Barnum’s account of the meeting to newspaper
reporters one gathers that Mr. Gladstone did not do most of the
talking. After Gladstone had remarked pleasantly that they were both of
the same age, Barnum suggested boldly that Mr. Gladstone should emulate
his example, cross the Atlantic Ocean and visit the United States,
“where I can guarantee you the greatest ovation any man ever received.”
Gladstone straightened stiffly in his chair, pointed at one of the
gladiators in the great spectacle of “Nero, or the Burning of Rome,”
and asked, “What is that man doing?” It was Barnum’s impression from
this that Gladstone was immune from flattery, and averse to it; but it
is also possible that Mr. Gladstone feared that Mr. Barnum wanted him
for his museum.

While Barnum was in London, a representative of Mme. Tussaud’s
Wax Works called upon him to ask if he was willing to be put into
immortal wax. “Willing?” said Barnum. “Anxious! What’s a show without
notoriety!” He was asked for his dimensions, and instead he sent his
valet with samples of his socks, shoes, coat, waistcoat, trousers,
frilled shirt, necktie, and hat.

At last the time came to abandon this profitable notoriety and return
home to native enthusiasm. Barnum said his good-bys to royalty,
nobility, and clergy. The Bishop of London, bidding him farewell, said:
“Well, good-by, Mr. Barnum. I hope I shall see you in Heaven.” “You
will if you are there,” said Barnum to the Bishop.

Three ships took the large show back to New York. Just before the
departure Barnum gave the London reporters a luncheon on board the
_Furnessia_. As they arrived on board, an incoming Australian steamer,
loaded with dressed meat, ran into an outbound boat and was sunk. The
reporters neglected their host and watched this unexpected news event,
thus exasperating Barnum beyond words. A fine meal was ready for them,
with plenty of liquor, for Barnum never allowed temperance to interfere
with publicity. Finally, irritated beyond endurance, he shouted at the
reporters, “Come, come, boys! That’s nothing but mutton! Come on down
and have some wine and something to eat.”

The London triumph of the circus was utilized for all it was worth in
advertising when the show returned to this country in 1890. Barnum gave
innumerable interviews; in every city he visited he told reporters his
experiences as friend of the royal family and caterer to the British
public. Advertisements bellowed forth the praises of “The Princes of
the Royal Blood” at the spectacle of “Nero, or The Burning of Rome,
in which are included Religious Rites, Roman Orgies, Vestal Virgins,
Marriage Ceremonies.”

It was rumored in the United States that the circus had not made money
in England, that it was growing too large for its own financial good,
and when a Chicago reporter questioned Barnum about how the show was
doing financially he answered: “Badly, very badly, losing money every
day.” “Losing money? How?” asked the reporter. “Turning people away,”
said Barnum. It was said that Bailey sold $1,500,000 worth of stock in
the Barnum & Bailey Company after its return from Europe, and still
retained the controlling interest.

Although he was now eighty years old, Barnum still retained the use of
all his faculties, and one especially, publicity. One day he tripped
over a rope in Madison Square Garden. He was slightly scratched.
As he was helped to his feet by some workmen, he yelled, “Where’s
the press agent? Tell him I’ve been injured in an accident!” He
remained at his home all the next day, and the newspapers published
accounts of the “painful accident” in which “the veteran showman”
was “seriously injured.” Wherever he was, in railroad cars, on ferry
boats, on the streets, Barnum spoke to strangers, and he invariably
ended the conversation by telling them that they had been talking to
P. T. Barnum. His personal appearance was pleasantly obtrusive, the
face of a person who makes himself genial to others without effort,
and who can never understand that other people may not want to be
pleasant. But most people must have enjoyed his geniality, for there
was a readiness about the eyes to smile, and an expression of broad
cordiality on the large face. The fat, bulbous nose, which in his last
years was prominent and red, causing the men about the circus winter
quarters to say that “the old man had quite a snitch on him,” the firm,
set mouth and lips, the large head, and the broad, round chin make
their impression almost immediately that here was a man who would
introduce himself, and that one might not be altogether ungrateful for
the introduction. What in others might have signified determination,
in Barnum meant “nerve,” “cheek,” and a complete lack of embarrassment
in any kind of company. He was a man who always assumed that he was
welcome, and in nine cases out of every ten he was right. But there
was sometimes the tenth case. Barnum went to the steamer to greet his
wife, who was returning from Europe. The Duke of Argyll, who somebody
said “looked like a lucifer match just ignited,” because of his flaming
red hair and beard, was on the same steamer. Barnum clapped the Duke on
the back and said: “Well, how are you, Duke? Welcome, welcome, Duke, to
our glorious country!” The Duke looked straight ahead, as if a fly, not
worth brushing aside, had been so impertinent as to interrupt him.

Barnum’s senile efforts for publicity were not always judicious.
When Cleveland was nominated for President, Barnum wrote a letter to
the press, without consulting either his partner or his press agent.
He wrote that “should Cleveland be elected, I will sell all my real
estate at 25 cents on the dollar.” This statement cost the circus
many thousands of dollars, for Cleveland was very popular in the
South, and the circus that year was compelled to restrict its tour to
anti-Cleveland territory. Even a few years later rival showmen in the
South reproduced Barnum’s letter on Cleveland in the newspapers as
his show approached each town. On another occasion a woman approached
Barnum outside the Murray Hill Hotel, where he always stayed when the
circus was in New York, and asked him where was 125th Street. “Is it
too far to walk?” she asked in a tired voice. The wealthy old man
genially gave her five cents. The same day, a few hours later, the
same woman approached him with the same questions. He handed her over
to a policeman, and he forced the press agent of the circus against
his better judgment to send the story of this experience to all the
newspapers for its publicity value. In his account for the newspapers
Barnum wrote that “he had done the community a service.”

When he was at Chicago, after the return of the circus from Europe,
Barnum suggested to the newspapers that the World’s Fair should place
on exhibition the mummies of Pharaoh Rameses II and his family, and
also the mummy of the daughter of Pharaoh who had saved Moses from the
bulrushes. “Every Hebrew in the world,” said Barnum, “would go to see
them out of hatred. Every one in Christendom would go to see them out
of curiosity. I instructed one of my men to offer $100,000 for them for
a year.” But the offer was not accepted. Barnum also said that he liked
the idea of showing every man, woman, and child in the free country of
America, “the face of the despot,” but a thoughtful reporter pointed
out that if the face were shown, free from its casings and wrappings,
it would crumble into dust. The World’s Fair did not consider Barnum’s
suggestion worth attention.

When he was not traveling through the country getting personal
publicity and acting antics for his show’s advertisement, Barnum
spent his time tranquilly at Bridgeport, editing and re-editing his
autobiography, adding appendixes and entertaining distinguished
visitors. Matthew Arnold spent a night at “Waldemere,” after delivering
his lecture, “Numbers: or the Majority and the Remnant,” at Hartford,
Connecticut. He wrote to Mrs. Forster of his visit: “The night before
last I dined and slept at Barnum’s. He said my lecture was ‘grand,’
and that he was determined to belong to the remnant.” That was all
Matthew Arnold wrote in his published letters about Barnum. It seems
that Barnum never impressed his literary friends as worth mentioning,
even in their letters. Thackeray’s letters contain no reference to him,
although they were good friends, and Mark Twain, who often visited
Bridgeport, never wrote any comments on his host. It may be that after
Barnum finished talking there was nothing else to be said on the
subject.

Barnum in his last year also published another book, called _Dollars
and Sense, or How to Get On, The Whole Secret in a Nutshell_, By P. T.
Barnum, to which is added sketches of the “Lives of Successful Men who
‘Rose from the Ranks’ and from the most Humble Starting Point Achieved
Honorable Fame, By Henry M. Hunt, and an appendix containing, Money!
Where It Comes From and Where It Goes To, Being a Concise History of
Money, Banks and Banking, By Selden R. Hopkins.” The pages of this book
are edged all around with gold, and the cover design includes three
silver dollars, obverse and reverse, a man’s exposed brain, and a sprig
of laurel. The contents were nothing more than a collection of the
anecdotes contained in various editions of Barnum’s autobiography, and
added to them were the homely sentiments he delivered in his lectures
on “The Art of Money-Getting” and “The World and How to Live in It.”
It was designed to tell young men “How to Get On,” but its platitudes
are neither useful in their selection nor novel in their expression:
Barnum spent many years, so far as his written philosophy is concerned,
assuring the public that two and two really do make four, if one only
persists in working it out.

The strength of the Barnum legend did not diminish as Barnum’s own
powers began to decay. He still received letters from everywhere,
offering him services and curiosities, and it was a source of great
pride to him that some of these letters were addressed merely, “Barnum,
America.” A man from Orleans County, New York, wrote: “I can remove
the effulgence from the disk of the sun with the magic power that I
possess. If you want to see it done, if you will write me a line and
state the time, I will perform this feat ten times in half an hour.
From 5 to 6 is the best time. My own family don’t know I possess this
power. You will say this is a big humbug, but it is no humbug. If
you don’t want to put this on exhibition, you will do me a favor by
saying nothing about it.” Another correspondent offered himself “with
confidence as being the ugliest man beyond question in the United
States or Canada. I have resided many years in this State, and am
universally acknowledged by travelers and residents as the ugliest
man ever seen. Yet there is nothing repulsive in my appearance. I am
naturally lazy, and desire a job that does not require much exertion.”

A friend urged Barnum in a letter to open a permanent museum in New
York City, and though he admitted in his reply that it should be
successful because “there is really _no fit place for children_ to go
to be amused in N. Y. City, and adults will go where children do,”
he feared he was too old to start a new project. He preferred the
tranquillity of his Bridgeport home, where he could look upon his
thriving shade trees and the avenues he had laid out, realizing, as he
wrote, that “wherever art has beautified nature, it has but utilized
plans and carried out suggestions of my own.”

CHAPTER XV

“NOT MY WILL, BUT THINE, BE DONE”

In November of 1890, when he was eighty years old, Barnum suffered an
attack of acute congestion of the brain, which kept him in bed for
three weeks, and the physicians decided that this was his last illness.
He had prepared for that possibility in detail. Before making his
final will he called in a horde of physicians to testify to his sound
mental condition, because the relatives of a Bridgeport friend, who
had recently died, contested the will. In this lawsuit Barnum had been
called as a witness of Captain Brooks’s mental condition. He replied
that he thought the mind of the deceased was as sound as that of any
rich man who has poor relations. He himself was determined by this
example to frustrate any chance of dissension after his death, and his
will provided that contestants were to be deprived of their bequests;
his will also set aside a fund of $100,000 to be used in fighting
contests.

Besides preparing his will, Barnum exacted from his wife the promise
that she would write “The Last Chapter” of the _Life of P. T. Barnum
Written by Himself_, giving the details of his last year to the world.
From Mrs. Barnum’s account we learn that he was merry and refused to
entertain the thought of death, and the mention of it was considerately
kept from his eyes and ears. The newspapers, anxious to print reports
of his condition, desisted when they were told that he read the papers
carefully every day. He continued his business transactions, especially
those involving Bridgeport real estate, and he inquired eagerly
concerning the daily receipts of the circus. Until the last few weeks
of his illness Barnum never gave up hope of his recovery. “Of his own
death,” wrote his wife, “he would not speak. Of Death in the abstract
he said, ‘It is a good thing, a beautiful thing, just as much so as
life; and it is wrong to grieve about it and look upon it as an evil.’”
But he looked long and wistfully at his wife and daughter, and every
night his last, whispered words were, “Thy will be done....”

He lingered, but in the beginning of April, 1891, it became obvious
that his death was a matter of days. He calmly made arrangements for
his own funeral, but always ignoring whenever possible the word, Death.
He insisted that he must not be embalmed and chose a plain deal casket
with a black pall for his last resting place. In giving his directions
for a simple funeral, he said that of show and parade he had had enough
during his fifty years before the public. He had never forgotten the
horrible impression made on his mind as he gazed on General Grant’s
dead face, and knowing that he was emaciated, he wished no public
exhibition of his body. He sent for the Rev. Dr. Robert Collyer and
chose for his funeral two hymns, one by Whittier and the other by
Oliver Wendell Holmes; he said that if there was to be an address he
would like the text of it to be from Luke xxii, 42: “Not my will, but
Thine, be done,” and that is the text graven on his tombstone.

Four days before Barnum’s death, the _Evening Sun_ of New York learned
that a few weeks before, when he had been dangerously ill and was
thought to be dying, Barnum, on his recovery, had written to a friend:
“The only thing lacking to make me happy on my return to good health is
the chance to see what sort of lines would have been written about me.”
The _Evening Sun_ sent a reporter to the circus to inquire whether it
would hurt Barnum’s feelings if the newspaper should print an obituary
notice of him before he died. “Not at all,” answered Tody Hamilton,
the press agent, knowing his boss. The next day the _Evening Sun_
devoted four columns to the facts of Barnum’s career, and there was a
noticeable improvement in Barnum’s health.

At half-past six in the evening of April 7, 1891, Barnum died, and
his last words were a request to know what the circus receipts had
been during the day at Madison Square Garden. It would have pleased
him greatly to know that it was said after his death that more
newspaper space had been allotted to his career than to that of any
other American who was not a President of the United States. Another
post-mortem comment that would have delighted this man who never
resisted a joke was the conundrum which circulated widely: “Will Barnum
get to heaven?” The answer was: “He certainly has a good show.”

In his will Barnum disposed of an estate of $4,100,000, and he made
careful provision for the perpetuation of his name. Since he had no
sons, he provided that his grandson, C. H. Seeley, should receive
$25,000, besides his share in the estate, if he would change his name
to C. Barnum Seeley, “so that the name of Barnum shall always be known
as his name.” Provision had already been made for the continuation of
the name of “Barnum & Bailey” as circus proprietors for fifty years
from October 26, 1887.[29]

In a back office at the circus winter quarters in Bridgeport was a
large packing box, turned on its side and nailed securely to a wall. On
it was painted in large black letters, “Not to be opened until after
the death of P. T. Barnum.” Some circus employees expected that this
box contained their legacies. When the box was opened, it was found to
contain for each of his oldest employees a copy of the _Life of P. T.
Barnum Written by Himself_.

THE END

BIBLIOGRAPHY

BOOKS BY BARNUM

_Life of P. T. Barnum Written by Himself._ First edition, New York,
1855. Revised and published in various editions under this title
until 1890.

_Struggles and Triumphs, or Forty Years’ Recollections of P. T.
Barnum Written by Himself._ The same as the _Life of P. T. Barnum
Written by Himself_, with additions and revisions. Published
under this title, 1869, 1872, 1882.

_How I Made Millions, or The Secret of Success_, by P. T. Barnum.
1884. _The Life of P. T. Barnum Written by Himself_ under another
title.

_Funny Stories Told by P. T. Barnum._ London, 1890. A collection of
anecdotes from the autobiography.

_Dollars and Sense, or How to Get On_, by P. T. Barnum. Chicago,
1890. Anecdotes from the autobiography and excerpts from lectures.

_Dick Broadhead_, by P. T. Barnum. New York, 1888. A juvenile book of
adventure. Written by the circus press agent and published under
Barnum’s name.

_Jack in the Jungle_, by P. T. Barnum. New York, 1880. A juvenile
story of adventure with wild animals. Also written by the press
agent of the circus.

_Lion Jack_, by P. T. Barnum. New York, 1887. “A Story of Perilous
Adventures Among Wild Men and The Capturing of Wild Beasts;
Showing How Menageries Are Made.” Also written by the press agent
of the circus.

_The Wild Beasts, Birds, and Reptiles of the World, The Story of
Their Capture_, by P. T. Barnum. Chicago, 1888. Written for
Barnum by the press agent of the circus, but contains a preface
and a last chapter by Barnum.

_Barnum’s New Year’s Address._ A pamphlet. New York, 1851. Written
for Barnum by John Vose, editor of the _New York Picayune_.

_The Humbugs of the World_, by P. T. Barnum. New York, 1866.

_Why I am a Universalist_, by P. T. Barnum. Universalist Tracts, 1895.

_The Will of P. T. Barnum._ A pamphlet. Bridgeport, Conn., 1891.

_Blackwood’s Magazine._ London, 1855. Review of the _Life of P. T.
Barnum Written by Himself_.

_Christian Review._ New York, Vol. 20, 1855. Review of the _Life of
P. T. Barnum Written by Himself_.

_Fraser’s Magazine._ London, 1855. Review of the _Life of P. T.
Barnum Written by Himself_.

_Southern Literary Messenger._ Richmond, Va., 1855. Review of the
_Life of P. T. Barnum Written by Himself_.

_New York Illustrated News._ 1853. The newspaper Barnum owned for one
year. Contains references to his temperance activities.

_The World._ New York newspaper. January 17, 1897. An article on
Barnum’s morals.

_To Republicans, a circular in opposition to the nomination of P. T.
Barnum as a representative of the Fourth District of Connecticut._

BOOKS BY OTHER AUTHORS

ABBOTT, LYMAN. _Reminiscences._ Contains material on Jenny Lind’s
concerts.

ABBOTT, LYMAN. _Silhouettes of My Contemporaries._ Contains an essay
on P. T. Barnum.

ALDRICH, MRS. T. B. _Crowding Memories_, p. 243.

ARNOLD, MATTHEW. _Letters of Matthew Arnold._ Vol. 2. 1896.

BAKER, SIR SAMUEL W. _Wild Beasts and Their Ways, Reminiscences of
Europe, Asia, Africa, and America._ London, 1890.

BARNUM, MRS. NANCY FISH. _The Last Chapter: In Memoriam P. T.
Barnum._ Privately printed, 1891.

_Barnum’s Parnassus. Being Confidential Disclosures of the Prize
Committee on the Jenny Lind Song._ “With Specimens of the Leading
American Poets in the Happiest Effulgence of Their Genius.
Respectfully Dedicated to the American Eagle.” New York, 1850.
Parodies Written by William Allen Butler, author of “Nothing to
Wear.”

BENNETT, JAMES GORDON. _Memoirs of James Gordon Bennett and His Times
by a Journalist._ New York, 1855.

BENSON AND ESHER. _The Letters of Queen Victoria_, edited by Benson
and Esher. Vol. 2. Contains material on Jenny Lind in England.

BENTON, JOEL. _Life of Phineas T. Barnum._ New York, 1891. This
is the _Life of P. T. Barnum Written by Himself_ with no new
material, published the year Barnum died by a friend, who changed
the first person singular to the third person singular.

BENTON, JOEL. _P. T. Barnum, Showman and Humorist._ _Century
Magazine_, August, 1902.

BLEEKER, SYLVESTER. _General Tom Thumb’s Three Years’ Tour Around
the World, Accompanied by His Wife, Lavinia Warren Stratton,
Commodore Nutt, Miss Minnie Warren and Party._ New York, 1872.

BREMER, FREDRIKA. _The Homes of the World; Impressions of America._
Two volumes. New York, 1858. Jenny Lind material.

BROWN, MARIA WARD. _The Life of Dan Rice._ Long Branch, N. J., 1901.

BUNN, ALFRED. _The Case of Bunn versus Lind, Tried at the Court of
Queen’s Bench, Guildhall, City, Before Mr. Justice Erle and a
Special Jury, on Tuesday, February 22nd, 1848, Given in Full,
from Shorthand Notes Taken at the Time, with a Series of Letters
from Plaintiff and Defendant, Produced Thereat, with Others from
Both, Now for the First Time Published, to which are added Notes
Explanatory and Critical by Alfred Bunn._ London, 1848.

CARLYLE, THOMAS. _New Letters of Thomas Carlyle._ London, 1904.
Contains accounts of Jenny Lind concerts.

CONKLIN, GEORGE. _The Ways of the Circus._ New York, 1921.

COUP, W. C. _Chapters from the Autobiography of W. C. Coup._ New
York, 187--.

COUP, W. C. _Sawdust and Spangles._ Chicago, 1901.

CROSBY, C. FRED. _The Early Days of Barnum’s “Greatest on Earth,”_ in
_The Billboard_. January 22, 1922.

DICKENS, CHARLES. _American Notes._

EMERSON, EDWARD WALDO. _The Early Years of the Saturday Club._

FIELD, MAUNSELL B. _Memories of Many Men and Some Women._ New York,
1874.

FORD, JAMES L. _Forty-odd Years in the Literary Shop._ New York, 1921.

FOSTER, C. G. _Memoir of Jenny Lind._ New York, 1850.

FRITH, W. P. _My Autobiography and Reminiscences._ New York, 1888.

GEORGE, HENRY, JR. _Life of Henry George._ New York, 1900.

GHIO, MADAME. _Biography of Madame Ghio, the Celebrated Swiss Bearded
Lady and Her Son, Esau._ Pamphlet. Glasgow, 1866.

HAINES, GEORGE W. _Plays, Players, and Playgoers. Reminiscences of
Barnum._ New York, 1874.

HAWTHORNE, JULIAN. _Hawthorne and His Wife._ Contains reference to
Jenny Lind.

HAYDON, BENJAMIN ROBERT. _Autobiography of Benjamin Robert Haydon._
Edited by Tom Taylor. London, 1853. Vol. 3.

HOLLAND, H. S., and ROCKSTRO, W. S. _Memoir of Madame Jenny
Lind-Goldschmidt, Her Early Art-Life and Dramatic Career,
1820–1851._ London, 1891.

HONE, PHILIP. _The Diary of Philip Hone, 1828–1851._ Edited by Bayard
Tuckerman. Two volumes. New York, 1889. Contains material on
Jenny Lind in New York.

HORNBLOW, ARTHUR. _A History of the Theater in America._

IRVING, PIERRE M. _Life and Letters of Washington Irving._ New York,
1869. Three volumes.

JEROME, CHAUNCEY. _History of the American Clock Business and Life of
Chauncey Jerome. Written by Himself. Barnum’s Connection with the
Yankee Clock Business._ New Haven, Conn., 1860.

JUMBO. A picture folder for children, with verses. London, 1882.

LAMB, MRS. MARTHA J. _History of the City of New York._

LAMB, MRS. MARTHA J. _Wall Street in History._

LE ROUX AND GARNIER. _Acrobats and Mountebanks._ London, 1890.

LIND, JENNY. _Press Books of the Jenny Lind Centennial Celebration._
Jenny Lind Centennial Committee. 1920.

LONGFELLOW, SAMUEL. _Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow with Extracts
from His Journals and Correspondence._ Vol. 2.

_Nutt, Commodore, History of._ Pamphlet. New York, 1862.

PAINE, ALBERT BIGELOW. _Mark Twain, A Biography._ Vols. 1 and 3.

POND, MAJOR J. B. _Eccentricities of Genius._ New York, 1900.

RISCHBIETH, H., and AMY BARRINGTON. _Dwarfism._ Francis Galton
Laboratory for National Eugenics. Eugenics Laboratory Memoirs XV.
Treasury for Human Inheritance, Parts VII and VIII, Section XV A.
London, 1912.

ROSENBERG, C. G. _Jenny Lind’s Tour Through America and Cuba._ New
York, 1851.

_Sights and Wonders in New York, including a description of the
mysteries, miracles, marvels, phenomena, curiosities, and
nondescripts contained in that great Congress of Wonders,
Barnum’s Museum, also a Memoir of Barnum Himself._ New York, 1849.

SMITH, SOL. _The Theatrical Journey--Work and Anecdotal
Recollections._ Philadelphia, 1854. Long dedicatory epistle to
Barnum.

SMYTH, ALBERT H. _Bayard Taylor._ Boston, 1896.

_Spangled World, A, or Life with the Circus._ New York, 1882.

STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY. _Recollections Personal and Literary._ New
York, 1903.

STOWE, CHARLES EDWARD. _Life of Harriet Beecher Stowe._ Letters from
Jenny Lind to Mrs. Stowe.

TAYLOR, MARIE HANSEN, and HORACE E. SCUDDER. _Life and Letters of
Bayard Taylor._

THACKERAY. _A Collection of Thackeray Letters, 1847–1855._ New York,
1887.

THAYER, WILLIAM ROSCOE. _Life of John Hay._

_Thumb, Thomas, Life and Travels of, in the United States, England,
France, and Belgium._ Philadelphia, 1849. A book for children.

TROLLOPE, MRS. _Domestic Manners of the Americans._ London, 1832.

UPTON, GEORGE P. _Musical Memories. My Recollections of Celebrities
of the Half Century 1850–1900._ New York, 1908.

WARNER, MORRIS H. _The Barnum Budget, or Tent Topics._ New York, 1887.

WARREN, LAVINIA. Autobiographical article by Lavinia Warren in _The
Sunday Magazine_, Sept. 16, 1906.

WILLIS, N. P. _Memoranda for the Life of Jenny Lind._ New York, 1850.

WOOD, EDWARD J. _Giants and Dwarfs._ London, 1868.

NEWSPAPERS AND MISCELLANEOUS MATERIAL

P. T. Barnum’s Advance program notes for the circus seasons of 1876,
1879, 1880, 1882, 1889.

_New York Herald_, _New York Morning Courier and Enquirer_, _The
Evening Post_, _New York Sun_, _New York Tribune_ for various
periods from 1841 until 1891.

_The Times_, London, for 1858, 1882, 1890.

_Illustrated London News_ for 1844, 1845.

_Bridgeport Daily Standard_, Bridgeport, Conn., for various periods.

_Bridgeport Farmer_, Bridgeport, Conn., for various periods.

_The Spirit of the Times_, a New York newspaper, Sept., 1850, and
June 14, 1851.

_Philadelphia Sunday Dispatch_, Sept., 1850, and February, 1852.

_Encyclopedia Britannica._ Articles on Barnum, Giants and Dwarfs,
Benjamin Robert Haydon.

FOOTNOTES

[1] _From Sea to Sea_, by Rudyard Kipling. American edition, Doubleday,
Page & Co. P. 175.

[2] Autograph letter. Gordon L. Ford Collection, Gift of J. Pierpont
Morgan, New York Public Library. This letter bears no date, but since
Barnum mentions that he will be in Charleston, S. C., it was possibly
written during the Jenny Lind tour in 1850. There is no trace of the
Mr. Baker to whom it is addressed, or of his letters to Barnum.

[3] It is interesting in this connection that during the late war
a spiritual medium visited Mr. Leonidas Westervelt, a collector
of material on Barnum, with the information that she had been in
communication with the showman. His spirit told the medium: “Look out
for the Germans. Remember, the first man who cheated me was a German.”
The first man who cheated Barnum was his grandfather; but he doubtless
forgot that in the harmony of his extra-mundane existence.

[4] Editors sometimes sold their commendations, and Barnum frequently
paid for his publicity in advertising. The following note from Barnum
to Gordon L. Ford, business manager of the _New York Tribune_ under
Whitelaw Reid, speaks all too clearly for itself:

“New York, March 24, 1873.

“MY DEAR MR. FORD:

“Pray don’t fail to have a good notice given in your _Weekly_ which
will contain our big illustrated advertisement and oblige

“P. T. BARNUM.”

Autograph letter. Gordon L. Ford Collection, Gift of J. Pierpont
Morgan, New York Public Library.

[5] _Illustrated London News_, August 31, 1844.

[6] Autograph Letter in the Theater Collection, Harvard College
Library. General Tom Thumb in this letter, one of the few letters he
wrote that are extant, gives his official age, according to Barnum, and
not his actual birth year. He was born on January 11, 1838, but since
Barnum had added six years to his age when he first exhibited him, the
General retained that method of calculation carefully for many years.
He is the only stage celebrity known who found it to his advantage to
increase his age. This letter was written when the General was nine
years old.

[7] _Memoir of Madame Jenny Lind-Goldschmidt: Her Early Art-Life and
Dramatic Career. 1820–1851. From Original Documents, Letters, MS.
Diaries, &c., Collected by Mr. Otto Goldschmidt (her husband)._ By
Henry Scott Holland and W. S. Rockstro. Two volumes. London: John
Murray, 1891.

[8] Bayard Taylor, by Albert H. Smyth, pp. 82–83. Houghton Mifflin,
1896.

[9] Letter from Julia Knapp to Miss Susan N. Knapp, Greenwich, Conn. In
the collection of Leonidas Westervelt.

[10] _The Early Years of the Saturday Club_, by Edward Waldo Emerson,
p. 101.

[11] In _Samuel Butler, A Memoir_, by Henry Festing Jones, p. 126, Vol.
II, there is a characteristic anecdote of Otto Goldschmidt. It concerns
Goldschmidt and W. R. Rockstro, who taught Samuel Butler and Henry
Festing Jones harmony and counterpoint, and who was one of the authors
of _Memoir of Madame Jenny Lind-Goldschmidt_. Jones writes:

“During the time we knew him [Rockstro], but I forget precisely when,
he fell from the top of an omnibus near South Kensington Station. Otto
Goldschmidt ... came to see him in the hospital, and Rockstro told
Goldschmidt all about the accident. Goldschmidt would not believe him
and said:

“‘You don’t mean to tell me you fell off from the top of the bus down
to the ground?’

“‘Yes, I do,’ said Rockstro, ‘right off from the top down to the
ground, and they took me into the pastrycook’s before bringing me here.’

“Next day Goldschmidt went to see Rockstro again and said:

“‘I find you are quite right. I have been to the pastrycook’s and you
actually did fall from the top of the bus to the road.’

“Butler was amused when he heard this, and made the wicked comment that
as Otto Goldschmidt had known Rockstro nearly all his life he ought
to have been able to form a correct idea of his truthfulness without
calling at the pastrycook’s for confirmation.”

[12] Autograph Letter in the collection of Leonidas Westervelt, New
York.

[13] New York Tribune, July 2, 1853.

[14] _History of the American Clock Business for the Past Sixty Years,
and Life of Chauncey Jerome, Written by Himself; Barnum’s Connection
with the Yankee Clock Business._ New Haven, 1860.

[15] Barnum had persuaded General Tom Thumb and other performers to
give benefit performances for the Mountain Grove Cemetery in Bridgeport.

[16] The accounts of Barnum’s supplementary proceedings are taken from
the _New York Tribune_ for March, 1856, where they were published daily
from the stenographic records.

[17] Barnum verified this account of General Tom Thumb’s proposal by
the confirmations of both the General and Lavinia Warren.

[18] _Bridgeport Daily Standard_, March 24, 1875.

[19] Autograph Letter in the Harvard Theater Collection, Harvard
College Library.

[20] Major J. B. Pond in his book, _Eccentricities of Genius_,
described the interior of “Waldemere” as “a museum of itself.” “All
the gems of the old museum that were of extraordinary interest as
curios were to be seen there. Although he cared nothing especially for
rare paintings, the things that he gathered about him seemed designed
to attract the eye rather than the ear or the finer qualities of the
mind.” P. 352.

[21] There are persistent rumors of Barnum’s moral irregularity. Men
have told me that he was “an old devil,” which in the salty manner in
which they deliver the dictum sounds more enticing than degrading.
These rumors are so persistent as to be worthy of mention--on the
principle of the co-existence of smoke and fire--but they are also so
vague as not to be worth much in the tracing of his character.

The _New York World_ of January 17, 1897, more than five years after
Barnum’s death, printed a long Sunday feature article on his moral
character. According to the _World_ story, he had an illegitimate son,
whose mother was a French actress performing at the American Museum.
Barnum, according to the _World_, educated the boy, who later became a
physician. Before Barnum’s second marriage, said the _World_, this son
appeared in Bridgeport and claimed some settlement in case of the birth
of a male heir, for which Barnum was anxious. The petitioner received
$60,000 after he had signed a contract that he would never bother the
heirs after Barnum’s death, according to the _World_.

The _World_ also wrote that when one of Barnum’s daughters committed an
offense against her husband for which Barnum reproved her, she snapped
her fingers in his face, remarking: “How can I help it? I’m P. T.
Barnum’s daughter.”

These stories in the _World_ are worthy of mention because they have
never been denied. The sources of information to their verification are
closed completely by the comprehensible secrecy of family pride.

[22] Barnum apparently thought it necessary to handle the publicity
even for this complimentary dinner. He wrote the following letter to
Gordon L. Ford, business manager of the _New York Tribune_:

“Waldemere, Bridgeport, Conn., June 18, 1874.

“MY DEAR MR. FORD:

“Will you please hand the enclosed slip to Mr. Reid [Whitelaw Reid]
with my compliments. The Committee on dinner are to invite Mr.
Reid. If I cannot have the honor of his company (which I hope I
can) I hope he will kindly send a reporter and I shall be glad to
pay his expenses. There will be 150 to the dinner including some
distinguished guests.

“Yours,
“P. T. BARNUM.

“Dinner at 7 P. M., all over before 10.”

Autograph Letter from the Gordon L. Ford Collection, Gift of J.
Pierpont Morgan, New York Public Library.

[23] Information to the author from Mr. A. H. Hummel, formerly attorney
for Barnum & Bailey.

[24] According to Major J. B. Pond, Barnum was inconsiderate of human
and other animal life: “That afternoon one of the Amazons in the great
Amazon march, which was a feature that year, was run over and killed by
a chariot near the entrance of the ring. Mr. Barnum did not move, and I
said:

“‘That is dreadful, isn’t it?’

“‘Oh,’ he replied, ‘there is another waiting for a place. It is rather
a benefit than a loss.’

“I think I never knew a more heartless man or one who knew the value
and possibilities of a dollar more than P. T. Barnum.” _Eccentricities
of Genius_ by Major J. B. Pond, pp. 353–354.

[25] From illustrated Jumbo folder for children. In Harvard College
Library Theater Collection.

[26] This account of Jumbo’s departure is based on reports in the
_London Times_ for March 24, 25 and 27, 1882.

[27] Autograph letter in the collection of Leonidas Westervelt.

[28] _The Barnum Budget, or Tent Topics, An Original Route Book of The
Season of 1886_, by Morris H. Warner, Press Agent. Authorized by P. T.
Barnum, etc. In the Everett Wendell Collection, Harvard College Library.

[29] James A. Bailey died in 1906 from erysipelas after an insect bit
him while he was inspecting the circus menagerie. The Barnum & Bailey
circus was sold to Ringling Brothers in 1907, and is now known as the
Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus.

INDEX

Abbott, Lyman, 139, 167.

Adams, James C., (“Grizzly” Adams), 237–240.

Advertising, (see Barnum, Phineas Taylor).

Agassiz, Prof. Louis, 245, 331–332.

Agnew, Major-General William, 338.

Åhmansson, Mlle. Josephine, 118, 134–135, 137, 179, 195.

Albert, Prince, 78, 82, 83.

Albino Family, The, 230.

Alboni, Mme. Marietta, 187.

Alexander, the Conjuror, 208.

Andersen, Hans Christian, 127.

Argyll, Duke of, 366.

Arnold, Matthew, 3, 367.

Aspinwall, John L., 120.

Astor House, 50.

Atom, Major, 305.

Avery, Rev. Ephraim K., 37.

Baby Show, 72, 205.

Bailey, Frederick H., 328.

Bailey, Hackariah, 16.

Bailey, James A., 16, 312, 327–330, 360, 361, 365, footnote, 372.

Baring Brothers, 116, 117, 120.

Barnum & Bailey, 305, 309, 312, 327, 329, 354, 355, 365, 372.

Barnum, Bailey & Hutchinson, 327.

Barnum, Mrs. Charity, 17, 36, 208, 224, 236, 304, 313–314.

Barnum, Captain Ephraim, 4.

Barnum, Mrs. Irena, 14, 17.

Barnum, Mrs. Nancy Fish, 304, 312, 314, 370.

Barnum, Philo F., 4, 5, 6, 14.

Barnum, Phineas Taylor, advertising, Barnum’s use of, 14, 42, 53–54,
64, 233–234, 245–249, 278, 324–327, 336;
animals, attitude towards, 301–302, 331–332;
appearance, 365–366;
autobiography, v, vii, 102, 116, 177, 210–216, 222, 228, 316, 317,
323–324, 370, 372;
bankruptcy of, 219–227, 229, 235, 236–237, 287;
birth of, 3;
business ability, lack of, 22, 40, 203–204, 226;
church and clergy, Barnum’s use of, 237, 276–277, 318–322;
country-store atmosphere, influence on, 6–8, 15–16;
death of, 371–372;
editor, 18–22;
education of, 4–5;
lecturer, 232–235, 299–300, 309;
legend, the Barnum, 322–323, 368–369;
marriage, first, 17;
marriage, second, 314;
moral character of, footnote, 314;
patriotism, 290, 318;
politician, 20–21, 289–291, 294–299;
publicity, Barnum’s use of, 14, 37, 46–48, 52–55, 57–59, 62–63,
83–84, 87, 137, 140–141, 142–147, 176, 189–190, 198, 199–200,
201, 206–207, 215–216, 244, 270, 280–281, 309, footnote, 315,
318–322, 326–327, 328–329, 330, 341, 343–344, 347–348, 362,
364, 365–367, 371–372;
temperance, Barnum’s advocacy of, 107–113, 150, 183, 288–289, 309,
317, 329–330, 344;
will of, 370, 372.

Barnum, William H., 294–297.

Barnum’s American Museum, 43–55, 62–68, 72, 75–76, 91, 94–97,
110–112, 198, 199, 204, 224, 235–237, 243–251, 265, 287,
291–293, 294, 302–303, 369.

Barnum’s Grand Scientific and Musical Theater, 39.

Barnum’s Great Asiatic Caravan, Museum, and Menagerie, 198–199, 306.

Bartram, Coley, 27.

Bates, Colonel, giant, 255.

Bates, Joshua, 86, 117.

Beach, Moses Y., 45, 46.

Bearded Lady, The, 205–207.

Beauty Show, 205.

Beecher, Henry Ward, 302, 321.

Behemoth, The Great, 247–250, 331.

Belletti, Giovanni Battista, 116, 119, 124–125, 148, 153, 163, 177,
178, 191, 230.

Bellman, Karl Michael, 122.

Belmont, Mrs. August, 268.

Benedict, Sir Julius, 116, 119, 142–143, 144–145, 153, 163, 164, 180,
185, 230.

Bennett, Henry, 63–64.

Bennett, James Gordon, elder, 25–26, 33–34, 102, 141, 173, 222, 266,
268, 292–294.

Bennett, James Gordon, younger, 294.

Benton, Colonel Thomas H., 101–102.

Bergh, Henry, 330–333.

Berlioz, Hector, 130.

Bethel, Conn., 3, 10–13.

Bihin, Monsieur, the French Giant, 75.

Billings, Josh, quoted, 300.

Birch-Pfeiffer, Mme., 129.

Bishop of London, 364.

_Blackwood’s Magazine_, 93, 212.

Bleecker, Sylvester, 271–272.

Blue Laws of Connecticut, 5–6.

Boucicault, Dion, 87.

Bowyer, Sir George, 337–338.

Bremer, Fredrika, 181.

Bridgeport, Conn., 105, 218–219, 223, 230, 235, 259, 274, 287–289,
290, 303–304, 315, 317–318, 333, 369.

Brighton Pavilion, 105.

British Museum, 64, 337–338.

Bryant, William Cullen, 302.

Buckingham Palace, Barnum at, 78.

Buffalo Hunt, 68–71, 287.

Burdett-Coutts, Baroness, 342–343.

Butler, William Allen, 145–146.

Byron, Lord, 95.

Cardiff Giant, 307.

Carlyle, Thomas, 132, 170–171, 195.

Castle Garden, 153, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 193.

Catalani, Mme. Angelica, 128.

Céleste, Mme. Marie, 78.

Chapin, Rev. E. H., 108–109, 321.

Cherry-Colored Cat, 243.

Chitty, Mr. Justice, 338–339.

Chopin, Frédéric François, 130.

Christy’s Minstrels, 139.

Circus, The, 274, 305.

Civil War, American, 290.

Clanwilliam, Lord, 187.

Clarke, Lewis Gaylord, 143.

Clay, Henry, 180.

Cleveland, President Grover, 366.

Collyer, Rev. Robert, 321, 371.

Congress of Nations, 114, 115.

Conway, Helen, 351

Cooper & Bailey, 324, 326–327, 328.

Costello, Dan, 306, 313.

Coup, W. C., 98, 306–307, 309–313, 324.

Cranch, C. P., 193.

Croelius, Herr, 122, 124.

Croton Reservoir, 51.

Crystal Palace, New York, 201.

Cuyler, Rev. Theodore L., 321.

_Daily Telegraph_, London, 336–337.

Darwin, Charles, 59.

Davis, Thomas H., 348–349.

Dawron, Dora, 229.

Diamond, Master Jack, 40–41.

Dickens, Charles, 24–25, 342.

Dodge, Ossian F., 176, 178.

Dog Show, 72.

Dot, Admiral, 305, 307, 308, 316.

Douglas, Stephen A., 243, 256.

Draper, Simeon, 302.

“Drunkard, The,” 111–113.

Dwight, J. S., quoted, 188.

Elephant, The Sacred White, 348–354.

Elephant, see Jumbo.

Elssler, Fanny, 49, 158.

Esau, the Bearded Boy, 308.

Everett, Edward, 80, 176.

Faber, Prof., and his automaton speaker, 96.

Fejee Mermaid, The, 56–63, 102, 284, 287.

Field, Maunsell B., 80, 154–155, 156, 158, 165, 171, 185, 191.

Fiji Cannibals, 308.

Fillmore, President Millard, 179–180.

Fish, John, 304, 312.

Fiske, Rev. Theophilus, 21.

Flower Show, 72.

Ford, Gordon L., footnote, 55, footnote, 315.

Forepaugh, Adam, 354.

Forrest, Edwin, 49.

_Fraser’s Magazine_, 212.

Frémont, Colonel John Charles, 100–102, 212.

French, C. D., 68–70.

Frith, W. P., 155, 156.

Garcia, Manuel, 125–126.

Gardner, “Professor,” 202–203.

Gaylord, J. B., 348–349.

Geijer, Eric Gustaf, 124.

Genin, the Hatter, 159–160, 176.

George IV, King, 93, 105.

George V, King, 363.

Giraffe, 308–309.

Gladstone, W. E., 334, 363–364.

Goldschmidt, Otto, 185, 190, 191, 192, 196, 229–230.

Goshen, Colonel, the Palestine Giant, 75, 308.

Grant, U. S., General, 256, 303, 315, 371.

Greeley, Horace, 79, 112–113, 141, 292, 302.

Greenwood, John, 224, 242, 243, 301.

Grisi, Mme. Giulia, 128, 187.

Grote, George, 133.

Grote, Mrs., 137.

Grote, Joseph, 135.

Günther, Julius, 134–135, 137.

Hallett, Charity, 14, 17. (See also Barnum, Mrs. Charity.)

Hamilton, Tody, 371.

Harper Brothers & Co., 347.

Harris, Capt. Claudius, 135–137.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 132.

Haydon, Benjamin Robert, 92–94.

Hayes, Catherine, 188.

Heath, John, 44, 46–48.

_Herald, New York_, 25–26, 52, 166, 167, 190, 193, 194–195, 266–268,
292–294.

_Herald of Freedom, The_, 18–22, 289.

Heth, Joice, 28–35, 57, 284.

Hickok, Prof. Laurens P., 4.

Hippotheatron, New York, 311.

Hoffman, Richard, 164.

Holmes, O. W., 371.

Hopkins, Seldon R., 368.

Houdin, Robert, 95–96.

Houdini, Harry, 208.

Howard, Cordelia, 227, 230.

Howe, Elias, Jr., 231.

Howells, W. D., 213.

_Humbugs of the World, The_, 274–283.

Hunt, Henry M., 368.

Hurd, S. H., 291, 313.

Hutchinson, J. L., 327, 343.

_Illustrated News, New York_, 110, 203.

Indians, Exhibitions of, 71–72, 240–242.

Industrious Fleas, The, 52.

“Iranistan,” 106–107, 117, 231.

Irving House, 150, 161.

Irving, Washington, 168.

Ivy Island, 3, 7, 45.

Jaeger, Mme. von, 133.

James, William, quoted, 213.

Jay, John, 154, 185.

Jerome, Chauncey, 219–220, 221.

Jerome Clock Company, 219–221.

Jerrold, Douglas, 121.

Job, Book of, 248, 250.

Johnson, President Andrew, 302.

Jo-Jo, the Dog-Faced Russian Boy, 355.

Jones, Anson, Dr., 157.

Jumbo, 333–347, 348.

Kalakaua, King, 315–317.

Kamehemeha V, King, 316.

Keats, John, 92.

Ker, David, 353.

Kilmorey, Earl of, 362.

Kimball, Moses, 56.

King, William Rufus, 87.

Kipling, Rudyard, quoted, vi.

Knapp, Miss Julia, 149–150, 152.

Knox, Col. Thomas W., 353.

Kossuth, Louis, 160.

Lamb, Mrs. Martha J., quoted, 24.

Leake, Anna, the armless woman, 308.

Leopold, King, of Belgium, 85, 91.

Lincoln, President Abraham, vii, 3, 240, 254–255, 268, 270, 290.

Lind, Frau, 122–123.

Lind, Jenny, arrival in New York, 147–151;
birth and education, 121–124;
charities, 141, 148, 164–165, 171–174;
concert, first in U. S., 161–165;
concerts, receipts of, 174, 186–187, 193;
contract with Barnum, 118–119, 153–157;
departure from U. S., 193–195;
disagreement with Barnum, 177–178, 185–186;
marriage, 191–192;
musical education, 123–126;
object in American tour, 117–118;
object of Barnum in engaging her, 114–115;
religious influences on, 122–124, 134, 135–136, 195–196;
retirement and death of, 195–196;
stage, her dislike for, 118, 134–136;
triumphs, American, 163–164, 166–169, 171, 175–177, 178–180, 183;
triumphs, European, 128–134.

Lind, Nicolas Jonas, 121–122.

Lindsay, R. W., 28–30, 34–35.

Loder, George, 151.

Longfellow, H. W., 172, 176.

Lotteries, 13–14, 16–18, 22.

Lowell, J. R., 337.

Lundberg, Mlle., 122.

Lyman, Levi, 30, 33–34, 57, 61–62.

Macready, Charles, 170.

Madigan, P. F., 19.

Madison Square Garden, 312–313.

Maelzel, showman, 31.

Magnetism, animal, 67–68.

Magri, Count Primo, 272–273.

Malibran, Mme. Maria, 125, 128, 139.

Mangin, Monsieur, 278–280.

Mario, Giuseppe, 187.

Matthew, Father, 183.

Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, Felix, 130–131, 132, 133.

Merritt, Consul-General, 342.

Meyerbeer, Giacomo, 126, 127, 128, 130, 131.

Miller, Joaquin, 350–351.

Murray, Charles, 81.

Museum, Barnum’s American, see Barnum’s American Museum.

Musical Fund Society, New York, 151, 194.

Napoleon Bonaparte, 86, 90.

Napoleon, Louis, 205–206, 271, 342.

_Nation, New York_, 297.

Negro turning white, 204.

Negro violinist, 54.

Newell, Major (“General Grant, Jr.”), 271.

Newman, William, 342.

New York Museum Company, 46–48.

Niagara Falls, 50–51, 191, 287.

Niblo, William, 27, 30, 44.

Noah, M. M., 46.

Noble, William H., 218, 289.

Nutt, Commodore, 253–255, 256–260, 262–265, 270–271.

_Observer, The New York_, 286.

Oglesby, General, 298.

Olmsted, Francis W., 43–48, 63.

Orphean Family, The, 64.

Paine, Albert Bigelow, quoted, 213.

Pastor, Tony, 65, 293.

Peale’s Museum, 46, 63, 67.

Peel, Sir Robert, 86, 92, 94.

Peirce, Benjamin, 177.

Pentland, Joe, 39.

Persiani, Mme., 128.

Philadelphia Museum, 107.

Philippe, King Louis, 81, 87–90.

Phillips’s Fire Annihilator, 203.

Pius IX, Pope, 271, 272.

Poe, Edgar Allan, 3, 104.

Pokorny, Herr, 120.

Polk, President James K., 98.

Pond, Major J. B., footnote, 304, 324, footnote, 332.

Potter, Bishop, 269.

Poultry Show, 72.

Publicity, Barnum’s use of, see Barnum, Phineas Taylor.

Puke, Count, 122–123.

Putnam, George P., 143–144.

Rameses II, 367.

Redfield, J. S., 143.

Reid, Whitelaw, footnote, 315.

Ringling Brothers, footnote, 372.

Ripley, George, 143, 144.

Rossetti, William Michael, 93.

Rothschild, Baroness, 80.

Royal Theater of Sweden, 122–125.

Ruskin, John, 334.

Sala, George Augustus, 362.

Schmidt, Johann, 333.

Scott, Matthew, 342.

Scudder’s American Museum, 43–44.

_Sears’ Pictorial Illustrations of the Bible_, 41.

Seeley, C. Barnum, 372.

Senior, Nassau, 136–137.

Shakespeare’s home, Barnum’s attempt to purchase, 95, 334.

Siam, Prince of, 354.

Siamese Twins, The, 242, 305.

Sickles, General Daniel B., 353.

Siebold, Dr. Ph. Fr. von, quoted, 60–61.

Smith, Albert, 87, 228–229.

Smith, Le Grand, 177, 182–183, 184, 187, 189.

Sontag, Henriette, Mme., 128, 187.

Sothern, E. A., 65.

_Southern Literary Messenger_, 212.

St. Paul’s Church, 50, 66–67.

Stanley, Bishop and Mrs., 134–135.

Stevens, Benjamin, 328.

Stoddard, Rev. C. A., 286.

Stoddard, R. H., 145.

Stowe, Mrs. Harriet Beecher, 165.

Stratton, Charles S., 73–74. (See Thumb, General Tom.)

Stratton, Sherwood E., 73, 91–92.

_Sun, The Evening_, 371.

Swann, Anna, giantess, 255.

Swiss Bell Ringers, 96, 308.

_Tait’s Edinburgh Review_, 212.

Talbot, Lord, 79.

Taylor, Bayard, 144–145, 164.

Taylor, Mary, 40.

Taylor, Phineas, 3, 4, 6, 14, 15–16, 45.

Taylor, Rev. Dr., 270.

Tekow, Miss Pwan, 204.

Terry, Theodore, 219.

Thackeray, W. M., 132, 228–229.

Thalberg, Sigismund, 130, 164, 187–188.

Thayer, William Roscoe, quoted, vii.

Theebaw, King, 348–349.

Thomas, Rev. Abel C., 120.

Thumb, General Tom, age, 73;
appearance, 73–74;
birth, 73;
courtship, 257–265;
death, 272;
discovery by Barnum, 72;
earnings, 75, 96, 98;
entertains Queen Victoria, 82–85;
marriage, 265–271;
name, 73–74;
personality and character, 271–272;
relations with Commodore Nutt, 253–254.

Thumb, Mrs. Tom. (See Warren, Lavinia.)

_Times_, London, 335, 337–340.

Toung Taloung, Sacred White Elephant, 348–354.

Tripler, A. B., 153.

Trollope, Mrs., 22, 25, 49, 50.

Tufts College, 285, 347.

Turner, Aaron, 36–39, 45, 184.

Tussaud’s, Mme., Wax Works, 95, 364.

Twain, Mark, quoted, vi, 213, 301, 367.

Universalism, 120, 276, 283–287.

Van Amburgh’s Menagerie, 300–301, 303, 306.

Vanderbilt, Mrs. Cornelius, 268.

Vauxhall Garden, 40.

Viardot, Mme. Pauline, 125.

Victoria, Queen, 79–86, 95, 138, 147, 170, 242, 271, 330, 332, 334,
362.

Vivalla, Signor, 32–33, 36, 38.

Wagner, Johanna, 187.

Wagner, Richard, 130.

“Waldemere,” 304.

Wales, Prince of (King Edward VII.), 82, 84, 242–243, 250, 334,
362–363.

Wales, Princess of, 362.

Wallack, Lester, 293–294.

Warner, M. H., 356.

Warren, Lavinia, 255–273.

Warren, Minnie, 255, 270–271.

Washington, Augustine, 28–30.

Washington, George, 28–31, 33–35, 180.

Webster, Daniel, 68, 179, 180.

Welles, Gideon, 19–21.

Wellington, Duke of, 86, 132.

West, Captain, 149.

Westervelt, Leonidas, footnote, 40.

Whales, Barnum’s, 243–247, 291.

“What Is It?”, 242.

Wheeler & Wilson, 226–227, 287.

Whitman, Walt, 132, 168, 326.

Whittier, J. G., 371.

Wild West Show, Barnum’s, 71, 240.

Wildman, Colonel, 95.

Williams, Barney, 65.

Willis, N. P., 139.

Wilton, John Hall, 115–117, 120.

Winchilsea, Lord, 334.

Woodhull, Mayor Caleb S., 157, 165.

Wood’s Museum, 303.

Woolly Horse, The, 99–102, 212.

Wordsworth, William, 93, 94.

Wyckoff, Chevalier, 116–117.

Yankee, Mrs. Trollope’s definition of, 22.

Young, Brigham, 304–305.

Zoölogical Society, Royal, 333–340.

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
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Page 358: “carried to his birth” was printed that way.

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