XXXIV. MENAGERIE AND MUSEUM MEMORANDA
A REMARKABLE CHARACTER--OLD GRIZZLY ADAMS--THE CALIFORNIA MENAGERIE--TERRIBLY WOUNDED BY BEARS--MY UP-TOWN SHOW--EXTRAORDINARY WILL AND VIGOR--A LESSON FOR MUNCHAUSEN--THE CALIFORNIA GOLDEN PIGEONS--PIGEONS OF ALL COLORS--PROCESS OF THEIR CREATION--M. GUILLAUDEU--A NATURALIST DECEIVED--THE MOST WONDERFUL BIRDS IN THE WORLD--THE CURIOSITIES TRANSFERRED TO THE MENAGERIE--OLD ADAMS TAKEN IN--A CHANGE OF COLOR--MOTLEY THE ONLY WEAR--OLD GRIZZLY UNDECEIVED--TOUR OF THE BEAR-TAMER THROUGH THE COUNTRY--A BEAUTIFUL HUNTING SUIT--A LIFE AND DEATH STRUGGLE FOR A WAGER--OLD ADAMS WINS--HIS DEATH--THE LAST JOKE ON BARNUM--THE PRINCE OF WALES VISITS THE MUSEUM--I CALL ON THE PRINCE IN BOSTON--STEPHEN A. DOUGLAS--“BEFORE AND AFTER” IN A BARBER SHOP--HOW TOM HIGGINSON “DID” BARNUM--THE MUSEUM FLOURISHING.
I was now fairly embarked on board the good old ship American Museum, to try once more my skill as captain, and to see what fortune the voyage would bring me. Curiosities began to pour into the Museum halls, and I was eager for enterprises in the show line, whether as part of the Museum itself, or as outside accessories or accompaniments. Among the first to give me a call, with attractions sure to prove a success, was James C. Adams, of hard-earned, grizzly-bear fame. This extraordinary man was eminently what is called “a character.” He was universally known as “Grizzly Adams,” from the fact that he had captured a great many grizzly bears, at the risk and cost of fearful encounters and perils. He was brave, and with his bravery there was enough of the romantic in his nature to make him a real hero. For many years a hunter and trapper in the Rocky and Sierra Nevada Mountains, he acquired a recklessness, which, added to his natural invincible courage, rendered him one of the most striking men of the age, and he was emphatically a man of pluck. A month after I had re-purchased the Museum, he arrived in New York with his famous collection of California animals, captured by himself, consisting of twenty or thirty immense grizzly bears, at the head of which stood “Old Sampson,” together with several wolves, half a dozen different species of California bears, California lions, tigers, buffalo, elk, and “Old Neptune,” the great sea-lion from the Pacific.
Old Adams had trained all these monsters so that with him they were as docile as kittens, though many of the most ferocious among them would attack a stranger without hesitation, if he came within their grasp. In fact the training of these animals was no fool’s play, as Old Adams learned to his cost, for the terrific blows which he received from time to time, while teaching them “docility,” finally cost him his life.
Adams called on me immediately on his arrival in New York. He was dressed in his hunter’s suit of buckskin, trimmed with the skins and bordered with the hanging tails of small Rocky Mountain animals; his cap consisting of the skin of a wolf’s head and shoulders, from which depended several tails, and under which appeared his stiff, bushy, gray hair and his long, white, grizzly beard; in fact Old Adams was quite as much of a show as his beasts. They had come around Cape Horn on the clipper ship “Golden Fleece,” and a sea voyage of three and a half months had probably not added much to the beauty or neat appearance of the old bear-hunter. During our conversation, Grizzly Adams took off his cap, and showed me the top of his head. His skull was literally broken in. It had on various occasions been struck by the fearful paws of his grizzly students; and the last blow, from the bear called “General Fremont,” had laid open his brain so that its workings were plainly visible. I remarked that I thought it was a dangerous wound and might possibly prove fatal.
“Yes,” replied Adams, “that will fix me out. It had nearly healed; but old Fremont opened it for me, for the third or fourth time, before I left California, and he did his business so thoroughly, I’m a used-up man. However I reckon I may live six months or a year yet.” This was spoken as coolly as if he had been talking about the life of a dog. The immediate object of “old Adams” in calling upon me was this; I had purchased, a week previously, one-half interest in his California menagerie, from a man who had come by way of the Isthmus from California, and who claimed to own an equal interest with Adams in the show. Adams declared that the man had only advanced him some money, and did not possess the right to sell half of the concern. However, the man held a bill of sale for half of the “California Menagerie,” and old Adams finally consented to accept me as an equal partner in the speculation, saying that he guessed I could do the managing part, and he would show up the animals. I obtained a canvas tent, and erecting it on the present site of Wallack’s Theatre, Adams there opened his novel California Menagerie. On the morning of opening, a band of music preceded a procession of animal cages down Broadway and up the Bowery, old Adams dressed in his hunting costume, heading the line, with a platform wagon on which were placed three immense grizzly bears, two of which he held by chains, while he was mounted on the back of the largest grizzly, which stood in the centre and was not secured in any manner whatever. This was the bear known as “General Fremont,” and so docile had he become, that Adams said he had used him as a pack-bear to carry his cooking and hunting apparatus through the mountains for six months, and had ridden him hundreds of miles. But apparently docile as were many of these animals, there was not one among them that would not occasionally give Adams a sly blow or a sly bite when a good chance offered; hence old Adams was but a wreck of his former self, and expressed pretty nearly the truth when he said:
“Mr. Barnum, I am not the man I was five years ago. Then I felt able to stand the hug of any grizzly living, and was always glad to encounter, single handed, any sort of an animal that dared present himself. But I have been beaten to a jelly, torn almost limb from limb, and nearly chawed up and spit out by these treacherous grizzly bears. However, I am good for a few months yet, and by that time I hope we shall gain enough to make my old woman comfortable, for I have been absent from her some years.”
His wife came from Massachusetts to New York and nursed him. Dr. Johns dressed his wounds every day, and not only told Adams he could never recover, but assured his friends, that probably a very few weeks would lay him in his grave. But Adams was as firm as adamant and as resolute as a lion. Among the thousands who saw him dressed in his grotesque hunter’s suit, and witnessed the seeming vigor with which he “performed” the savage monsters, beating and whipping them into apparently the most perfect docility, probably not one suspected that this rough, fierce looking, powerful demi-savage, as he appeared to be, was suffering intense pain from his broken skull and fevered system, and that nothing kept him from stretching himself on his death-bed but his most indomitable and extraordinary will.
Old Adams liked to astonish others, as he often did, with his astounding stories, but no one could astonish him; he had seen everything and knew everything, and I was anxious to get a chance of exposing this weak point to him. A fit occasion soon presented itself. One day, while engaged in my office at the Museum, a man with marked Teutonic features and accent approached the door and asked if I would like to buy a pair of living golden pigeons.
“Yes,” I replied, “I would like a flock of golden pigeons, if I could buy them for their weight in silver; for there are no ‘golden’ pigeons in existence, unless they are made from the pure metal.”
“You shall see some golden pigeons alive,” he replied, at the same time entering my office, and closing the door after him. He then removed the lid from a small basket which he carried in his hand, and sure enough, there were snugly ensconced a pair of beautiful, living ruff-necked pigeons, as yellow as saffron, and as bright as a double-eagle fresh from the mint.
I confess I was somewhat staggered at this sight and quickly asked the man where those birds came from. A dull, lazy smile crawled over the sober face of my German visitor, as he replied in a slow, guttural tone of voice:
“What you think yourself?”
Catching his meaning, I quickly replied:
“I think it is a humbug.”
“Of course, I know you will say so; because you ‘forstha’ such things; so I shall not try to humbug you; I have color them myself.”
On further inquiry I learned that this German was a chemist, and that he possessed the art of coloring birds any hue desired, and yet retain a natural gloss on the feathers, which gave every shade the appearance of reality.
“I can paint a green pigeon or a blue pigeon, a gray pigeon or a black pigeon, a brown pigeon or a pigeon half blue or half green,” said the German; “and if you prefer it, I can paint them pink or purple, or give you a little of each color, and make you a rainbow pigeon.”
The “rainbow pigeon” did not strike me as particularly desirable; but thinking here was a good chance to catch “Grizzly Adams,” I bought the pair of golden pigeons for ten dollars, and sent them up to the “Happy Family” (where I knew Adams would soon see them), marked, “Golden Pigeons, from California.” Mr. Taylor, the great pacificator, who had charge of the Happy Family, soon came down in a state of excitement.
“Really, Mr. Barnum,” said he, “I could not think of putting those elegant golden pigeons into the Happy Family,--they are too valuable a bird, and they might get injured; they are by far the most beautiful pigeons I ever saw; and as they are so rare, I would not jeopardize their lives for anything.”
“Well,” said I, “you may put them in a separate cage, properly labelled.”
Monsieur Guillaudeu, the naturalist and taxidermist of the Museum, had been attached to that establishment since the year it was founded, in 1810. He is a Frenchman, and has read nearly everything upon natural history that was ever published in his own or in the English language. When he saw the “Golden Pigeons from California,” he was considerably astonished. He examined them with great delight for half an hour, expatiating upon their beautiful color and the near resemblance which every feature bore to the American ruff-necked pigeon. He soon came to my office, and said:
“Mr. Barnum, these golden pigeons are superb, but they cannot be from California. Audubon mentions no such bird in his work upon American Ornithology.”
I told him he had better take Audubon home with him that night, and perhaps by studying him attentively he would see occasion to change his mind.
The next day, the old naturalist called at my office and remarked:
“Mr. Barnum, those pigeons are a more rare bird than you imagine. They are not mentioned by Linnæus, Cuvier, Goldsmith, or any other writer on natural history, so far as I have been able to discover. I expect they must have come from some unexplored portion of Australia.”
“Never mind,” I replied, “we may get more light on the subject, perhaps, before long. We will continue to label them ‘California Pigeons’ until we can fix their nativity elsewhere.”
The next morning, “Old Grizzly Adams,” passed through the Museum when his eyes fell on the “Golden California Pigeons.” He looked a moment and doubtless admired. He soon after came to my office.
“Mr. Barnum,” said he, “you must let me have those California pigeons.”
“I can’t spare them,” I replied.
“But you must spare them. All the birds and animals from California ought to be together. You own half of my California menagerie, and you must lend me those pigeons.”
“Mr. Adams, they are too rare and valuable a bird to be hawked about in that manner.”
“Oh, don’t be a fool,” replied Adams. “Rare bird, indeed! Why they are just as common in California as any other pigeon! I could have brought a hundred of them from San Francisco, if I had thought of it.”
“But why did you not think of it?” I asked, with a suppressed smile.
“Because they are so common there,” said Adams, “I did not think they would be any curiosity here. I have eaten them in pigeon-pies hundreds of times, and have shot them by the thousands!”
I was ready to burst with laughter to see how readily Adams swallowed the bait, but maintaining the most rigid gravity, I replied:
“Oh well, Mr. Adams, if they are really so common in California, you had probably better take them, and you may write over and have half a dozen pairs sent to me for the Museum.”
“All right,” said Adams, “I will send over to a friend in San Francisco, and you shall have them here in a couple of months.”
I told Adams that, for certain reasons, I would prefer to have him change the label so as to have it read: “Golden Pigeons from Australia.”
“Well, I will call them what you like,” said Adams; “I suppose they are probably about as plenty in Australia as they are in California.”
Six or eight weeks after this incident, I was in the California Menagerie, and noticed that the “Golden Pigeons” had assumed a frightfully mottled appearance. Their feathers had grown out and they were half white. Adams had been so busy with his bears that he had not noticed the change. I called him up to the pigeon cage, and remarked:
“Mr. Adams, I fear you will lose your Golden Pigeons; they must be very sick; I observe they are turning quite pale.”
Adams looked at them a moment with astonishment, then turning to me, and seeing that I could not suppress a smile, he indignantly exclaimed:
“Blast the Golden Pigeons! You had better take them back to the Museum. You can’t humbug me with your painted pigeons!”
This was too much, and “I laughed till I cried,” to witness the mixed look of astonishment and vexation which marked the grizzly features of old Adams.
After the exhibition on Thirteenth Street and Broadway had been open six weeks, the doctor insisted that Adams should sell out his share in the animals and settle up all his worldly affairs, for he assured him that he was growing weaker every day, and his earthly existence must soon terminate. “I shall live a good deal longer than you doctors think for,” replied Adams doggedly; and then, seeming after all to realize the truth of the doctor’s assertion, he turned to me and said: “Well, Mr. Barnum, you must buy me out.” He named his price for his half of the “show,” and I accepted his offer. We had arranged to exhibit the bears in Connecticut and Massachusetts during the summer, in connection with a circus, and Adams insisted that I should hire him to travel for the season and exhibit the bears in their curious performances. He offered to go for $60 per week and travelling expenses of himself and wife. I replied that I would gladly engage him as long as he could stand it, but I advised him to give up business and go to his home in Massachusetts; “for,” I remarked, “you are growing weaker every day, and at best cannot stand it more than a fortnight.”
“What will you give me extra if I will travel and exhibit the bears every day for ten weeks?” added old Adams, eagerly.
“Five hundred dollars,” I replied, with a laugh.
“Done!” exclaimed Adams, “I will do it, so draw up an agreement to that effect at once. But mind you, draw it payable to my wife, for I may be too weak to attend to business after the ten weeks are up, and if I perform my part of the contract, I want her to get the $500 without any trouble.”
I drew up a contract to pay him $60 per week for his services, and if he continued to exhibit the bears for ten consecutive weeks I was then to hand him, or his wife, $500 extra.
“You have lost your $500!” exclaimed Adams on taking the contract; “for I am bound to live and earn it.”
“I hope you may, with all my heart, and a hundred years more if you desire it,” I replied.
“Call me a fool if I don’t earn the $500!” exclaimed Adams, with a triumphant laugh.
The “show” started off in a few days, and at the end of a fortnight I met it at Hartford, Connecticut.
“Well,” said I, “Adams, you seem to stand it pretty well. I hope you and your wife are comfortable?”
“Yes,” he replied, with a laugh; “and you may as well try to be comfortable, too, for your $500 is a goner.”
“All right,” I replied, “I hope you will grow better every day.”
But I saw by his pale face and other indications that he was rapidly failing. In three weeks more, I met him again at New Bedford, Massachusetts. It seemed to me, then, that he could not live a week, for his eyes were glassy and his hands trembled, but his pluck was as great as ever.
“This hot weather is pretty bad for me,” he said, “but my ten weeks are half expired, and I am good for your $500, and, probably, a month or two longer.”
This was said with as much bravado as if he was offering to bet upon a horse-race. I offered to pay him half of the $500 if he would give up and go home; but he peremptorily declined making any compromise whatever. I met him the ninth week in Boston. He had failed considerably since I last saw him, but he still continued to exhibit the bears although he was too weak to lead them in, and he chuckled over his almost certain triumph. I laughed in return, and sincerely congratulated him on his nerve and probable success. I remained with him until the tenth week was finished, and handed him his $500. He took it with a leer of satisfaction, and remarked, that he was sorry I was a teetotaler, for he would like to stand treat!
Just before the menagerie left New York, I had paid $150 for a new hunting suit, made of beaver skins, similar to the one which Adams had worn. This I intended for Herr Driesbach, the animal tamer, who was engaged by me to take the place of Adams, whenever he should be compelled to give up. Adams, on starting from New York, asked me to loan this new dress to him to perform in once in a while in a fair day, where he had a large audience, for his own costume was considerably soiled. I did so, and now when I handed him his $500, he remarked:
“Mr. Barnum, I suppose you are going to give me this new hunting dress?”
“Oh, no,” I replied, “I got that for your successor, who will exhibit the bears to-morrow; besides, you have no possible use for it.”
“Now, don’t be mean, but lend me the dress, if you won’t give it to me, for I want to wear it home to my native village.”
I could not refuse the poor old man anything, and I therefore replied:
“Well, Adams, I will lend you the dress; but you will send it back to me?”
“Yes, when I have done with it,” he replied, with an evident chuckle of triumph.
I thought to myself, he will soon be done with it, and replied: “That’s all right.”
A new idea evidently struck him, for, with a brightening look of satisfaction, he said:
“Now, Barnum, you have made a good thing out of the California menagerie, and so have I; but you will make a heap more. So if you won’t give me this new hunter’s dress, just draw a little writing, and sign it, saying that I may wear it until I have done with it.”
Of course, I knew that in a few days at longest, he would be “done” with this world altogether, and, to gratify him, I cheerfully drew and signed the paper.
“Come, old Yankee, I’ve got you this time--see if I haint!” exclaimed Adams, with a broad grin, as he took the paper.
I smiled, and said:
“All right, my dear fellow; the longer you live the better I shall like it.”
We parted, and he went to Neponset, a small town near Boston, where his wife and daughter lived. He took at once to his bed, and never rose from it again. The excitement had passed away, and his vital energies could accomplish no more. The fifth day after arriving home, the physician told him he could not live until the next morning. He received the announcement in perfect calmness, and with the most apparent indifference; then, turning to his wife, with a smile he requested her to have him buried in the new hunting suit. “For,” said he, “Barnum agreed to let me have it until I have done with it, and I was determined to fix his flint this time. He shall never see that dress again.” His wife assured him that his request should be complied with. He then sent for the clergyman and they spent several hours in communing together.
Adams, who, rough and untutored, had nevertheless, a natural eloquence, and often put his thoughts in good language, said to the clergyman, that though he had told some pretty big stories about his bears, he had always endeavored to do the straight thing between man and man. “I have attended preaching every day, Sundays and all,” said he, “for the last six years. Sometimes an old grizzly gave me the sermon, sometimes it was a panther; often it was the thunder and lightning, the tempest, or the hurricane on the peaks of the Sierra Nevada, or in the gorges of the Rocky Mountains; but whatever preached to me, it always taught me the majesty of the Creator, and revealed to me the undying and unchanging love of our kind Father in heaven. Although I am a pretty rough customer,” continued the dying man, “I fancy my heart is in about the right place, and look with confidence for that rest which I so much need, and which I have never enjoyed upon earth.” He then desired the clergyman to pray with him, after which he took him by the hand, thanked him for his kindness, and bade him farewell. In another hour his spirit had taken its flight. It was said by those present, that his face lighted into a smile as the last breath escaped him, and that smile he carried into his grave. Almost his last words were: “Won’t Barnum open his eyes when he finds I have humbugged him by being buried in his new hunting dress?” That dress was indeed the shroud in which he was entombed.
And that was the last on earth of “Old Grizzly Adams.”
After the death of Adams, the grizzly bears and other animals were added to the collection in my Museum, and I employed Herr Driesbach, the celebrated lion-tamer, as an exhibitor. Some time afterwards the bears were sold to a menagerie company, but I kept “old Neptune,” the sea-lion, for several years, sending him occasionally for exhibition in other cities, as far west as Chicago. This noble and ferocious animal was a very great curiosity and attracted great attention. He was kept in a large tank, which was supplied with salt water every day from the Fall River steamboats, whose deck hands filled my barrels on every passage to the city with salt water from the deepest part of Long Island Sound. On his tours through the country the sea-lion lived very well in fresh water.
It was at one time my serious intention to engage in an American Indian Exhibition on a stupendous scale. I proposed to secure at the far West not less than one hundred of the best specimens of full-blood Indians, with their squaws and papooses, their paint, ponies, dresses, and weapons, for a general tour throughout the United States and Europe. The plan comprehended a grand entry at every town and city where the Indians were to exhibit--the Indians in all the glory of paint and feathers, beads and bright blankets, riding on their ponies, followed by tame buffaloes, elks and antelopes; then an exhibition on a lot large enough to admit of a display of all the Indian games and dances, their method of hunting, their style of cooking, living, etc. Such an exhibition is perfectly practicable now to any one who has the capital and tact to undertake it, and a sure fortune would follow the enterprise.
On the 13th of October, 1860, the Prince of Wales, then making a tour in the United States, in company with his suite, visited the American Museum. This was a very great compliment, since it was the only place of amusement the Prince attended in this country. Unfortunately, I was in Bridgeport at the time, and the Museum was in charge of my manager, Mr. Greenwood. Knowing that the name of the American Museum was familiar throughout Europe, I was quite confident of a call from the Prince, and from regard to his filial feelings I had, a day or two after his arrival in New York, ordered to be removed to a dark closet a frightful wax figure of his royal mother, which, for nineteen years, had excited the admiration of the million and which bore a placard with the legend, “An exact likeness of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, taken from life.” Mr. Greenwood, who was an Englishman, was deeply impressed with the condescension of the Prince, and backed his way through the halls, followed by the Prince, the Duke of Newcastle, and other members of the royal suite, and he actually trembled as he attempted to do the reception honors.
Presently they arrived in front of the platform on which were exhibited the various living human curiosities and monstrosities. The tall giant woman made her best bow; the fat boy waddled out and kissed his hand; the “negro turning white” showed his ivory and his spots; the dwarfs kicked up their heels, and like the clown in the ring, cried “here we are again”; the living skeleton stalked out, reminding the Prince, perhaps, of the wish of Sidney Smith in a hot day that he could lay off his flesh and sit in his bones; the Albino family went through their performances; the “What is it?” grinned; the Infant Drummer-boy beat a tattoo; and the Aztec children were shown and described as specimens of a remarkable and ancient race in Mexico and Central America. The Prince and his suite seemed pleased, and Greenwood was duly delighted. He was, however, quite overwhelmed with the responsibility of his position, especially whenever the Prince addressed him, and leading the way to the wax figure hall he called attention to the figures of the Siamese Twins and the Quaker Giant and his wife.
“I suppose,” said the Prince, “these figures are representatives of different living curiosities exhibited from time to time in your Museum?”
“Yes, your Royal Highness, all of them,” replied the confused Greenwood, and as “all of them” included very fair figures of the Emperors Nicholas and Napoleon, the Empress Eugenie, and other equally distinguished personages, the Prince must have thought that the Museum had contained, in times past, some famous “living curiosities.” On leaving the Museum, the Prince asked to see Mr. Barnum, and when he was told that I was out of town, he remarked: “We have missed the most interesting feature of the establishment.” A few days afterwards, when the Prince was in Boston, happening to be in that city, I sent my card to him at the Revere House, and was cordially received. He smiled when I reminded him that I had seen him when he was a little boy, on the occasion of one of my visits to Buckingham Palace with General Tom Thumb. The Prince told me that he was much pleased with his recent inspection of my Museum, and that he and his suite had left their autographs in the establishment, as mementos of their visit.
When I arrived in Boston, by the by, on this visit, the streets were thronged with the military and citizens assembled to receive the Prince of Wales, and I had great difficulty, in starting from the depot to the Revere House, in getting through the assembled crowd. At last, a policeman espied me, and taking me for Senator Stephen A. Douglas, he cried out, at the top of his voice: “Make way there for Judge Douglas’s carriage.” The crowd opened a passage for my carriage at short notice, and shouted out “Douglas, Douglas, hurrah for Douglas.” I took off my hat and bowed, smiling from the windows on each side of my carriage; the cheers and enthusiasm increased as I advanced, and all the way to the Revere House I continued to bow Judge Douglas’s grateful acknowledgments for the enthusiastic reception. There must have been at least fifty thousand people who joined in this spontaneous demonstration in honor of Judge Douglas.
When Douglas ran for the presidency in 1860, my democratic friend, J. D. Johnson, bet me a hat that the Judge would be elected. Douglas passed through Bridgeport on his electioneering tour down East, and made a brief speech from the rear platform of the car, to the people assembled at the depot. The next day Mr. Johnson met me in a crowded barber shop and asked me if I had ever seen Douglas? I answered that I had, and Johnson then asked what sort of a looking man he was. Remembering our hat bet, and knowing that Johnson expected a pretty hard description of his favorite candidate, I said:
“He is a red-nosed, blear-eyed, dumpy, swaggering chap, looking like a regular bar-room loafer.”
“I thought as much,” said Johnson, “for here is the New Haven paper of this morning, which says that he is the very image, in personal appearance, of P. T. Barnum.”
When the roar that followed subsided, I told Johnson I must have had some other man in my mind’s eye, when I answered his question.
One day I went out of the Museum in great haste to Tom Higginson’s barber shop, in the Park Hotel, where my daily tonsorial operations were performed, and finding a rough-looking Hibernian just ahead of me, I told him that if he would be good enough to give me his “turn,” I would pay his bill; to which he consented, and taking his turn and my own shave, I speedily departed, saying to Tom, as I went out: “Fix out this man, and for whatever he has done I will pay the bill.”
Two or three clerks and reporters, who were in the shop, and who knew me, put their freshly-dressed heads together and suggested to Tom that here was an opportunity to perpetrate a practical joke on Barnum, and they explained the plan, in which Higginson readily acquiesced.
“Now,” says one of them to the Irishman, “get everything done which you like, and it will cost you nothing; it will be charged to the gentleman to whom you gave your turn.”
“Sure and a liberal gintleman he must be,” said Pat.
“Will you take a bath?” asked the barber.
“That indade I will, if the gintleman pays,” was the reply.
When he came out of the bath he was asked if he would be shampooed. “And what is that?” asked the bewildered Hibernian. The process was explained and he consented to go through with the operation. Thereafter, moved and instigated thereto by the barber and his confederates, Pat permitted Higginson to dye his red hair and whiskers a beautiful brown, and then to curl them. When all was done, the son of Erin looked in the mirror and could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyes. A more thorough transformation could scarcely be conceived, and as he went out of the door he said to Higginson:
“Give the generous gintleman me best complements and tell him he can have my turn ony day on the same terms.”
One of the newspaper reporters, who assisted in the joke, published the whole story the next day, and when I called at the barber shop a bill for $1.75 was presented, which, of course, I could do no less than to pay. The joke went the rounds of the papers; and after a few months, an English friend sent me the whole story in a copy of the London Family Herald--a publication that issues about half a million of copies weekly. Mr. Currier, the lithographer, put the joke into pictorial form, representing the Irishman as he appeared before, also as he appeared after the “barbar-ous” operations. After all, it was a good advertisement for me, as well as for Higginson; and it would have been pretty difficult to serve me up about these times in printers’ ink in any form that I should have objected to.
Meanwhile, the Museum flourished better than ever; and I began to make large holes in the mortgages which covered the property of my wife in New York and in Connecticut. Still, there was an immense amount of debts resting upon all her real estate, and nothing but time, economy, industry and diligence would remove the burdens.
XXXV. EAST BRIDGEPORT
ANOTHER NEW HOME--LINDENCROFT--PROGRESS OF MY PET CITY--THE CHESTNUT WOOD FIRE--HOW IT BECAME OLD HICKORY--INDUCEMENTS TO SETTLERS--MY OFFER--EVERY MAN HIS OWN HOUSE-OWNER--WHISKEY AND TOBACCO--RISE IN REAL-ESTATE--PEMBROKE LAKE--WASHINGTON PARK--GREAT MANUFACTORIES--WHEELER AND WILSON--SCHUYLER, HARTLEY AND GRAHAM--HOTCHKISS, SON AND COMPANY--STREET NAMES--MANY THOUSAND SHADE TREES--BUSINESS IN THE NEW CITY--UNPARALLELED GROWTH AND PROSPERITY--PROBABILITIES IN THE FUTURE--SITUATION OF BRIDGEPORT--ITS ADVANTAGES AND PROSPECTS--THE SECOND, IF NOT THE FOREMOST CITY IN CONNECTICUT.
For nearly five years my family had been knocked about, the sport of adverse fortune, without a settled home. Sometimes we boarded, and at other times we lived in a small hired house. Two of my daughters were married, and my youngest daughter, Pauline, was away at boarding school. The health of my wife was much impaired, and she especially needed a fixed residence which she could call “home.” Accordingly, in 1860, I built a pleasant house adjoining that of my daughter Caroline, in Bridgeport, and one hundred rods west of the grounds of Iranistan. I had originally a tract of twelve acres, but half of it had been devoted to my daughter, and on the other half I now proposed to establish my own residence. To prepare the site it was necessary to cart in several thousands of loads of dirt to fill up the hollow and to make the broad, beautiful lawn, in the centre of which I erected the new house, and after supplying the place with fountains, shrubbery, statuary and all that could adorn it, I named my new home “Lindencroft.” It was, in truth, a very delightful place, complete and convenient in all respects, and there is scarcely a more beautiful residence in Bridgeport now.
Meanwhile, my pet city, East Bridgeport, was progressing with giant strides. The Wheeler and Wilson Sewing Machine manufactory had been quadrupled in size, and employed about a thousand workmen. Numerous other large factories had been built, and scores of first-class houses were erected, besides many neat, but smaller and cheaper houses for laborers and mechanics. That piece of property, which, but eight years before, had been farm land, with scarcely six houses upon the whole tract, was now a beautiful new city, teeming with busy life, and looking as neat as a new pin. The greatest pleasure which I then took, or even now take, was in driving 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. And reflection on this subject only confirmed in my mind the great doctrine of compensations. How plain was it in my case, that an “apparent evil” was a “blessing in disguise!” How palpable was it now, that, had it not been for the clock failure, this prosperity could not have existed here. An old citizen of Bridgeport used to say to me, when, a few years before, he had noticed my zeal in trying to build up the east side:
“Mr. Barnum, your contemplated new city is like a fire made with chestnut wood; it burns so long as you keep blowing it, and when you stop, it goes out!”
I like, now-a-days to laugh at him about his “chestnut wood fire.” Of course, I did blow the fire in all possible ways, but the result proved that the wood which fed the fire was not chestnut, but the best and soundest old hickory. The situation was everything that could be desired, and I knew that in order to induce manufacturers to establish their business in the new city, a prime requisite was the advantage I could offer to employers, agents and workmen, to secure good and cheap homes in the vicinity of their place of labor. To show the method I adopted to secure this end, I copy from the files of the Bridgeport Standard, an offer which I made, and the editorial comment thereon. This offer, I may add, was not so much for the purpose of blowing the fire, which was already fairly roaring with a lively blaze, as for the sake of helping those who were willing to help themselves, and, at the same time, contribute to my happiness, as well as their own, by forwarding the growth of the new city.
“NEW HOUSES IN EAST BRIDGEPORT.
“EVERY MAN TO OWN THE HOUSE HE LIVES IN.
“There is a demand at the present moment for two hundred more dwelling-houses in East Bridgeport. It is evident that if the money expended in rent can be paid towards the purchase of a house and lot, the person so paying will in a few years own the house he lives in, instead of always remaining a tenant. In view of this fact, I propose to loan money at six per cent to any number, not exceeding fifty, industrious, temperate and respectable individuals, who desire to build their own houses.
“They may engage their own builders, and build according to any reasonable plan (which I may approve), or I will have it done for them at the lowest possible rate, without a farthing profit to myself or agent, I putting the lot at a fair price and advancing eighty per cent of the entire cost; the other party to furnish twenty per cent in labor, material or money, and they may pay me in small sums weekly, monthly or quarterly, any amount not less than three per cent per quarter, all of which is to apply on the money advanced until it is paid.
“It has been ascertained that by purchasing building materials for cash, and in large quantities, nice dwellings, painted and furnished with green blinds, can be erected at a cost of $1,500 or $1,800, for house, lot, fences, etc., all complete, and if six or eight friends prefer to join in erecting a neat block of houses with verandas in front, the average cost need not exceed about $1,300 per house and lot. If, however, some parties would prefer a single or double house that would cost $2,500 to $3,000, I shall be glad to meet their views.
P. T. BARNUM.
“February 16, 1864.”
The editor of the Standard printed the following upon my announcement:
“AN ADVANTAGEOUS OFFER.--We have read with great pleasure Mr. Barnum’s advertisement, offering assistance to any number of persons, not exceeding fifty, in the erection of dwelling houses. This plan combines all the advantages and none of the objections of Building Associations. Any individual who can furnish in cash, labor, or material, one-fifth only of the amount requisite for the erection of a dwelling house, can receive the other four-fifths from Mr. Barnum, rent his house and by merely paying what may be considered as only a fair rent for a few years, find himself at last the owner, and all further payments cease. In the mean time, he can be making such inexpensive improvements in his property as would greatly improve its market value, and besides have the advantage of any rise in the value of real estate. It is not often that such a generous offer is made to working men. It is a loan on what would be generally considered inadequate security, at six per cent, at a time when a much better use of money can be made by any capitalist. It is therefore generous. Mr. Barnum may make money by the operation. Very well, perhaps he will, but if he does, it will be by making others richer, not poorer; by helping those who need assistance, not by hindering them, and we can only wish that every rich man would follow such a noble example, and thus, without injury to themselves, give a helping hand to those who need it. Success to the enterprise. We hope that fifty men will be found before the week ends, each of whom desires in such a manner to obtain a roof which he can call his own.”
Quite a number of men at once availed themselves of my offer, and eventually succeeded in paying for their homes without much effort. I am sorry to add, that rent is still paid, month after month, by many men who would long ago have owned neat homesteads, free from all incumbrances, if they had accepted my proposals and had signed and kept the temperance pledge, and given up the use of tobacco. The money they have since expended for whiskey 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 far 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!
I built a number of houses to let, in order to accommodate those who were unable to buy. I find this the most unpleasant part of my connection with the new city. The interest on the investment, the taxes, repairs, wear and tear, and insurance render tenant-houses the most unprofitable property to own; besides which the landlord is often looked upon by the tenants as an overbearing, grasping man and one whose property it is their highest duty to injure as much as possible; for all concerned therefore, it is much better that every person should somehow manage to own the roof he sleeps under. Men are more independent and feel happier who live in their own houses; they keep the premises in neater order, and they make better citizens. Hence I always encourage poor people to become householders if possible, for I find that oftentimes when they have lived long in one of my houses they think it very hard if the property is not given to them. They argue that the landlord is rich and would never feel the loss of one little place, not stopping to consider that the aggregate of a great many “little places” thus given away would make the landlord poor,--nor would the tenants be benefited so much by homes that were given to them as they would by homes that were the fruits of their own industry and economy.
The land in East Bridgeport was originally purchased by me at from $50 to $75, and from those sums to $300 per acre; and the average cost of all I bought on that side of the river was $200 per acre. Some portions of this land are now assessed in the Bridgeport tax-list at from $3,000 to $4,000 per acre. At the time I joined Mr. Noble in this enterprise, the site we purchased was not a part of the City of Bridgeport. It is now, however, a most important section of the city, and the three bridges connecting the two banks of the river, and originally chartered as toll-bridges, have been bought by the city and thrown open as free highways to the public. A horse railroad, in which I took one-tenth part of the stock, connects the two portions of the city, extending westerly beyond Iranistan and Lindencroft, while a branch road runs to the beautiful “Sea-side Park” on the Sound shore.
The eastern line of East Bridgeport, when I first purchased so large a portion of the property, was bounded by a long, narrow swale or valley of salt meadow, through which a small stream passed, and which was flooded with salt water at every tide. At considerable expense, I erected a dam at the foot of this meadow, and thus converted this heretofore filthy, repulsive, mosquito-inhabited and malaria-breeding marsh into a charming sheet of water, which is now known as Pembroke Lake. If this improvement had not been made, in all probability the eastern portion of my property would never have been devoted to dwelling houses; as it is, Barnum Street has been extended by means of a bridge across the lake, and the eastern shore is already studded with houses. The land on that side of the lake lies in the town of Stratford, and the growth of the new settlement promises to be as rapid as that of East Bridgeport.
General Noble, in laying out the first portion of our new city, named several streets after members of his own family, and also of mine. Hence, we have a “Noble” Street--and a noble street it is; a “Barnum” Street; while other streets are named “William,” from Mr. Noble; “Harriet,” the Christian name of Mrs. Noble; “Hallett,” the maiden name of my wife; and “Caroline,” “Helen,” and “Pauline,” the names of my three daughters. There is also the “Barnum School District” and school-house; so that it seems as if, for a few scores of years at least, posterity would know who were the founders of the new, flourishing and beautiful city. We have yet another enduring and ever-growing monument in the many thousands of trees which we set out and which now line and gratefully shade the streets of East Bridgeport.
Figures can scarcely give an appreciable idea of the rapid growth and material prosperity of this important portion of the City of Bridgeport; but the city records show that my first purchase of land on that side of the river was appraised in the Bridgeport assessment list, in October, 1851, at $36,000, while in July, 1859, the same real estate, with improvements, less the Washington Park, the Public School lot in Barnum District, the land for streets, and four church lots, was valued in the city assessment list at $1,200,000. When we bought the property there were but six old farm houses on the entire tract, when the centre bridge was built and opened. Now there are on the same land hundreds of dwelling-houses, some of them as fine as any in the State. Three handsome churches, Methodist, Episcopal and Congregational, front on the beautiful Washington Park of seven acres, which Mr. Noble and myself presented to the city, and which would be worth $100,000 to-day for building lots. This pleasant park is enclosed by a substantial iron fence, and contains a fine, natural grove of full-grown trees, while the surrounding streets are lined with charming residences, and, on one or more evenings in the week during the summer, the city band, or the Wheeler & Wilson band, plays in the Park for the amusement and benefit of the citizens of East Bridgeport.
Some of the largest and most prosperous manufactories in the United States are located in the new city. Among these are the Wheeler & Wilson Sewing Machine Manufactories, which cover four entire squares, with fire-proof buildings, are rapidly extending, and employ more than one thousand operators; the Howe Sewing Machine Factory is also an immense edifice, employing nearly the same number of men; Schuyler, Hartley, Graham & Company’s great cartridge and ammunition works, almost supply the armies of the world with the means of destruction; besides these, the Winchester Arms Manufactory for making the “twenty-shooter breech-loader”; a large brass manufactory; an immense hat manufactory; and Hotchkiss, Sons & Company’s Hardware Manufactory, are among the more prominent establishments, and other and like concerns are constantly adding. Indeed, at this time (1869) one-fourth of the population and three-fourths of the manufacturing capital and business of Bridgeport are located on the east side within limits which, in 1850, contained only six old farm houses.
The following details respecting the business of some of the largest establishments will give an idea of the manufacturing industries of East Bridgeport. The Wheeler and Wilson Manufacturing Company employ more than $4,000,000 in their business. Their employees number ten hundred, and they manufacture an average of three hundred sewing machines per day; the total number of machines manufactured up to July 1, 1869, is over four hundred thousand, and the factories cover six and one-half acres of ground. The Union Metallic Cartridge Company, Messrs. Schuyler, Hartley, Graham & Co., have a capital of $350,000, employ two hundred and fifty men, and manufacture cartridges and primers of Berdan’s patent military and sporting caps, and elastic gun waddings, at the rate of 1,000,000 cartridges, 720,000 primers, and 720,000 caps per week, and to July 1, 1869, they had manufactured 50,000,000 cartridges. The Bridgeport Brass Company employ two hundred men, have a capital of $150,000, and manufacture rolled brass wire and tubing, kerosene burners, lamp goods, corset steels, oil cans, etc., and roll and use in these goods 1,000,000 pounds of brass a year. The Winchester Arms Company have a capital of $450,000, employ three hundred men, and manufacture the Winchester rifle, cartridges and ammunition. The Howe Machine Company have a capital of $300,000, employ five hundred men, and manufacture sewing machines at the rate of one hundred and fifty per day. Messrs. Hotchkiss and Sons, with a capital of $162,500, and one hundred and twenty-five men, manufacture hardware, currycombs, game traps, and harness snaps to the amount of $20,000 per month. The Bridgeport Manufacturing Company, with fifty men, and a capital of $300,000, manufacture the American submerged pump. The Odorless Rubber Company, with fifty men, and $200,000 capital, manufacture soft rubber goods, hose, clothing, etc. The American Silver Steel Company, manufacture steel from the Mine Hill, Roxbury, Connecticut, Spathic ore, and employ two hundred and fifty men, and a capital of $500,000. Messrs. Glover Sanford and Sons, employ two hundred and fifty men, and manufacture two hundred and fifty dozen wool hats per day. The New York Tap and Die Company, with a capital of $150,000, and one hundred men, manufacture taps, dies, drills, bits, etc. These companies thus employ about six and one-half millions in capital, and nearly twenty-seven hundred men, and expend more than $2,000,000 a year in wages to the operatives.
In addition, there are several substantial brick blocks devoted to business; there are book stores, drug stores, dry goods stores, jewelry stores, boot and shoe shops and stores, tailoring and furnishing establishments, more than twenty grocery stores, six meat markets, three fish markets, coal, wood, lumber and brick yards, steam flouring mills, and a large brick hotel. The water and gas supplies are the same as those afforded on the other side of the river. It is quite within the bounds of probability that in the course of twenty years, the east side will contain the larger proportion of the inhabitants. A post-office and a railway station will soon be built on that side of the river. A new iron bridge is about to connect the two parts of the city, affording additional facilities for inter-communication. In 1868, March 2, a special committee of the Common Council reported the census of the City of Bridgeport as follows: First ward, 7,397; Second ward, 4,237; Third ward, East Bridgeport, 5,497; total, 17,131. In this enumeration, our new city contained nearly one-third of the entire population, and its increase since has been far more rapid than that of any other part of Bridgeport.
The entire City of Bridgeport is advancing in population and prosperity with a rapidity far beyond that of any other city in Connecticut, and everything indicates that it will soon take its proper position as the second, if not the first, city in the State. Its situation as the terminus of the Naugatuck and the Housatonic railways, its accessibility to New York, with its two daily steamboats to and from the metropolis, and its dozen daily trains of the New York and Boston and Shore Line railways, are all elements of prosperity which are rapidly telling in favor of this busy, beautiful and charming city.
XXXVI. MORE ABOUT THE MUSEUM
ANOTHER RE-OPENING--A CHERRY-COLORED CAT--THE CAT LET OUT OF THE BAG--MY FIRST WHALING EXPEDITION--PLANS FOR CAPTURE--SUCCESS OF THE SCHEME--TRANSPORTING LIVING WHALES BY LAND--PUBLIC EXCITEMENT--THE GREAT TANK--SALT WATER PUMPED FROM THE BAY TO THE MUSEUM--MORE WHALES--EXPEDITION TO LABRADOR--THE FIRST HIPPOPOTAMUS IN AMERICA--TROPICAL FISH--COMMODORE NUTT AND HIS FIRST “ENGAGEMENT”--THE TWO DROMIOS--PRESIDENT LINCOLN SEES COMMODORE NUTT--WADING ASHORE--A QUESTION OF LEGS--SELF-DECEPTION--THE GOLDEN ANGEL FISH--ANNA SWAN, THE NOVA SCOTIA GIANTESS--THE TALLEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD--INDIAN CHIEFS--EXPEDITION TO CYPRUS--MY AGENT IN A PASHA’S HAREM.
On the 13th of October, 1860, the American Museum was the scene of another re-opening, which was, in fact, the commencement of the fall dramatic season, the summer months having been devoted to pantomime. A grand flourish of trumpets in the way of newspaper advertisements and flaming posters drew a crowded house. Among other attractions, it was announced that Mr. Barnum would introduce a mysterious novelty never before seen in that establishment. I appeared upon the stage behind a small table, in front of which was nailed a white sack, on which was inscribed, in large letters, “The cat let out of the bag.” I then stated that, having spent two of the summer months in the country, leaving the Museum in charge of Mr. Greenwood, he had purchased a curiosity with which he was not satisfied; but, for my part, I thought he had received his money’s worth, and I proposed to exhibit it to the audience, for the purpose of getting their opinion on the subject. I stated that a farmer came in from the country, and said he had got a “cherry-colored cat” at home which he would like to sell; that Mr. Greenwood gave him a writing promising to pay him twenty-five dollars for such a cat delivered in good health, provided it was not artificially colored; and that the cat was then in the bag in front of the table, ready for exhibition. Whereupon, my assistant drew from the bag a common black cat, and I informed the audience that when the farmer brought his “cherry-colored cat,” he quietly remarked to Mr. Greenwood, that, of course, he meant “a cat of the color of black cherries.” The laughter that followed this narration was uproarious, and the audience unanimously voted that the “cherry-colored cat,” all things considered, was well worth twenty-five dollars. The cat, adorned with a collar bearing the inscription, “The Cherry-colored Cat,” was then placed in the cage of the “Happy Family,” and the story getting into the newspapers, it became another advertisement of the Museum.
In 1861, I learned that some fishermen at the mouth of the St. Lawrence had succeeded in capturing a living white whale, and I was also informed that a whale of this kind, if placed in a box lined with sea-weed and partially filled with salt water, could be transported by land to a considerable distance, and be kept alive. It was simply necessary that an attendant, supplied with a barrel of salt water and a sponge, should keep the mouth and blow-hole of the whale constantly moist. It seemed incredible that a living whale could be “expressed” by railroad on a five days’ journey, and although I knew nothing of the white whale or its habits, since I had never seen one, I determined to experiment in that direction. Landsman as I was, I believed that I was quite as competent as a St. Lawrence fisherman to superintend the capture and transportation of a live white whale.
When I had fully made up my mind to attempt the task, I made every provision for the expedition, and took precaution against every conceivable contingency. I determined upon the capture and transport to my Museum of at least two living whales, and prepared in the basement of the building a brick and cement tank, forty feet long, and eighteen feet wide, for the reception of the marine monsters. When this was done, taking two trusty assistants, I started upon my whaling expedition. Going by rail to Quebec, and thence by the Grand Trunk Railroad, ninety miles, to Wells River, where I chartered a sloop to Elbow Island (Isle au Coudres), in the St. Lawrence River, and found the place populated by Canadian French people of the most ignorant and dirty description. They were hospitable, but frightfully filthy, and they gained their livelihood by farming and fishing. Immense quantities of maple-sugar are made there, and in exploring about the island, we saw hundreds of birch-bark buckets suspended to the trees to catch the sap. After numerous consultations, extending over three whole days, with a party of twenty-four fishermen, whose gibberish was almost as untranslatable as it was unbearable, I succeeded in contracting for their services to capture for me, alive and unharmed, a couple of white whales, scores of which could at all times be discovered by their “spouting” within sight of the island. I was to pay these men a stipulated price per day for their labor, and if they secured the whales, they were to have a liberal bonus.
The plan decided upon was to plant in the river a “kraal,” composed of stakes driven down in the form of a V, leaving the broad end open for the whales to enter. This was done in a shallow place, with the point of the kraal towards shore; and if by chance one or more whales should enter the trap at high water, my fishermen were to occupy the entrance with their boats, and keep up a tremendous splashing and noise till the tide receded, when the frightened whales would find themselves nearly “high and dry,” or with too little water to enable them to swim, and their capture would be the next thing in order. This was to be effected by securing a slip-noose of stout rope over their tails, and towing them to the sea-weed lined boxes in which they were to be transported to New York.
All this was simple enough “on paper”; but several days elapsed before a single spout was seen inside the kraal, though scores of whales were constantly around and near it. In time, it became exceedingly aggravating to see the whales glide so near the trap without going into it, and our patience was sorely tried. One day a whale actually went into the kraal, and the fishermen proposed to capture it; but I wanted another, and while we waited for number two to go in, number one knowing the proverb, probably, and having an eye to his own interests, went out. Two days afterwards, I was awakened at daylight by a great noise, and amid the clamor of many voices, I caught the cheering news that two whales were even then within the kraal, and hastily dressing myself, I took a boat for the exciting scene. The real difficulty, which was to get the whales into the trap, was now over, and the details of capture and transportation could safely be left to my trusty assistants and the fishermen. What they were to do until the tide went out and thereafter was once more fully explained; and after depositing money enough to pay the bill, if the capture was successful, I started at once for Quebec. There I learned by telegraph that both whales had been caught, boxed, and put on board sloop for the nearest point where they could be transhipped in the cars. I had made every arrangement with the railway officials, and had engaged a special car for the precious and curious freight.
Elated as I was at the result of this novel enterprise, I had no idea of hiding my light under a bushel, and I immediately wrote a full account of the expedition, its intention, and its success, for publication in the Quebec and Montreal newspapers. I also prepared a large number of brief notices which I left at every station on the line, instructing telegraph operators to “take off” all “whaling messages” that passed over the wires to New York, and to inform their fellow townsmen at what hour the whales would pass through each place. The result of these arrangements may be imagined; at every station crowds of people came to the cars to see the whales which were travelling by land to Barnum’s Museum, and those who did not see the monsters with their own eyes, at least saw some one who had seen them, and I thus secured a tremendous advertisement, seven hundred miles long, for the American Museum.
When I arrived in New York, a dozen despatches had come from the “whaling expedition,” and they continued to come every few hours. These I bulletined in front of the Museum and sent copies to the papers. The excitement was intense, and, when at last, these marine monsters arrived and were swimming in the tank that had been prepared for them, anxious thousands literally rushed to see the strangest curiosities ever exhibited in New York.
Thus was my first whaling expedition a great success; but I did not know how to feed or to take care of the monsters, and, moreover, they were in fresh water, and this, with the bad air in the basement, may have hastened their death, which occurred a few days after their arrival, but not before thousands of people had seen them. Not at all discouraged, I resolved to try again. My plan now was to connect the water of New York bay with the basement of the Museum by means of iron pipes under the street, and a steam engine on the dock to pump the water. This I actually did at a cost of several thousand dollars, with an extra thousand to the aldermanic “ring” for the privilege, and I constructed another tank in the second floor of the building. This tank was built of slate and French glass plates six feet long, five feet broad, and one inch thick, imported expressly for the purpose, and the tank, when completed, was twenty-four feet square, and cost $4,000. It was kept constantly supplied with what would be called Hibernically, “fresh” salt water, and inside of it I soon had two white whales, caught, as the first had been, hundreds of miles below Quebec, to which city they were carried by a sailing vessel, and from thence were brought by railway to New York.
Of this whole enterprise, I confess I was very proud that I had originated it and brought it to such successful conclusion. It was a very great sensation, and it added thousands of dollars to my treasury. The whales, however, soon died--their sudden and immense popularity was too much for them--and I then despatched agents to the coast of Labrador, and not many weeks thereafter I had two more live whales disporting themselves in my monster aquarium. Certain envious people started the report that my whales were only porpoises, but this petty malice was turned to good account, for Professor Agassiz, of Harvard University, came to see them, and gave me a certificate that they were genuine white whales, and this indorsement I published far and wide.
The tank which I had built in the basement served for a yet more interesting exhibition. On the 12th of August, 1861, I began to exhibit the first and only genuine hippopotamus that had ever been seen in America, and for several weeks the Museum was thronged by the curious who came to see the monster. I advertised him extensively and ingeniously, as “the great behemoth of the Scriptures,” giving a full description of the animal and his habits, and thousands of cultivated people, biblical students, and others, were attracted to this novel exhibition. There was quite as much excitement in the city over this wonder in the animal creation as there was in London when the first hippopotamus was placed in the zoölogical collection in Regent’s Park.
Having a stream of salt water at my command at every high tide, I was enabled to make splendid additions to the beautiful aquarium, which I was the first to introduce into this country. I not only procured living sharks, porpoises, sea horses, and many rare fish from the sea in the vicinity of New York, but in the summer of 1861, I despatched a fishing smack and crew to the Island of Bermuda and its neighborhood, whence they brought scores of specimens of the beautiful “angel fish,” and numerous other tropical fish of brilliant colors and unique forms. These fish were a great attraction to all classes, and especially to naturalists and others, who commended me for serving the ends of science as well as amusement. But as cold weather approached, these tropical fish began to die, and before the following spring, they were all gone. I, therefore, replenished this portion of my aquaria during the summer, and for several summers in succession, by sending a special vessel to the Gulf for specimens. These operations were very expensive, but I really did not care for the cost, if I could only secure valuable attractions.
In the same year, I bought out the Aquarial Gardens in Boston, and soon after removed the collection to the Museum. I had now the finest assemblage of fresh as well as salt water fish ever exhibited, and with a standing offer of one hundred dollars for every living brook-trout, weighing four pounds or more, which might be brought to me, I soon had three or four of these beauties, which trout-fishermen from all parts of the country came to New York to see. But the trout department of my Museum required so much care, and was attended with such constant risks, that I finally gave it up.
In December, 1861, I made one of my most “palpable hits.” I was visited at the Museum by a most remarkable dwarf, who was a sharp, intelligent little fellow, with a deal of drollery and wit. He had a splendid head, was perfectly formed, was very attractive, and, in short, for a “showman,” he was a perfect treasure. His name, he told me, was George Washington Morrison Nutt, and his father was Major Rodnia Nutt, a substantial farmer, of Manchester, New Hampshire. I was not long in despatching an efficient agent to Manchester, and in overcoming the competition with other showmen who were equally eager to secure this extraordinary pigmy. The terms upon which I engaged him for three years were so large that he was christened the $30,000 Nutt; I, in the mean time, conferring upon him the title of Commodore. As soon as I engaged him, placards, posters and the columns of the newspapers proclaimed the presence of “Commodore Nutt,” at the Museum. I also procured for the Commodore a pair of Shetland ponies, miniature coachman and footman, in livery, gold-mounted harness and an elegant little carriage, which, when closed, represented a gigantic English walnut. The little Commodore attracted great attention and grew rapidly in public favor. General Tom Thumb was then travelling in the South and West. For some years he had not been exhibited in New York, and during these years he had increased considerably in rotundity and had changed much in his general appearance. It was a singular fact, however, that Commodore Nutt was almost a fac-simile of General Tom Thumb, as he looked half-a-dozen years before. Consequently, very many of my patrons, not making allowance for the time which had elapsed since they had last seen the General, declared that I was trying to play “Mrs. Gamp” with my “Mrs. Harris”; that there was, in fact, no such person as “Commodore Nutt”; and that I was exhibiting my old friend Tom Thumb under a new name. The mistake was very natural, and to me it was very laughable, for the more I tried to convince people of their error, the more they winked and looked wise, and said, “It’s pretty well done, but you can’t take me in.”
Commodore Nutt enjoyed the joke very much. He would sometimes half admit the deception, simply to add to the bewilderment of the doubting portion of my visitors. After he had been in the Museum a few weeks, I took the Commodore to Bridgeport to spend a couple of days by way of relaxation. Many of the citizens of Bridgeport, who had known Tom Thumb from his birth, would salute the Commodore as the General Tom Thumb. The little fellow would return these salutes, for he delighted in keeping up the illusion.
Going into a crowded barber-shop one morning with the little Commodore, we met my friend Mr. Gideon Thompson, who was sitting there, and who called out:
“Good morning, Charley; how are you? When did you get home?”
“I’m quite well, thank you, and I arrived last night,” responded the Commodore, with due gravity.
“I’ve got a horse now that will beat yours,” said Mr. Thompson.
“He must be pretty fast, then.”
“Well, Charley, I’ll drive out by your mother’s the first fine day, and give you a trial.”
“All right,” said little Nutt, “but you had better not wager too much on your fast horse, for you know mine is some pumpkins.”
“Well, Uncle Gid.,” I exclaimed, “you are ‘had’ this time; this little gentleman is not General Tom Thumb, but Commodore Nutt.”
“What!” roared friend Gid.; “do you think I am an infernal fool? Why, I knew Charley Stratton years before you ever saw him, didn’t I, General?”
No one in the room suspected that my little friend was any other than General Tom Thumb, till Mr. William Bassett, the General’s brother-in-law, came in and remarked the “wonderful resemblance to our little Charley, as he looked years ago.”
“Is not this the General?” inquired half a dozen astonished men, who were speedily assured he was not, but was quite another person. This gave rise to a proposition to exhibit the Commodore to the General’s mother, and a coach was procured, and Mr. Bassett, the Commodore, and I went to Mrs. Stratton’s house. When we arrived, the Commodore shouted out:
“How are you, mother?”
But the mother, of all persons in Bridgeport, was not to be deceived, though she expressed her astonishment at the very striking likeness the Commodore bore to her son as he once looked. Mrs. Bassett concurred in the testimony and said the Commodore looked so much like her brother that she was loth to let him go. It is no wonder that other people were deceived by the resemblance.
It was evident that here was an opportunity to turn all doubts into hard cash by simply bringing the two dwarf Dromios together, and showing them on the same platform. I therefore induced Tom Thumb to bring his Western engagements to a close, and to appear for four weeks, beginning with August 11, 1862, in my Museum. Announcements headed “The Two Dromios,” and “Two Smallest Men, and Greatest Curiosities Living,” as I expected, drew large crowds to see them, and many came especially to solve their doubts with regard to the genuineness of the “Nutt.” But here I was considerably nonplussed, for astonishing as it may seem, the doubts of many of the visitors were confirmed! The sharp people who were determined “not to be humbugged, anyhow,” still declared that Commodore Nutt was General Tom Thumb, and that the little fellow whom I was trying to pass off as Tom Thumb, was no more like the General than he was like the man in the Moon. It is very amusing to see how people will sometimes deceive themselves by being too incredulous.
As an illustration--the “Australian Golden Pigeons” which deceived Old Adams were the occasion of another ludicrous incident. A shrewd lady, one of my neighbors in Connecticut, was visiting the Museum, and after inspecting the “Golden Angel Fish” swimming in one of the aquaria, she abruptly addressed me:
“You can’t humbug me, Mr. Barnum; that fish is painted!”
“Nonsense!” said I, with a laugh; “the thing is impossible.”
“I don’t care, I know it is painted; it is as plain as can be.”
“But, my dear Mrs. H., paint would not adhere to a fish in the water; and if it would, it would kill him.”
She left the Museum not more than half convinced, and in the afternoon of the same day I met her in the California Menagerie. She knew I was part proprietor in the establishment, and seeing me in conversation with Old Adams, she came to me, her eyes glistening with excitement, and exclaimed--
“Oh, Mr. Barnum, I never saw anything so beautiful as those elegant “Golden Pigeons”; you must give me some of their eggs for my own pigeons to hatch; I should prize them beyond measure.”
“Oh, you don’t want ‘Golden Pigeons,’” I said; “they are painted.”
“No, they are not painted,” said she, with a laugh, “but I half think the ‘Angel Fish’ is.”
I could scarcely control my laughter as I explained: “Now, Mrs. H., I never spoil a good joke, even when the exposure betrays a Museum secret. I assure you, upon honor, that the “Australian Golden Pigeons,” as they are labelled, are really painted; I bought them for the sole purpose of giving Old Adams a lesson; in their natural state they are nothing more than common white ruff-neck pigeons.” She was convinced, and to this day she blushes whenever any allusion is made to the “Angel Fish” or the “Golden Pigeons.”
In 1862, I sent the Commodore to Washington, and joining him there, I received an invitation from President Lincoln to call at the White House with my little friend. Arriving at the appointed hour I was informed that the President was in a special cabinet meeting, but that he had left word if I called to be shown in to him with the Commodore. These were dark days in the rebellion and I felt that my visit, if not ill-timed, must at all events be brief. When we were admitted Mr. Lincoln received us cordially, and introduced us to the members of the cabinet. When Mr. Chase was introduced as the Secretary of the Treasury, the little Commodore remarked:
“I suppose you are the gentleman who is spending so much of Uncle Sam’s money?”
“No, indeed,” said Secretary of War Stanton, very promptly: “I am spending the money.”
“Well,” said Commodore Nutt, “it is in a good cause, anyhow, and I guess it will come out all right.”
His apt remark created much amusement. Mr. Lincoln then bent down his long, lank body, and taking Nutt by the hand, he said:
“Commodore, permit me to give you a parting word of advice. When you are in command of your fleet, if you find yourself in danger of being taken prisoner, I advise you to wade ashore.”
The Commodore found the laugh was against him, but placing himself at the side of the President, and gradually raising his eyes up the whole length of Mr. Lincoln’s very long legs, he replied:
“I guess Mr. President, you could do that better than I could.”
Commodore Nutt and the Nova Scotia giantess, Anna Swan, illustrate the old proverb sufficiently to show how extremes occasionally met in my Museum. He was the shortest of men and she was the tallest of women. I first heard of her through a quaker who came into my office one day and told me of a wonderful girl, seventeen years of age, who resided near him at Pictou, Nova Scotia, and who was probably the tallest girl in the world. I asked him to obtain her exact height, on his return home, which he did and sent it to me, and I at once sent an agent who in due time came back with Anna Swan. She was an intelligent and by no means ill-looking girl, and during the long period while she was in my employ she was visited by thousands of persons. After the burning of my second Museum, she went to England where she attracted great attention.
For many years I had been in the habit of engaging parties of American Indians from the far West to exhibit at the Museum, and had sent two or more Indian companies to Europe, where they were regarded as very great “curiosities.” In 1864, ten or twelve chiefs of as many different tribes, visited the President of the United States at Washington. By a pretty liberal outlay of money, I succeeded in inducing the interpreter to bring them to New York, and to pass some days at my Museum. Of course, getting these Indians to dance, or to give any illustration of their games or pastimes, was out of the question. They were real chiefs of powerful tribes, and would no more have consented to give an exhibition of themselves than the Chief Magistrate of our own nation would have done. Their interpreter could not therefore promise that they would remain at the Museum for any definite time; “for,” said he, “you can only keep them just so long as they suppose all your patrons come to pay them visits of honor. If they suspected that your Museum was a place where people paid for entering,” he continued, “you could not keep them a moment after the discovery.”
On their arrival at the Museum, therefore, I took them upon the stage and personally introduced them to the public. The Indians liked this attention from me, as they had been informed that I was the proprietor of the great establishment in which they were invited and honored guests. My patrons were of course pleased to see these old chiefs, as they knew they were the “real thing,” and several of them were known to the public, either as being friendly or cruel to the whites. After one or two appearances upon the stage, I took them in carriages and visited the Mayor of New York in the Governor’s room at the City Hall. Here the Mayor made them a speech of welcome, which being interpreted to the savages was responded to by a speech from one of the chiefs, in which he thanked the great “Father” of the city for his pleasant words, and for his kindness in pointing out the portraits of his predecessors hanging on the walls of the Governor’s room.
On another occasion, I took them by special invitation to visit one of the large public schools up town. The teachers were pleased to see them, and arranged an exhibition of special exercises by the scholars, which they thought would be most likely to gratify their barbaric visitors. At the close of these exercises, one old chief arose, and simply said, “This is all new to us. We are mere unlearned sons of the forest, and cannot understand what we have seen and heard.”
On other occasions, I took them to ride in Central Park, and through different portions of the city. At every street corner which we passed, they would express their astonishment to each other, at seeing the long rows of houses which extended both ways on either side of each cross-street. Of course, between each of these outside visits I would return with them to the Museum, and secure two or three appearances upon the stage to receive the people who had there congregated “to do them honor.”
As they regarded me as their host, they did not hesitate to trespass upon my hospitality. Whenever their eyes rested upon a glittering shell among my specimens of conchology, especially if it had several brilliant colors, one would take off his coat, another his shirt, and insist that I should exchange my shell for their garment. When I declined the exchange, but on the contrary presented them with the coveted article, I soon found I had established a dangerous precedent. Immediately, they all commenced to beg for everything in my vast collection, which they happened to take a liking to. This cost me many valuable specimens, and often “put me to my trumps” for an excuse to avoid giving them things which I could not part with.
The chief of one of the tribes one day discovered an ancient shirt of chain-mail which hung in one of my cases of antique armor. He was delighted with it, and declared he must have it. I tried all sorts of excuses to prevent his getting it, for it had cost me a hundred dollars and was a great curiosity. But the old man’s eyes glistened, and he would not take “no” for an answer. “The Utes have killed my little child,” he told me through the interpreter; and now he must have this steel shirt to protect himself; and when he returned to the Rocky Mountains he would have his revenge. I remained inexorable until he finally brought me a new buckskin Indian suit, which he insisted upon exchanging. I felt compelled to accept his proposal; and never did I see a man more delighted than he seemed to be when he took the mailed shirt into his hands. He fairly jumped up and down with joy. He ran to his lodging room, and soon appeared again with the coveted armor upon his body, and marched down one of the main halls of the Museum, with folded arms, and head erect, occasionally patting his breast with his right hand, as much as to say, “now, Mr. Ute, look sharp, for I will soon be on the war path!”
Among these Indians were War Bonnet, Lean Bear, and Hand-in-the-water, chiefs of the Cheyennes; Yellow Buffalo, of the Kiowas; Yellow Bear, of the same tribe; Jacob, of the Caddos; and White Bull, of the Apaches. The little wiry chief known as Yellow Bear had killed many whites as they had travelled through the “far West.” He was a sly, treacherous, blood-thirsty savage, who would think no more of scalping a family of women and children, than a butcher would of wringing the neck of a chicken. But now he was on a mission to the “Great Father” at Washington, seeking for presents and favors for his tribe, and he pretended to be exceedingly meek and humble, and continually urged the interpreter to announce him as a “great friend to the white man.” He would fawn about me, and although not speaking or understanding a word of our language, would try to convince me that he loved me dearly.
In exhibiting these Indian warriors on the stage, I explained to the large audiences the names and characteristics of each. When I came to Yellow Bear I would pat him familiarly upon the shoulder, which always caused him to look up to me with a pleasant smile, while he softly stroked down my arm with his right hand in the most loving manner. Knowing that he could not understand a word I said, I pretended to be complimenting him to the audience, while I was really saying something like the following:
“This little Indian, ladies and gentlemen, is Yellow Bear, chief of the Kiowas. He has killed, no doubt, scores of white persons, and he is probably the meanest, black-hearted rascal that lives in the far West.” Here I patted him on the head, and he, supposing I was sounding his praises, would smile, fawn upon me, and stroke my arm, while I continued: “If the blood-thirsty little villain understood what I was saying, he would kill me in a moment; but as he thinks I am complimenting him, I can safely state the truth to you, that he is a lying, thieving, treacherous, murderous monster. He has tortured to death poor, unprotected women, murdered their husbands, brained their helpless little ones; and he would gladly do the same to you or to me, if he thought he could escape punishment. This is but a faint description of the character of Yellow Bear.” Here I gave him another patronizing pat on the head, and he, with a pleasant smile, bowed to the audience, as much as to say that my words were quite true, and that he thanked me very much for the high encomiums I had so generously heaped upon him.
After they had been about a week at the Museum, one of the chiefs discovered that visitors paid money for entering. This information he soon communicated to the other chiefs, and I heard an immediate murmur of discontent. Their eyes were opened, and no power could induce them to appear again upon the stage. Their dignity had been offended, and their wild, flashing eyes were anything but agreeable. Indeed, I hardly felt safe in their presence, and it was with a feeling of relief that I witnessed their departure for Washington the next morning.
In the spring of 1864, the United States Consul at Larnica, Island of Cyprus, Turkish Dominions, wrote me a letter, declaring that he and the English Consul, an American physician, resident in the island, and a large company of Europeans as well as natives, had seen the most remarkable object, no doubt, in the world,--a lusus naturæ, a feminine phenomenon. This woman was represented to have “four cornicles on her head, and one large horn, equal in size to an ordinary ram’s horn, growing out of the side of her head”; and the consistency of the horns was represented to be similar to that of cows’ or goats’ horns. This singular story continued: “These horns have been growing for ten or twelve years, and were carefully concealed by the woman until a few weeks since, when a vision appeared in the person of an old man, and warned her to remove the veil she wore, or God would punish her. She sent to the Greek priest (she being of that persuasion), and confessed to him, and was ordered to uncover her head, which she at once did.” She was subsequently seen by the entire population, and the French consul, in company with others, offered her fifty thousand piastres to go to Paris for exhibition. The English consul, I was further informed, had pronounced this woman to be “worth her weight in gold”; and I was assured that if I wished to add her to my “wonderful Museum, and present to the American public the most remarkable object yet exhibited,” I had only to “send an agent immediately to secure the prize.”
Informing myself of the trustworthiness of my correspondent (who also wrote a similar account to the New York Observer), I was not long in making up my mind to secure this freak of nature; and I despatched Mr. John Greenwood, Jr., in the steamer “City of Baltimore,” for Liverpool, April 30, 1864. He went to London and Paris, and thence to Marseilles, where he took a Syrian and Egyptian steamer to Palermo, and from thence proceeded to Cyprus. On arriving, if he could have seen the woman at once, he could have re-embarked on the steamer, which sailed again in a few hours for other islands; but unfortunately, the woman was a few miles in the interior, and poor Greenwood was detained a month on the island before he could take another steamer to get away. Worse yet, the woman, spite of the impression she had made upon so many and such respectable witnesses, was really no curiosity after all, as it proved upon examination, that her “horns” were not horns at all, but fleshy excrescences, which may have been singularly shaped tumors, or wens. It is needless to add that my agent did not engage her; and after a month of discomfort and hard living, he succeeded in getting away, and sailed for Constantinople, mainly to see what could be done in the way of securing one or more Circassian women for exhibition in my Museum.
On his way through the Mediterranean, he had the following adventure: On board the steamer, the harem of a Turkish Pasha occupied one side of the quarter deck, which was divided off from the rest by a hurdle fence run longitudinally through the middle of the deck. Greenwood was one day sitting in an easy chair with his back to these women and their attendants, when, feeling his chair move, he turned and saw one of the Pasha’s wives getting over the hurdle, and as there was scarcely room for her to squeeze herself between the chairs in which passengers were sitting, he moved his own chair out of the way and rising, offered his hand to assist the woman over the fence. She indignantly jumped back, and Greenwood was immediately seized by two of the Pasha’s attendants, violently shaken, and taken to task in Turkish for daring to offer to touch the hand of one of his Excellency’s women. Greenwood had that day formed the acquaintance of a fellow-passenger, a young Greek from Scio, who was going to Beyrout to act as clerk for a merchant in that place. He spoke good English, and seeing Greenwood in trouble among the Turks, and knowing that he could speak neither Greek nor Arabic, he went to the rescue, and demanded an explanation of the difficulty.
Upon hearing what was the trouble, he informed the turbulent fellows that Greenwood had no motive in his act beyond simple common courtesy. The prisoner, however, was still detained in the grasp of the Turks, till the will of the insulted Pasha could be known. On deck soon came the irate Pasha, in company with an old gentleman who was said to have been tutor, formerly, to the present Sultan of Turkey. When the two heard the charge and the explanation, and had consulted together a little while, Greenwood was released. But for the friendly interposition of the Greek, he might have been bastinadoed, or even bowstrung.
During the remainder of the voyage he was closely watched, but he was very careful to be guilty of no act of “politeness,” and he went on shore at Constantinople without so much as saying good-by to the Pasha. In Constantinople he had some very singular adventures. To carry out his purpose of getting access to the very interior of the slave-marts, he dressed himself in full Turkish costume, learned a few words and phrases which would be necessary in his assumed character as a slave-buyer, and, as the Turks are a notably reticent people, he succeeded very well in passing himself off for what he appeared, though he ran a risk of detection many times every day. In this manner, he saw a large number of Circassian girls and women, some of them the most beautiful beings he had ever seen, and after a month in Constantinople and in other Turkish cities, he sailed for Marseilles, then went to Paris, picking up many treasures for my Museum, and returned to New York, after a journey of 13,112 miles.
XXXVII. MR. AND MRS. GENERAL TOM THUMB
MISS LAVINIA WARREN--A CHARMING LITTLE LADY--SUPPOSED TO BE THE $30,000 NUTT IN DISGUISE--HER WARDROBE AND PRESENTS--STORY OF A RING--THE LITTLE COMMODORE IN LOVE--TOM THUMB SMITTEN--RIVALRY OF THE DWARFS--JEALOUSY OF THE GENERAL--VISIT AT BRIDGEPORT--THE GENERAL’S STYLISH TURN-OUT--MISS WARREN IMPRESSED--CALL OF THE GENERAL--A LILIPUTIAN LOVE SCENE--TOM THUMB’S INVENTORY OF HIS PROPERTY--HE PROPOSES AND IS ACCEPTED--ARRIVAL OF THE COMMODORE--HIS GRIEF--EXCITEMENT OVER THE ENGAGEMENT--THE WEDDING IN GRACE CHURCH--REVEREND JUNIUS WILLEY--A SPICY LETTER BY DOCTOR TAYLOR--GRAND RECEPTION OF MR. AND MRS. STRATTON--THE COMMODORE IN SEARCH OF A GREEN COUNTRY GIRL.
In 1862 I heard of an extraordinary dwarf girl, named Lavinia Warren, who was residing with her parents at Middleboro’, Massachusetts, and I sent an invitation to her and her parents to come and visit me at Bridgeport. They came, and I found her to be a most intelligent and refined young lady, well educated, and an accomplished, beautiful and perfectly-developed woman in miniature. I succeeded in making an engagement with her for several years, during which she contracted--as dwarfs are said to have the power to do--to visit Great Britain, France, and other foreign lands.
Having arranged the terms of her engagement, I took her to the house of one of my daughters in New York, where she remained quietly, while I was procuring her wardrobe and jewelry, and making arrangements for her début. As yet, nothing had been said in the papers about this interesting young lady, and one day as I was taking her home with me to Bridgeport, I met in the cars the wife of a wealthy menagerie proprietor, who introduced me to her two daughters, young ladies of sixteen and eighteen years of age, and then said:
“You have disguised the little Commodore very nicely.”
“That is not Commodore Nutt,” I replied, “it is a young lady whom I have recently discovered.”
“Very well done, Mr. Barnum,” replied Mrs. B., with a look of self satisfaction.
“Really,” I repeated, “this is a young lady.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barnum, but I know Commodore Nutt in whatever costume you put him; and I recognized him the moment you brought him into the car.”
“But, Mrs. B.,” I replied, “Commodore Nutt is now exhibiting in the Museum, and this is a little lady whom I hope to bring before the public soon.”
“Mr. Barnum,” she replied, “you forget that I am a showman’s wife, conversant with all the showman’s tricks, and that I cannot be deceived.”
Seeing there was no prospect of convincing her, I replied in a confidential whisper, for such chance for a joke was not to be lost:
“Well, I see you are too sharp for me, but I beg you not to mention it, for you are the only person on board this train who suspects it is the Commodore.”
“I will say nothing,” she replied, “but do please bring the little fellow over here, for my daughters have never seen him.”
I stepped and told Lavinia the joke and asked her to help carry it out. I then took her over where she got a seat in the midst of the three ladies.
“Ah, Commodore,” whispered Mrs. B., “you have done it pretty well, but bless you, I knew those eyes and that nose the moment I saw you.”
“Your eyes must be pretty sharp, then,” replied Lavinia.
“Oh, you see people in our line understand these things, and are never deceived by appearances; but let me introduce you to these two young ladies, my daughters.”
“We are happy to see you, sir,” said one of the young ladies. They then enjoyed a very animated conversation, in the course of which they asked the “Commodore” all about his family, and Lavinia managed to answer the questions in such a way as to avoid suspicion. The ladies then informed the “Commodore” that there was a sweet little lady living in their town only sixteen years old, and if he would visit them, they would introduce him; that her family was highly respectable, and she would make him a capital wife! Lavinia thanked them and promised to visit them if it should be convenient. As the ladies left the car, they shook hands with Lavinia, kissed her, and in a whisper said “good morning, sir.” Meeting the husband of the lady, some weeks afterwards, I told him the joke, and he enjoyed it so highly that he will probably never let his wife and daughters hear the last of it.
I purchased a very splendid wardrobe for Miss Warren, including scores of the richest dresses that could be procured, costly jewels, and in fact everything that could add to the charms of her naturally charming little person. She was then placed on exhibition at the Museum and from the day of her débût she was an extraordinary success. Commodore Nutt was on exhibition with her, and although he was several years her junior he evidently took a great fancy to her. One day I presented to Lavinia a diamond and emerald ring, and as it did not exactly fit her finger, I told her I would give her another one and that she might present this one to the Commodore in her own name. She did so, and an unlooked-for effect was speedily apparent; the little Commodore felt sure that this was a love-token, and poor Lavinia was in the greatest trouble, for she considered herself quite a woman, and regarded the Commodore only as a nice little boy. But she did not like to offend him, and while she did not encourage, she did not openly repel his attentions. Miss Lavinia Warren, however, was never destined to be Mrs. Commodore Nutt.
It was by no means an unnatural circumstance that I should be suspected of having instigated and brought about the marriage of Tom Thumb with Lavinia Warren. Had I done this, I should at this day have felt no regrets, for it has proved, in an eminent degree, one of the “happy marriages.” I only say, what is known to all of their immediate friends, that from first to last their engagement was an affair of the heart--a case of “love at first sight”--that the attachment was mutual, and that it only grows with the lapse of time. But I had neither part nor lot in instigating or in occasioning the marriage. And as I am anxious to be put right before the public, and so to correct whatever of false impression may have gained ground, I have procured the consent of all the parties to a sketch of the wooing, winning and nuptials. Of course I should not lay these details before the public, except with the sanction of those most interested. In this they consent to pay the penalty of distinction. And if the wooings of kings and queens must be told, why not the courtship and marriage of General and Mrs. Tom Thumb? The story is an interesting one, and shall be told alike to exonerate me from the suspicion named, and to amuse those--and they count by scores of thousands--who are interested in the welfare of the distinguished couple.
In the autumn of 1862, when Lavinia Warren was on exhibition at the Museum, Tom Thumb had no business engagement with me; in fact, he was not on exhibition at the time at all; he was taking a “vacation” at his house in Bridgeport. Whenever he came to New York he naturally called upon me, his old friend, at the Museum. He happened to be in the city at the time referred to, and one day he called, quite unexpectedly to me, while Lavinia was holding one of her levees. Here he now saw her for the first time, and very naturally made her acquaintance. He had a short interview with her, after which he came directly to my private office and desired to see me alone. Of course I complied with his request, but without the remotest suspicion as to his object. I closed the door, and the General took a seat. His first question let in the light. He inquired about the family of Lavinia Warren. I gave him the facts, which I clearly perceived gave him satisfaction of a peculiar sort. He then said, with great frankness, and with no less earnestness:
“Mr. Barnum, that is the most charming little lady I ever saw, and I believe she was created on purpose to be my wife! Now,” he continued, “you have always been a friend of mine, and I want you to say a good word for me to her. I have got plenty of money, and I want to marry and settle down in life, and I really feel as if I must marry that young lady.”
The little General was highly excited, and his general manner betrayed the usual anxiety, which, I doubt not, most of my readers will understand without a description. I could not repress a smile, nor forget my joke; and I said:
“Lavinia is engaged already.”
“To whom--Commodore Nutt?” asked Tom Thumb, with much earnestness, and some exhibition of the “green-eyed monster.”
“No, General, to me,” I replied.
“Never mind,” said the General, laughing, “you can exhibit her for a while, and then give up the engagement; but I do hope you will favor my suit with her.”
I told the General that this was too sudden an affair; that he must take time to think of it; but he insisted that years of thought would make no difference, for his mind was fully made up.
“Well, General,” I replied, “I will not oppose you in your suit, but you must do your own courting. I tell you, however, the Commodore will be jealous of you, and more than that, Miss Warren is nobody’s fool, and you will have to proceed very cautiously if you can succeed in winning her affections.”
The General thanked me, and promised to be very discreet. A change now came suddenly over him in several particulars. He had been (much to his credit) very fond of his country home in Bridgeport, where he spent his intervals of rest with his horses, and especially with his yacht, for his fondness for the water was his great passion. But now he was constantly having occasion to visit the city, and horses and yachts were strangely neglected. He had a married sister in New York, and his visits to her multiplied, for, of course, he came to New York “to see his sister!” His mother, who resided in Bridgeport, remarked that Charles had never before shown so much brotherly affection, nor so much fondness for city life.
His visits to the Museum were very frequent, and it was noticeable that new relations were being established between him and Commodore Nutt. The Commodore was not exactly jealous, yet he strutted around like a bantam rooster whenever the General approached Lavinia. One day he and the General got into a friendly scuffle in the dressing-room, and the Commodore threw the General upon his back in “double quick” time. The Commodore is lithe, wiry, and quick in his movements, but the General is naturally slow, and although he was considerably heavier than the Commodore, he soon found that he could not stand before him in a personal encounter. Moreover, the Commodore is naturally quick-tempered, and when excited, he brags about his knowledge of “the manly art of self-defence,” and sometimes talks about pistols and bowie knives, etc. Tom Thumb, on the contrary, is by natural disposition decidedly a man of peace; hence, in this, agreeing with Falstaff as to what constituted the “better part of valor,” he was strongly inclined to keep his distance, if the little Commodore showed any belligerent symptoms.
In the course of several weeks the General found numerous opportunities to talk with Lavinia, while the Commodore was performing on the stage, or was otherwise engaged; and, to a watchful discerner, it was evident he was making encouraging progress in the affair of the heart. He also managed to meet Lavinia on Sunday afternoons and evenings, without the knowledge of the Commodore; but he assured me he had not yet dared to suggest matrimony.
He finally returned to Bridgeport, and privately begged that on the following Saturday I would take Lavinia up to my house, and also invite him.
His immediate object in this was, that his mother might get acquainted with Lavinia, for he feared opposition from that source whenever the idea of his marriage should be suggested. I could do no less than accede to his proposal, and on the following Friday, while Lavinia and the Commodore were sitting in the green-room, I said:
“Lavinia, you may go up to Bridgeport with me to-morrow morning, and remain until Monday.”
“Thank you,” she replied; “it will be quite a relief to get into the country for a couple of days.”
The Commodore immediately pricked up his ears, and said:
“Mr. Barnum, I should like to go to Bridgeport to-morrow.”
“What for?” I asked.
“I want to see my little ponies; I have not seen them for several months,” he replied.
I whispered in his ear, “you little rogue, that is the pony you want to see,” pointing to Lavinia.
He insisted I was mistaken. When I remarked that he could not well be spared from the Museum, he said:
“Oh! I can perform at half past seven o’clock, and then jump on to the eight o’clock evening train, and go up by myself, reaching Bridgeport before eleven, and return early Monday morning.”
I feared there would be a clashing of interests between the rival pigmies; but wishing to please him, I consented to his request, especially as Lavinia also favored it. I wished I could then fathom that little woman’s heart, and see whether she (who must have discovered the secret of the General’s frequent visits to the Museum) desired the Commodore’s visit in order to stir up the General’s ardor, or whether, as seemed to me the more likely, she was seeking in this way to prevent a denouement which she was not inclined to favor. Certain it is, that though I was the General’s confidant, and knew all his desires upon the subject, no person had discovered the slightest evidence that Lavinia Warren had ever entertained the remotest suspicion of his thoughts regarding marriage. If she had made the discovery, as I assume, she kept the secret well. In fact, I assured Tom Thumb that every indication, so far as any of us could observe, was to the effect that his suit would be rejected. The little General was fidgety, but determined; hence he was anxious to have Lavinia meet his mother, and also see his possessions in Bridgeport, for he owned considerable land and numerous houses there.
The General met us at the depot in Bridgeport, on Saturday morning, and drove us to my house in his own carriage--his coachman being tidily dressed, with a broad velvet ribbon and silver buckle placed upon his hat expressly for the occasion. Lavinia was duly informed that this was the General’s “turn out”; and after resting half an hour at Lindencroft, he took her out to ride. He stopped a few moments at his mother’s house, where she saw the apartments which his father had built expressly for him, and filled with the most gorgeous furniture--all corresponding to his own diminutive size. Then he took her to East Bridgeport, and undoubtedly took occasion to point out in great detail all of the houses which he owned, for he depended much upon having his wealth make some impression upon her. They returned, and the General stayed to lunch. I asked Lavinia how she liked her ride; she replied:
“It was very pleasant, but,” she added, “it seems as if you and Tom Thumb owned about all of Bridgeport!”
The General took his leave and returned at five o’clock to dinner, with his mother. Mrs. Stratton remained until seven o’clock. She expressed herself charmed with Lavinia Warren; but not a suspicion passed her mind that little Charlie was endeavoring to give her this accomplished young lady as a daughter-in-law. The General had privately asked me to invite him to stay over night, for, said he, “If I get a chance, I intend to ‘pop the question’ before the Commodore arrives.” So I told his mother I thought the General had better stop with us over night, as the Commodore would be up in the late train, adding that it would be more pleasant for the little folks to be together. She assented, and the General was happy.
After tea Lavinia and the General sat down to play backgammon. As nine o’clock approached, I remarked that it was about time to retire, but somebody would have to sit up until nearly eleven o’clock, in order to let in the Commodore. The General replied:
“I will sit up with pleasure, if Miss Warren will remain also.”
Lavinia carelessly replied, that she was accustomed to late hours, and she would wait and see the Commodore. A little supper was placed upon the table for the Commodore, and the family retired.
Now it happened that a couple of mischievous young ladies were visiting at my house, one of whom was to sleep with Lavinia. They were suspicious that the General was going to propose to Lavinia that evening, and, in a spirit of ungovernable curiosity, they determined, notwithstanding its manifest impropriety, to witness the operation, if they could possibly manage to do so on the sly. Of course this was inexcusable, the more so as so few of my readers, had they been placed under the same temptation, would have been guilty of such an impropriety! Perhaps I should hesitate to use the testimony of such witnesses, or even to trust it. But a few weeks after, they told the little couple the whole story, were forgiven, and all had a hearty laugh over it.
It so happened that the door of the sitting room, in which the General and Lavinia were left at the backgammon board, opened into the hall just at the side of the stairs, and these young misses, turning out the lights in the hall, seated themselves upon the stairs in the dark, where they had a full view of the cosy little couple, and were within easy ear-shot of all that was said.
The house was still. The General soon acknowledged himself vanquished at backgammon, and gave it up. After sitting a few moments, he evidently thought it was best to put a clincher on the financial part of his abilities; so he drew from his pocket a policy of insurance, and handing it to Lavinia, he asked her if she knew what it was.
Examining it, she replied, “It is an insurance policy. I see you keep your property insured.”
“But the beauty of it is, it is not my property,” replied the General, “and yet I get the benefit of the insurance in case of fire. You will see,” he continued, unfolding the policy, “this is the property of Mr. Williams, but here, you will observe, it reads ‘loss, if any, payable to Charles S. Stratton, as his interest may appear.’ The fact is, I loaned Mr. Williams three thousand dollars, took a mortgage on his house, and made him insure it for my benefit. In this way, you perceive, I get my interest, and he has to pay the taxes.”
“That is a very wise way, I should think,” remarked Lavinia.
“That is the way I do all my business,” replied the General, complacently, as he returned the huge insurance policy to his pocket. “You see,” he continued, “I never lend any of my money without taking bond and mortgage security, then I have no trouble with taxes; my principal is secure, and I receive my interest regularly.”
The explanation seemed satisfactory to Lavinia, and the General’s courage began to rise. Drawing his chair a little nearer to hers, he said:
“So you are going to Europe, soon?”
“Yes,” replied Lavinia, “Mr. Barnum intends to take me over in a couple of months.”
“You will find it very pleasant,” remarked the General; “I have been there twice, in fact I have spent six years abroad, and I like the old countries very much.”
“I hope I shall like the trip, and I expect I shall,” responded Lavinia; “for Mr. Barnum says I shall visit all the principal cities, and he has no doubt I will be invited to appear before the Queen of England, the Emperor and Empress of France, the King of Prussia, the Emperor of Austria, and at the courts of any other countries which we may visit. Oh! I shall like that, it will be so new to me.”
“Yes, it will be very interesting indeed. I have visited most of the crowned heads,” remarked the General, with an evident feeling of self-congratulation. “But are you not afraid you will be lonesome in a strange country?” asked the General.
“No, I think there is no danger of that, for friends will accompany me,” was the reply.
“I wish I was going over, for I know all about the different countries, and could explain them all to you,” remarked Tom Thumb.
“That would be very nice,” said Lavinia.
“Do you think so?” said the General, moving his chair still closer to Lavinia’s.
“Of course,” replied Lavinia, coolly, “for I, being a stranger to all the habits and customs of the people, as well as to the country, it would be pleasant to have some person along who could answer all my foolish questions.”
“I should like it first rate, if Mr. Barnum would engage me,” said the General.
“I thought you remarked the other day that you had money enough, and was tired of travelling,” said Lavinia, with a slightly mischievous look from one corner of her eye.
“That depends upon my company while travelling,” replied the General.
“You might not find my company very agreeable.”
“I would be glad to risk it.”
“Well, perhaps Mr. Barnum would engage you, if you asked him,” said Lavinia.
“Would you really like to have me go?” asked the General, quietly insinuating his arm around her waist, but hardly close enough to touch her.
“Of course I would,” was the reply.
The little General’s arm clasped the waist closer as he turned his face nearer to hers, and said:
“Don’t you think it would be pleasanter if we went as man and wife?”
The little fairy quickly disengaged his arm, and remarked that the General was a funny fellow to joke in that way.
“I am not joking at all,” said the General, earnestly, “it is quite too serious a matter for that.”
“I wonder why the Commodore don’t come?” said Lavinia.
“I hope you are not anxious for his arrival, for I am sure I am not,” responded the General, “and what is more, I do hope you will say ‘yes,’ before he comes at all!”
“Really, Mr. Stratton,” said Lavinia, with dignity, “if you are in earnest in your strange proposal, I must say I am surprised.”
“Well, I hope you are not offended,” replied the General, “for I was never more in earnest in my life, and I hope you will consent. The first moment I saw you I felt that you were created to be my wife.”
“But this is so sudden.”
“Not so very sudden; it is several months since we first met, and you know all about me, and my family, and I hope you find nothing to object to in me.”
“Not at all; on the contrary, I have found you very agreeable, in fact I like you very much as a friend, but I have not thought of marrying, and--”
“And what? my dear,” said the General, giving her a kiss. “Now, I beg of you, don’t have any ‘buts’ or ‘ands’ about it. You say you like me as a friend, why will you not like me as a husband? You ought to get married; I love you dearly, and I want you for a wife. Now, deary, the Commodore will be here in a few minutes, I may not have a chance to see you again alone; do say that we will be married, and I will get Mr. Barnum to give up your engagement.”
Lavinia hesitated, and finally said:
“I think I love you well enough to consent, but I have always said I would never marry without my mother’s consent.”
“Oh! I’ll ask your mother. May I ask your mother? Come, say yes to that, and I will go and see her next week. May I do that, pet?”
Then there was a sound of something very much like the popping of several corks from as many beer bottles. The young eaves-droppers had no doubt as to the character of these reports, nor did they doubt that they sealed the betrothal, for immediately after they heard Lavinia say:
“Yes, Charles, you may ask my mother.” Another volley of reports followed, and then Lavinia said, “Now, Charles, don’t whisper this to a living soul; let us keep our own secrets for the present.”
“All right,” said the General, “I will say nothing; but next Tuesday I shall start to see your mother.”
“Perhaps you may find it difficult to obtain her consent,” said Lavinia.
At that moment a carriage drove up to the door, and immediately the bell was rung, and the little Commodore entered.
“You here, General?” said the Commodore, as he espied his rival.
“Yes,” said Lavinia, “Mr. Barnum asked him to stay, and we were waiting for you; come, warm yourself.”
“I am not cold,” said the Commodore; “where is Mr. Barnum?”
“He has gone to bed,” remarked the General, “but a nice supper has been prepared for you.”
“I am not hungry, I thank you; I am going to bed. Which room does Mr. Barnum sleep in?” said the little bantam, in a petulant tone of voice.
His question was answered; the young eaves-droppers scampered to their sleeping apartments, and the Commodore soon came to my room, where he found me indulging in the foolish habit of reading in bed.
“Mr. Barnum, does Tom Thumb board here?” asked the Commodore, sarcastically.
“No,” said I, “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; but I thought he had taken up his board here,” replied the Commodore, and off he went to bed, evidently in a bad humor.
Ten minutes afterwards Tom Thumb came rushing into my room, and closing the door, he caught hold of my hand in a high state of excitement and whispered:
“We are engaged, Mr. Barnum! we are engaged! we are engaged!” and he jumped up and down in the greatest glee.
“Is that possible?” I asked.
“Yes, sir, indeed it is; but you must not mention it,” he responded; “we agreed to tell nobody, so please don’t say a word. I must tell you, of course, but ‘mum is the word.’ I am going, Tuesday, to get her mother’s consent.”
I promised secrecy, and the General retired in as happy a mood as I ever saw him. Lavinia also retired, but not a hint did she give to the young lady with whom she slept regarding the engagement. Indeed, our family plied her upon the subject the next day, but not a breath passed her lips that would give the slightest indication of what had transpired. She was quite sociable with the Commodore, and as the General concluded to go home the next morning, the Commodore’s equanimity and good feelings were fully restored. The General made a call of half an hour Sunday evening, and managed to have an interview with Lavinia. The next morning she and the Commodore returned to New York in good spirits, I remaining in Bridgeport.
The General called on me Monday, however, bringing a very nice letter which he had written to Lavinia’s mother. He had concluded to send this letter by his trusty friend, Mr. George A. Wells, instead of going himself, and he had just seen Mr. Wells, who had consented to go to Middleborough with the letter the following day, and to urge the General’s suit, if it should be necessary.
The General went to New York on Wednesday, and was there to await Mr. Wells’ arrival. On Wednesday morning the General and Lavinia walked into my office, and after closing the door, the little General said:
“Mr. Barnum, I want somebody to tell the Commodore that Lavinia and I are engaged, for I am afraid there will be a ‘row’ when he hears of it.”
“Do it yourself, General,” I replied.
“Oh,” said the General, almost shuddering, “I would not dare to do it, he might knock me down.”
“I will do it,” said Lavinia; and it was at once arranged that I should call the Commodore and Lavinia into my office, and either she or myself would tell him. The General, of course, “vamosed.”
When the Commodore joined us and the door was closed, I said:
“Commodore, do you know what this little witch has been doing?”
“No, I don’t,” he answered.
“Well, she has been cutting up one of the greatest pranks you ever heard of,” I replied. “She almost deserves to be shut up, for daring to do it. Can’t you guess what she has done?”
He mused a moment, and then looking at me, said in a low voice, and with a serious looking face, “Engaged?”
“Yes,” said I, “absolutely engaged to be married to General Tom Thumb. Did you ever hear of such a thing?”
“Is that so, Lavinia?” asked the Commodore, looking her earnestly in the face.
“That is so,” said Lavinia; “and Mr. Wells has gone to obtain my mother’s consent.”
The Commodore turned pale, and choked a little, as if he was trying to swallow something. Then, turning on his heel, he said, in a broken voice:
“I hope you may be happy.”
As he passed out of the door, a tear rolled down his cheek.
“That is pretty hard,” I said to Lavinia.
“I am very sorry,” she replied, “but I could not help it. That diamond and emerald ring which you bade me present in my name, has caused all this trouble.”
Half an hour after this incident, the Commodore came to my office, and said:
“Mr. Barnum, do you think it would be right for Miss Warren to marry Charley Stratton if her mother should object?”
I saw that the little fellow had still a slight hope to hang on, and I said:
“No, indeed, it would not be right.”
“Well, she says she shall marry him any way; that she gives her mother the chance to consent, but if she objects, she will have her own way and marry him,” said the Commodore.
“On the contrary,” I replied, “I will not permit it. She is engaged to go to Europe for me, and I will not release her, if her mother does not fully consent to her marrying Tom Thumb.”
The Commodore’s eyes glistened with pleasure, as he replied:
“Between you and me, Mr. Barnum, I don’t believe she will give her consent.”
But the next day dissipated his hopes. Mr. Wells returned, saying that Lavinia’s mother at first objected, for she feared it was a contrivance to get them married for the promotion of some pecuniary advantage; but, upon reading the letter from the General, and one still more urgent from Lavinia, and also upon hearing from Mr. Wells that, in case of their marriage, I should cancel all claims I had upon Lavinia’s services, she consented.
After the Commodore had heard the news, I said to him:
“Never mind, Commodore, Minnie Warren is a better match for you; she is a charming little creature, and two years younger than you, while Lavinia is several years your senior.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied the Commodore, pompously, “I would not marry the best woman living; I don’t believe in women, any way.”
I then suggested that he should stand with little Minnie, as groom and bridesmaid, at the approaching wedding.
“No, sir!” replied the Commodore, emphatically; “I won’t do it!”
That idea was therefore abandoned. A few weeks subsequently, when time had reconciled the Commodore, he told me that Tom Thumb had asked him to stand as groom with Minnie, at the wedding, and he was going to do so.
“When I asked you, a few weeks ago, you refused,” I said.
“It was not your business to ask me,” replied the Commodore, pompously. “When the proper person invited me I accepted.”
Of course the approaching wedding was announced. It created an immense excitement. Lavinia’s levees at the Museum were crowded to suffocation, and her photographic pictures were in great demand. For several weeks she sold more than three hundred dollars’ worth of her cartes de visite each day. And the daily receipts at the Museum were frequently over three thousand dollars. I engaged the General to exhibit, and to assist her in the sale of pictures, to which his own photograph, of course, was added. I could afford to give them a fine wedding, and I did so.
The little couple made a personal application to Bishop Potter to perform the nuptial ceremony, and obtained his consent; but the matter became public, and outside pressure from some of the most squeamish of his clergy was brought to bear upon the bishop, and he rescinded his engagement.
This fact of itself, as well as the opposition that caused it, only added to the notoriety of the approaching wedding, and increased the crowds at the Museum. The financial result to me was a piece of good fortune, which I was, of course, quite willing to accept, though in this instance the “advertisement,” so far as the fact of the betrothal of the parties with its preliminaries were concerned, was not of my seeking, as the recital now given shows. But seeing the turn it was taking in crowding the Museum, and pouring money into the treasury, I did not hesitate to seek continued advantage from the notoriety of the prospective marriage. Accordingly, I offered the General and Lavinia fifteen thousand dollars if they would postpone the wedding for a month, and continue their exhibitions at the Museum.
“Not for fifty thousand dollars,” said the General, excitedly.
“Good for you, Charley,” said Lavinia, “only you ought to have said not for a hundred thousand, for I would not!”
They both laughed heartily at what they considered my discomfiture, and such, looked at from a business point of view, it certainly was. The wedding day approached and the public excitement grew. For several days, I might say weeks, the approaching marriage of Tom Thumb was the New York “sensation.” For proof of this I did not need what, however, was ample, the newspaper paragraphs. A surer index was in the crowds that passed into the Museum, and the dollars that found their way into the ticket office.
It was suggested to me that a small fortune in itself could be easily made out of the excitement. “Let the ceremony take place in the Academy of Music, charge a big price for admission, and the citizens will come in crowds.” I have no manner of doubt that in this way twenty-five thousand dollars could easily have been obtained. But I had no such thought. I had promised to give the couple a genteel and graceful wedding, and I kept my word.
The day arrived, Tuesday, February 10, 1863. The ceremony was to take place in Grace Church, New York. The Rev. Junius Willey, Rector of St. John’s Church in Bridgeport, assisted by the late Rev. Dr. Taylor, of Grace Church, was to officiate. The organ was played by Morgan. I know not what better I could have done, had the wedding of a prince been in contemplation. The church was comfortably filled by a highly select audience of ladies and gentlemen, none being admitted except those having cards of invitation. Among them were governors of several of the States, to whom I had sent cards, and such of those as could not be present in person were represented by friends, to whom they had given their cards. Members of Congress were present, also generals of the army, and many other prominent public men. Numerous applications were made from wealthy and distinguished persons for tickets to witness the ceremony, and as high as sixty dollars was offered for a single admission. But not a ticket was sold; and Tom Thumb and Lavinia Warren were pronounced “man and wife” before witnesses.
The following entirely authentic correspondence, the only suppression being the name of the person who wrote to Dr. Taylor and to whom Dr. Taylor’s reply is addressed, shows how a certain would-be “witness” was not a witness of the famous wedding. In other particulars, the correspondence speaks for itself.
TO THE REV. DR. TAYLOR.--Sir: The object of my unwillingly addressing you this note is to inquire what right you had to exclude myself and other owners of pews in Grace Church from entering it yesterday, enforced, too, by a cordon of police for that purpose. If my pew is not my property, I wish to know it; and if it is, I deny your right to prevent me from occupying it whenever the church is open, even at a marriage of mountebanks, which I would not take the trouble to cross the street to witness.
Respectfully, your obedient servant,
W*** S***
* * * * *
804 BROADWAY, NEW YORK, Feb. 16, 1863.
MR. W*** S***--Dear Sir: I am sorry, my valued friend, that you should have written me the peppery letter that is now before me. If the matter of which you complain be so utterly insignificant and contemptible as “a marriage of mountebanks, which you would not take the trouble to cross the street to witness,” it surprises me that you should have made such strenuous, but ill-directed efforts to secure a ticket of admission. And why--permit me to ask in the name of reason and philosophy--do you still suffer it to disturb you so sadly? It would perhaps be a sufficient answer to your letter, to say that your cause of complaint exists only in your imagination. You have never been excluded from your pew. As rector, I am the only custodian of the church, and you will hardly venture to say that you have ever applied to me for permission to enter, and been refused.
Here I might safely rest, and leave you to the comfort of your own reflections in the case. But as you, in common with many other worthy persons, would seem to have very crude notions as to your rights of “property” in pews, you will pardon me for saying that a pew in a church is property only in a peculiar and restricted sense. It is not property, as your house or your horse is property. It vests you with no fee in the soil; you cannot use it in any way, and in every way, and at all times, as your pleasure or caprice may dictate; you cannot put it to any common or unhallowed uses; you cannot remove it, nor injure it, nor destroy it. In short, you hold by purchase, and may sell the right to the undisturbed possession of that little space within the church edifice which you call your pew during the hours of divine service. But even that right must be exercised decorously, and with a decent regard for time and place, or else you may at any moment be ignominiously ejected from it.
I regret to be obliged to add that by the law of custom, you may, during those said hours of divine service (but at no other time) sleep in your pew; you must, however, do so noiselessly and never to the disturbance of your sleeping neighbors; your property in your pew has this extent and nothing more. Now, if Mr. W*** S*** were at any time to come to me and say, “Sir, I would that you should grant me the use of Grace Church for a solemn service (a marriage, a baptism, or a funeral, as the case may be), and as it is desirable that the feelings of the parties should be protected as far as possible from the impertinent intrusion and disturbance of a crowd from the streets and lanes of the city, I beg that no one may be admitted within the doors of the church during the very few moments that we expect to be there, but our invited friends only,”--it would certainly, in such a case, be my pleasure to comply with your request, and to meet your wishes in every particular; and I think that even Mr. W*** S*** will agree that all this would be entirely reasonable and proper. Then, tell me, how would such a case differ from the instance of which you complain? Two young persons, whose only crimes would seem to be that they are neither so big, nor so stupid, nor so ill-mannered, nor so inordinately selfish as some other people, come to me and say, sir, we are about to be married, and we wish to throw around our marriage all the solemnities of religion. We are strangers in your city, and as there is no clergymen here standing in a pastoral relation to us, we have ventured to ask the favor of the bishop of New York to marry us, and he has kindly consented to do so; may we then venture a little further, and request the use of your church in which the bishop may perform the marriage service? We assure you, sir, that we are no shams, no cheats, no mountebanks; we are neither monsters nor abortions; it is true we are little, but we are as God made us, perfect in our littleness. Sir, we are simply man and woman of like passions and infirmities with you and other mortals. The arrangements for our marriage are controlled by no “showman,” and we are sincerely desirous that everything should be ordered with a most scrupulous regard to decorum. We hope to invite our relations and intimate friends, together with such persons as may in other years have extended civilities to either of us; but we pledge ourselves to you most sacredly that no invitation can be bought with money. Permit us to say further, that as we would most gladly escape from the insulting jeers, and ribald sneers and coarse ridicule of the unthinking multitude without, we pray you to allow us, at our own proper charges, so to guard the avenues of access from the street, as to prevent all unseemly tumult and disorder.
I tell you, sir, that whenever, and from whomsoever, such an appeal is made to my Christian courtesy, although it should come from the very humblest of the earth, I would go calmly and cheerfully forward to meet their wishes, although as many W*** S***’s as would reach from here to Kamtschatka, clothed in furs and frowns, should rise up to oppose me.
In conclusion, I will say that if the marriage of Charles S. Stratton and Lavinia Warren is to be regarded as a pageant, then it was the most beautiful pageant it has ever been my privilege to witness. If on the contrary, it is rather to be thought of as a solemn ceremony, then it was as touchingly solemn as a wedding can possibly be rendered. It is true the bishop was not present, but Mr. Stratton’s own pastor, the Rev. Mr. Willey, of Bridgeport, Connecticut, read the service with admirable taste and impressiveness, and the bride was given away by her mother’s pastor and her own “next friend,” a venerable congregational clergyman from Massachusetts. Surely, there never was a gathering of so many hundreds of our best people, when everybody appeared so delighted with everything; surely it is no light thing to call forth so much innocent joy in so few moments of passing time; surely it is no light thing, thus to smooth the roughness and sweeten the acerbities which mar our happiness as we advance upon the wearing journey of life. Sir, it was most emphatically a high triumph of “Christian civilization”!
Respectfully submitted, by your obedient servant,
THOMAS HOUSE TAYLOR.
Several thousand persons attended the reception of Mr. and Mrs. Tom Thumb the same day at the Metropolitan Hotel. After this they started on a wedding tour, taking Washington in their way. They visited President Lincoln at the White House. After a couple of weeks they returned, and, as they then supposed, retired to private life.
Habit, however, is indeed second nature. The General and his wife had been accustomed to excitement, and after a few months’ retirement they again longed for the peculiar pleasures of a public life, and the public were eager to welcome them once more. They resumed their public career, and have since travelled several years in Europe, and considerably in this country, holding public exhibitions more than half the time, and spending the residue in leisurely viewing such cities and portions of the country as they may happen to be in. Commodore Nutt and Minnie Warren, I should add, usually travel with them.
I met the little Commodore last summer, after his absence in Europe of three years, and said:
“Are you not married yet, Commodore?”
“No, sir; my fruit is plucked,” he replied.
“You don’t mean to say you will never marry,” I remarked.
“No, not exactly,” replied the Commodore, complacently, “but I have concluded not to marry until I am thirty.”
“I suppose you intend to marry one of your size?” I said.
“I am not particular in that respect,” but seeing my jocose mood, he continued, with a comical leer, “I think I should prefer marrying a good, green country girl, to anybody else.”
This was said with a degree of nonchalance, which none can appreciate who do not know him.
To make sure that a lack of memory has not misled me as to any of the facts in regard to the courtship and wedding of Tom Thumb and Lavinia Warren, I will here say that, after writing out the story, I read it to the parties personally interested, and they give me leave to say that, in all particulars, it is a correct statement of the affair, except that Lavinia remarked:
“Well, Mr. Barnum, your story don’t lose any by the telling”; and the Commodore denies the “rolling tear,” when informed of the engagement of the little pair.
In June 1869, the report was started, for the third or fourth time, in the newspapers, that Commodore Nutt and Miss Minnie Warren were married--this time at West Haven, in Connecticut. The story was wholly untrue, nor do I think that such a wedding is likely to take place, for, on the principle that people like their opposites, Minnie and the Commodore are likely to marry persons whom they can literally “look up to”--that is, if either of them marries at all it will be a tall partner.
Soon after the wedding of General Tom Thumb and Lavinia Warren, a lady came to my office and called my attention to a little six-paged pamphlet which she said she had written, entitled “Priests and Pigmies,” and requested me to read it. I glanced at the title, and at once estimating the character of the publication, I promptly declined to devote any portion of my valuable time to its perusal.
“But you had better look at it, Mr. Barnum; it deeply interests you, and you may think it worth your while to buy it.”
“Certainly, I will buy it, if you desire,” said I, tendering her a sixpence, which I supposed to be the price of the little pamphlet.
“Oh! you quite misunderstand me; I mean buy the copyright and the entire edition, with the view of suppressing the work. It says some frightful things, I assure you,” urged the author.
I lay back in my chair and fairly roared at this exceedingly feeble attempt at black-mail.
“But,” persisted the lady, “suppose it says that your Museum and Grace Church are all one, what then?”
“My dear madam,” I replied, “you may say what you please about me or about my Museum; you may print a hundred thousand copies of a pamphlet stating that I stole the communion service, after the wedding from Grace Church altar, or anything else you choose to write; only have the kindness to say something about me, and then come to me and I will properly estimate the money value of your services to me as an advertising agent. Good morning, madam,”--and she departed.
XXXVIII. POLITICAL AND PERSONAL
MY POLITICAL PRINCIPLES--REASONS FOR MY CHANGE OF PARTIES--KANSAS AND SECESSION--WIDE-AWAKES--GRAND ILLUMINATION OF LINDENCROFT--JOKE ON A DEMOCRATIC NEIGHBOR--PEACE MEETINGS--THE STEPNEY EXCITEMENT--TEARING DOWN A PEACE FLAG--A LOYAL MEETING--RECEPTION IN BRIDGEPORT--DESTRUCTION OF THE “FARMER” OFFICE--ELIAS HOWE, JR.--SAINT PETER AND SALTPETRE--DRAFT RIOTS--BURGLARS AT LINDENCROFT--MY ELECTION TO THE LEGISLATURE--BEGINNING OF MY WAR ON RAILROAD MONOPOLIES--WIRE-PULLING--THE XIV. AMENDMENT TO THE UNITED STATES CONSTITUTION--STRIKING THE WORD “WHITE” FROM THE CONNECTICUT CONSTITUTION--MY SPEECH.
I began my political life as a Democrat, and my newspaper, the Herald of Freedom, was a Jackson-Democratic journal. While always taking an active interest in political matters, I had no desire for personal preferment, and, up to a late period, steadily declined to run for office. Nevertheless, in 1852 or 1853, prominent members of the party with which I voted, urged the submission of my name to the State Convention, as a candidate for the office of Governor, and although the party was then in the ascendancy, and a nomination would have been equivalent to an election, I peremptorily refused; in spite of this refusal, which was generally known, several votes were cast for me in the Convention. The Kansas strifes, in 1854, shook my faith in my party, though I continued to call myself a Democrat, often declaring that if I thought there was a drop of blood in me that was not democratic, I would let it out if I had to cut the jugular vein. When, however, secession threatened in 1860, I thought it was time for a “new departure,” and I identified myself with the Republican party.
During the active and exciting political campaign of 1860, which resulted in Mr. Lincoln’s first election to the presidency, it will be remembered that “Wide-Awake” associations, with their uniforms, torches and processions, were organized in nearly every city, town and village throughout the North. Arriving at Bridgeport from New York at five o’clock one afternoon, I was informed that the Wide-Awakes were to parade that evening and intended to march out to Lindencroft. So I ordered two boxes of sperm candles, and prepared for a general illumination of every window in the front of my house. Many of my neighbors, including several Democrats, came to Lindencroft in the evening to witness the illumination and see the Wide-Awake procession. My nearest neighbor, Mr. T., was a strong Democrat, and before he came to my house, he ordered his servants to stay in the basement, and not to show a light above ground, thus intending to prove his Democratic convictions and conclusions by the darkness of his “premises”; and so, while Lindencroft was all ablaze with a flood of light, the next house was as black as a coal-hole.
My neighbor, Mr. James D. Johnson, was also a Democrat, but I knew he would not spoil a good joke for the sake of politics, and I asked him to engage the attention of Mr. and Mrs. T., and to keep their faces turned towards Bridgeport and the approaching procession, the light of whose torches could already be seen in the distance, while another Democratic friend, Mr. George A. Wells, and I, ran over and illuminated Mr T.’s house. This we did with great success, completing our work five minutes before the procession arrived. As the Wide-Awakes turned into my grounds and saw that the house of Mr. T. was brilliantly illuminated, they concluded that he had become a sudden convert to Republicanism, and gave three rousing cheers for him. Hearing his name thus cheered and wondering at the cause, he happened to turn and see that his house was lighted up from basement to attic, and uttering a single profane ejaculation, he rushed for home. He was not able, however, to put out the lights till the Wide-Awakes had gone on their way rejoicing under the impression that one more Republican had been added to their ranks.
When the rebellion broke out in 1861, I was too old to go to the field, but I supplied four substitutes, and contributed liberally from my means for the cause of the Union. After the defeat at Bull Run, July 21, 1861, “peace meetings” began to be held in different parts of the Northern States, and especially in Fairfield and Litchfield Counties, in Connecticut. It was usual in these assemblages to display a white flag, bearing the word “Peace” above the National flag, and to make and listen to harangues denunciatory of the war. One of these meetings was advertised to be held, August 24th, at Stepney, ten miles north of Bridgeport. On the morning of that day, I met Elias Howe, Jr., who proposed to me that we should drive up to Stepney, attend the Peace meeting, and hear for ourselves whether the addresses were disloyal or not. We agreed to meet at the post-office, at twelve o’clock at noon, and I went home for my carriage. On the way I met several gentlemen to whom I communicated my intention, asking them to go also; and as Mr. Howe invited several of his friends to accompany us, when we met at noon, at least twenty gentlemen were at the place of rendezvous with their carriages, ready to start for Stepney. I am quite confident that not one of us had any other intention in going to this meeting, than to quietly listen to the harangues, and if they were found to be in opposition to the government, and calculated to create disturbance or disaffection in the community, and deter enlistments, it would be best to represent the matter to the government at Washington, and ask that measures might be taken to suppress such gatherings.
As we turned into Main Street, we discovered two large omnibuses filled with soldiers, who were at home on furlough, and who were going to Stepney. Our lighter carriages outran them, and so arrived at Stepney in time to see the white peace flag run up over the stars and stripes, when we quietly stood in the crowd while the meeting was organized. It was a very large gathering, and some fifty ladies were on the seats in front of the platform, on which were the officers and speakers of the meeting. A “preacher,”--Mr. Charles Smith,--was invited to open the proceedings with prayer, and “The Military and Civil History of Connecticut, during the War of 1861-65,” by W. A. Croffut and John M. Morris, thus continues the record of this extraordinary gathering:
“He (Smith) had not, however, progressed far in his supplication, when he slightly opened his eyes, and beheld, to his horror, the Bridgeport omnibuses coming over the hill, garnished with Union banners, and vocal with loyal cheers. This was the signal for a panic; Bull Run, on a small scale was re-enacted. The devout Smith, and the undelivered orators, it is alleged, took refuge in a field of corn. The procession drove straight to the pole unresisted, the hostile crowd parting to let them pass; and a tall man,--John Platt,--amid some mutterings, climbed the pole, reached the halliards, and the mongrel banners were on the ground. Some of the peace-men, rallying, drew weapons on ‘the invaders,’ and a musket and a revolver were taken from them by soldiers at the very instant of firing. Another of the defenders fired a revolver, and was chased into the fields. Still others, waxing belligerent, were disarmed, and a number of loaded muskets found stored in an adjacent shed were seized. The stars and stripes were hoisted upon the pole, and wildly cheered. P. T. Barnum was then taken on the shoulders of the boys in blue, and put on the platform, where he made a speech full of patriotism, spiced with the humor of the occasion. Captain James E. Dunham also said a few words to the point.... ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ was then sung in chorus, and a series of resolutions passed, declaring that ‘loyal men are the rightful custodians of the peace of Connecticut.’ Elias Howe, Jr., chairman, made his speech, when the crowd threatened to shoot the speakers: ‘If they fire a gun, boys, burn the whole town, and I’ll pay for it!’ After giving the citizens wholesome advice concerning the substituted flag, and their duty to the government, the procession returned to Bridgeport, with the white flag trailing in the mud behind an omnibus.... They were received at Bridgeport by approving crowds, and were greeted with continuous cheers as they passed along.”
On our way back to Bridgeport, the soldiers threatened a descent upon the Farmer office, but I strongly appealed to them to refrain from such a riotous proceeding, telling them that as law-abiding citizens they should refrain from acts of violence and especially should make no appeal to the passions of a mob. So confident was I that the day’s proceedings had ended with the reception of the soldiers on their return from Stepney, that in telegraphing a full account of the facts to the New York papers, I added that there was no danger of an attack upon the Farmer office, since leading loyal citizens were opposed to such action as unnecessary and unwise. But the enthusiasm with which the soldiers had been received, and the excitement of the day, prompted them to break through their resolutions, and, half an hour after my telegram had been sent to New York, they rushed into the Farmer office, tumbled the type into the street, and broke the presses. I did not approve of this summary suppression of the paper, and offered the proprietors a handsome subscription to assist in enabling them to renew the publication of the Farmer. One of the editors of this paper went South, and connected himself with a journal in Augusta, Georgia; the remaining proprietor shortly afterwards re-issued the Farmer, but the peace meetings which had been advertised for different towns were never held; the gathering at Stepney was the last of the kind.
Elias Howe, Jr., although he was a man of wealth and well advanced in years, enlisted as a private in the Seventeenth regiment of Connecticut volunteers and served in the Army of the Potomac. Once when his fellow-soldiers, not having been paid off, were in need of money, he advanced $13,000 due them, and when his regiment was disbanded and discharged from service, he chartered, at his own expense, a special train to bring them from New Haven to Bridgeport, where they had a public reception.
Mr. Howe, like all men of his reputed wealth and liberality, was constantly besieged by solicitors for all sorts of charities, nor was he free from such applications when he was serving as a common soldier in Virginia. On one occasion a worthy priest came to him and asked for a subscription to a church which was then building. “Who is it,” exclaimed Howe, “that talks of building churches in this time of war?” The priest ventured to say that he was trying to build in his parish a church which was to be known as St. Peter’s.
“St. Peter’s is it?” asked Howe; “well, St. Peter was, in his way, a fighting man; he drew a sword once and cut off a man’s ear; on the whole, I think,” he added, as he gave a handsome sum of money to the priest, “I must do something for St. Peter, though about these days I am devoting my attention and money mainly to saltpetre.”
After the draft riots in New York and in other cities, in July, 1863, myself and other members of the “Prudential Committee” which had been formed in Bridgeport were frequently threatened with personal violence, and rumors were especially rife that Lindencroft would some night be mobbed and destroyed. On several occasions, soldiers volunteered as a guard and came and stayed at my house, sometimes for several nights in succession, and I was also provided with rockets, so that in case of an attempted attack I could signal to my friends in the city and especially to the night watchman at the arsenal, who would see my rockets at Lindencroft and give the alarm. Happily these signals were never needed, but the rockets came in play, long afterwards, in another way.
My house was provided with a magnetic burglar-alarm and one night the faithful bell sounded. I was instantly on my feet and summoning my servants, one ran and rung the large bell on the lawn which served in the day time to call my coachman from the stable, another turned on the gas, while I fired a gun out of the window and I then went to the top of the house and set off several rockets. The whole region round about was instantly aroused; dogs barked, neighbors half-dressed, but armed, flocked over to my grounds, every time a rocket went up, and I was by no means sparing of my supply; the whole place was as light as day, and in the general glare and confusion we caught sight of two retreating burglars, one running one way, the other another way, and both as fast as their legs could carry them; nor do I believe that the panic-stricken would-be plunderers stopped running till they reached New York.
It always seemed to me that a man who “takes no interest in politics” is unfit to live in a land where the government rests in the hands of the people. Consequently, whether I expressed them or not, I always had pronounced opinions upon all the leading political questions of the day, and no frivolous reason ever kept me from the polls. Indeed, on one occasion, I even hastened my return from Europe, so that I could take part in a presidential election. I was a party man, but not a partisan, nor a wire-puller, and I had never sought or desired office, though it had often been tendered to me. This was notoriously true, among all who knew me, up to the year 1865, when I accepted from the Republican party a nomination to the Connecticut legislature from the town of Fairfield, and I did this because I felt that it would be an honor to be permitted to vote for the then proposed amendment to the Constitution of the United States to abolish slavery forever from the land.
I was elected, and on arriving at Hartford the night before the session began, I found the wire-pullers at work laying their plans for the election of a Speaker of the House. Watching the movements closely, I saw that the railroad interests had combined in support of one of the candidates, and this naturally excited my suspicion. I never believed in making State legislation a mere power to support monopolies. I do not need to declare my full appreciation of the great blessings which railroad interests and enterprises have brought upon this country and the world. But the vaster the enterprise and its power for good, the greater its opportunity for mischief if its power is perverted. The time was when a whole community was tied to the track of one or two railway companies, and it was too truthful to be looked upon as satire to call New Jersey the “State of Camden and Amboy.” A great railroad company, like fire, is a good servant, but a bad master; and when it is considered that such a company, with its vast number of men dependent upon it for their daily bread, can sometimes elect State officers and legislatures, the danger to our free institutions from such a force may well be feared.
Thinking of these things, and seeing in the combination of railroad interests to elect a speaker, no promise of good to the community at large, I at once consulted with a few friends in the legislature, and we resolved to defeat the railroad “ring,” if possible, in caucus. I had not even seen either of the candidates for the speakership, nor had I a single selfish end in view to gratify by the election of one candidate or the other; but I felt that if the railroad favorite could be defeated, the public interest would be subserved. We succeeded; their candidate was not nominated, and the railroad men were taken by surprise. They had had their own way in every legislature since the first railroad was laid down in Connecticut, and to be beaten now fairly startled them.
Immediately after the caucus, I sought the successful nominee, Hon. E. K. Foster, of New Haven, and begged him not to appoint as chairman of the railroad committee the man who had held that office for several successive years, and who was, in fact, the great railroad factotum in the State. He complied with my request, and he soon found how important it was to check the strong and growing monopoly; for, as he said, the “outside pressure” from personal friends in both political parties, to secure the appointment of the person to whom I had objected, was terrible.
Though I had not foreseen nor thought of such a thing until I reached Hartford, I soon found that a battle with the railroad commissioners would be necessary, and my course was shaped accordingly. It was soon discovered that a majority of the railroad commissioners were mere tools in the hands of the railroad companies, and that one of them was actually a hired clerk in the office of the New York and New Haven Railroad Company. It was also shown that the chairman of the railroad commissioners permitted most of the accidents which occurred on that road to be taken charge of and reported upon by the paid lobby agent of that railroad. This was so manifestly destructive to the interests of all parties who might suffer from accidents on the road, or have any controversy therefor with the company, that I succeeded in enlisting the farmers and other true men on the side of right; and we defeated the chairman of the railroad commissioners, who was a candidate for re-election, and elected our own candidate in his place. I also carried through a law that no person who was in the employ of any railroad in the State should serve as railroad commissioner.
But the great struggle which lasted nearly through the entire session was upon the subject of railroad passenger commutations. Commodore Vanderbilt had secured control of the Hudson River and Harlem railroads, and had increased the price of commuters’ tickets from two hundred to four hundred per cent. Many men living on the line of these roads at distances of from ten to fifty miles from New York, had built fine residences in the country, on the strength of cheap transit to and from the city, and were compelled to submit to the extortion. Commodore Vanderbilt was a large shareholder in the New York and New Haven road; indeed, subsequent elections showed that he had a controlling interest, and it seemed evident to me that the same practice would be put in operation on the New Haven Railroad, that commuters were groaning under on the two other roads. I enlisted as many as I could in an effort to strangle this outrage before it became too strong to grapple with. Several lawyers in the Assembly had promised me their aid, but long before the final struggle came, every lawyer except one in that body was enlisted in favor of the railroads!
What potent influence had been at work with these legal gentlemen could only be surmised. Certain it is that all the railroad interests in the State were combined; and while they had plenty of money with which to carry out their designs and desires, the chances looked slim in favor of those members of the legislature who had no pecuniary interest in the matter, but were struggling simply for justice and the protection of the people. But “Yankee stick-to-it-iveness” was always a noted feature in my character. Every inch of the ground was fought over, day after day, before the legislative railroad committee. Examinations and cross-examinations of railroad commissioners and lobbyists were kept up. Scarcely more than one man, Senator Ballard, of Darien, aided me personally in the investigations which took place. But he was a host in himself, and we left not a stone unturned; we succeeded by our persistence, in letting in considerable light upon a dark subject. The man whom I had prevented from being made chairman, succeeded in becoming a member of the railroad committee; but, from the mouths of unwilling witnesses, I exhibited his connection with railroad reports, railroad laws, and railroad lobbyings, in such a light that he took to his bed some ten days before the end of the session, and actually remained there, “sick,” as he said, till the legislature adjourned.
The speaker offered me the chairmanship of any one of several committees, and I selected that of the Agricultural committee, because it would occupy but little of my time, and give me the opportunity I so much desired to devote my attention to the railway combinations. The Republicans had a majority in both branches of the legislature; the Democrats, however, were watchful and energetic. The amendment to the United States Constitution, abolishing slavery, met with but little open opposition; but the proposed amendment to the State Constitution, striking out the word “white” from that clause which defined the qualifications of voters, was violently opposed by the Democratic members. The report from the minority of the committee to whom the question was referred, gave certain reasons for offering the contemplated amendment, and in reply to this, I spoke, May 26, 1865, as follows:
SPEECH OF P. T. BARNUM,
ON THE CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT.
MR. SPEAKER:--I will not attempt to notice at any length the declamation of the honorable gentleman from Milford, for certainly I have heard nothing from his lips approaching to the dignity of argument. I agree with the gentleman that the right of suffrage is “dearly and sacredly cherished by the white man”; and it is because this right is so dear and sacred, that I wish to see it extended to every educated moral man within our State, without regard to color. He tells us that one race is a vessel to honor, and another to dishonor; and that he has seen on ancient Egyptian monuments the negro represented as “a hewer of wood and a drawer of water.” This is doubtless true, and the gentleman seems determined always to keep the negro a “vessel of dishonor,” and a “hewer of wood.” We, on the other hand, propose to give him the opportunity of expanding his faculties and elevating himself to true manhood. He says he “hates and abhors and despises demagogism.” I am rejoiced to hear it, and I trust we shall see tangible evidence of the truth of what he professes in his abandonment of that slavery to party which is the mere trick and trap of the demagogue.
When, a few days since, this honorable body voted unanimously for the Amendment of the United States Constitution abolishing human slavery, I not only thanked God from my heart of hearts, but I felt like going down on my knees to the gentlemen of the opposition for the wisdom they had exhibited in bowing to the logic of events by dropping that dead weight of slavery which had disrupted the Democratic party, with which I had been so long connected. And on this occasion I wish again to appeal to the wisdom and loyalty of my Democratic friends. I say Democratic “friends,” for I am and ever was a thorough, out and out Democrat. I supported General Jackson, and voted for every Democratic president after him, up to and including Pierce; for I really thought Pierce was a Democrat until he proved the contrary, as I conceived, in the Kansas question. My democracy goes for the greatest good to the greatest number, for equal and exact justice to all men, and for a submission to the will of the majority. If I thought I had one drop of blood in my veins which was not democratic, in the light of this definition, I would have it out, no matter at what trouble or sacrifice. It was the repudiation by the southern democracy of this great democratic doctrine of majority rule which opened the rebellion.
And now, Mr. Speaker, let me remind our democratic friends that the present question simply asks that a majority of the legal voters, the white citizens of this State, may decide whether or not colored men of good moral character, who are able to read and who possess all the qualifications of white voters, shall be entitled to the elective franchise. The opposition may have their own ideas, or may be in doubt upon this subject; but surely no true democrat will dare to refuse permission to our fellow-citizens to decide the question.
Negro slavery and its legitimate outgrowths of ignorance, tyranny and oppression, have caused this gigantic rebellion which has cost our country thousands of millions of treasure, and hundreds of thousands of human lives in defending a principle. And where was this poor, down-trodden colored race in this rebellion? Did they seize the “opportunity” when their masters were engaged with a powerful foe, to break out in insurrection, and massacre those tyrants who had so long held them in the most cruel bondage? No, Mr. Speaker, they did not do this. My “democratic” friends would have done it. I would have done it. Irishmen, Chinamen, Portuguese, would have done it; any white man would have done it; but the poor black man is like a lamb in his nature compared with the white man. The black man possesses a confiding disposition, thoroughly tinctured with religious enthusiasm, and not characterized by a spirit of revenge. No, the only barbarous massacres we heard of, during the war, were those committed by their white masters on their poor, defenceless white prisoners, and to the eternal disgrace of southern white “democratic” rebels, be it said, these instances of barbarism were numerous all through the war. When this rebellion first broke out, the northern democracy raised a hue-and-cry against permitting the negroes to fight; but when such a measure seemed necessary, in order to put down traitors, these colored men took their muskets in hand and made their bodies a wall of defence for the loyal citizens of the north. And now, when our grateful white citizens ask from this assembly the privilege of deciding by their votes whether these colored men, who, at least, were partially our saviors in the war, may or may not, under proper restrictions, become participants in that great salvation, I am amazed that men calling themselves democrats dare refuse to grant this democratic measure. We wish to educate ignorant men, white or black. Ignorance is incompatible with the genius of our free institutions. In the very nature of things it jeopardizes their stability, and it is always unsafe to transgress the laws of nature. We cannot safely shut ourselves up with ignorance and brutality; we must educate and christianize those who are now by circumstances our social inferiors.
Years ago, I was afraid of foreign voters. I feared that when Europe poured her teeming millions of working people upon our shores, our extended laws of franchise would enable them to swamp our free institutions, and reduce us to anarchy. But much reflection has satisfied me that we have only to elevate these millions and their descendants to the standard of American citizenship, and we shall find sufficient of the leaven of liberty in our system of government to absorb all foreign elements and assimilate them to a truly democratic form of government.
Mr. Speaker: We cannot afford to carry passengers and have them live under our government with no real vital interest in its perpetuity. Every man must be a joint owner.
The only safe inhabitants of a free country are educated citizens who vote. The gentleman from Milford lives near the old Washington toll-bridge, which spans the Housatonic River, and he doubtless remembers, as I do, when the Boston and New York stages crossed that bridge, and the coachman would always denounce the “infernal bridge monopoly” which compelled him to pay a dollar every time the stage crossed. The passengers would generally laugh and say: “Let him pay, it’s nothing to us; we are only passengers.” Some twenty years ago, one of the gentlemen accustomed to travel in that stage, was crossing the Atlantic in a steamship. At the hour of midnight, when nearly all were wrapt in sleep, the fearful cry of “fire” rang through the ship. There were the poor passengers, threatened by the devouring element, and only a plank between them and death. Our passenger, not half awake, rubbed his eyes and probably fancying he was in the old stage-coach, cried out: “Fire away, I am only a passenger!” Fortunately, it was a false alarm; but when the gentleman was wide awake, he discovered that there could be no disinterested passengers on board a burning ship.
Nor in a free government can we afford to employ journeymen; they may be apprenticed until they learn to read, and study our institutions; and then let them become joint proprietors and feel a proportionate responsibility. The two learned and distinguished authors of the minority report have been studying the science of ethnology and have treated us with a dissertation on the races. And what have they attempted to show? Why, that a race which, simply on account of the color of the skin, has long been buried in slavery at the South, and even at the North has been tabooed and scarcely permitted to rise above the dignity of whitewashers and boot-blacks, does not exhibit the same polish and refinement that the white citizens do who have enjoyed the advantages of civilization, education, Christian culture and self-respect which can only be attained by those who share in making the laws under which they live.
Do our democratic friends assume that the negroes are not human? I have heard professed democrats claim even that; but do the authors of this minority report insist that the negro is a beast? Is his body not tenanted by an immortal spirit? If this is the position of the gentlemen, then I confess a beast cannot reason, and this minority committee are right in declaring that “the negro can develop no inventive faculties or genius for the arts.” For although the elephant may be taught to plow, or the dog to carry your market-basket by his teeth, you cannot teach them to shave notes, to speculate in gold, or even to vote; whereas, the experience of all political parties shows that men may be taught to vote, even when they do not know what the ticket means.
But if the colored man is indeed a man, then his manhood with proper training can be developed. His soul may appear dormant, his brain inactive, but there is a vitality there; and Nature will assert herself if you will give her the opportunity.
Suppose an inhabitant of another planet should drop down upon this portion of our globe at mid-winter. He would find the earth covered with snow and ice and congealed almost to the consistency of granite. The trees are leafless, everything is cold and barren; no green thing is to be seen; the inhabitants are chilled, and stalk about shivering, from place to place;--he would exclaim, “Surely this is not life; this means annihilation. No flesh and blood can long endure this; this frozen earth is bound in the everlasting embraces of adamantine frost, and can never develop vegetation for the sustenance of any living thing.” He little dreams of the priceless myriads of germs which bountiful Nature has safely garnered in the warm bosom of our mother earth; he sees no evidence of that vitality which the beneficent sun will develop to grace and beautify the world. But let him remain until March or April, and as the snow begins to melt away, he discovers the beautiful crocus struggling through the half-frozen ground; the snow-drops appear in all their chaste beauty; the buds of the swamp-maple shoot forth; the beautiful magnolia opens her splendid blossoms; the sassafras adds its evidence of life; the pearl-white blossoms of the dog-wood light up every forest;--and while our stranger is rubbing his eyes in astonishment, the earth is covered with her emerald velvet carpet; rich foliage and brilliant colored blossoms adorn the trees; fragrant flowers are enwreathing every wayside; the swift-winged birds float through the air and send forth joyful notes of gratitude from every tree-top; the merry lambs skip joyfully around their verdant pasture grounds; and everywhere is our stranger surrounded with life, beauty, joy and gladness.
So it is with the poor African. You may take a dozen specimens of both sexes from the lowest type of man found in Africa; their race has been buried for ages in ignorance and barbarism, and you can scarcely perceive that they have any more of manhood or womanhood than so many orang-outangs or gorillas. You look at their low foreheads, their thick skulls and lips, their woolly heads, their flat noses, their dull, lazy eyes, and you may be tempted to adopt the language of this minority committee, and exclaim: Surely these people have “no inventive faculties, no genius for the arts, or for any of those occupations requiring intellect and wisdom.” But bring them out into the light of civilization; let them and their children come into the genial sunshine of Christianity; teach them industry, self-reliance, and self-respect; let them learn what too few white Christians have yet understood, that cleanliness is akin to godliness, and a part of godliness; and the human soul will begin to develop itself. Each generation, blessed with churches and common schools, will gradually exhibit the result of such culture; the low foreheads will be raised and widened by an active and expanded brain; the vacant eye of barbarism, ignorance and idleness will light up with the fire of intelligence, education, ambition, activity and Christian civilization; and you will find the immortal soul asserting her dignity, by the development of a man who would startle, by his intelligence, the honorable gentleman from Wallingford, who has presumed to compare beings made in God’s image with “oxen and asses.” That honorable gentleman, if he is rightly reported in the papers (I did not have the happiness to hear his speech), has mistaken the nature of the colored man. The honorable gentleman reminds me of the young man who went abroad, and when he returned, there was nothing in America that could compare with what he had seen in foreign lands. Niagara Falls was nowhere; the White Mountains were “knocked higher than a kite” by Mont Blanc; our rivers were so large that they were vulgar, when contrasted with the beautiful little streams and rivulets of Europe; our New York Central Park was eclipsed by the Bois de Bologne and the Champs Elysées of Paris, or Hyde or Regent Park of London, to say nothing of the great Phœnix Park at Dublin.
“They have introduced a couple of Venetian gondolas on the large pond in Central Park,” remarked a friend.
“All very well,” replied the verdant traveller, “but between you and me, these birds can’t stand our cold climate more than one season.” The gentleman from Wallingford evidently had as little idea of the true nature of the African as the young swell had of the pleasure-boats of Venice.
Mr. Johnson, of Wallingford: The gentleman misapprehends my remarks. The gentleman from Norwich had urged that the negro should vote because they have fought in our battles. I replied that oxen and asses can fight, and therefore should, on the same grounds, be entitled to vote.
Mr. Barnum: I accept the gentleman’s explanation. Doubtless General Grant will feel himself highly complimented when he learns that it requires no greater capacity to handle the musket, and meet armed battalions in the field, than “oxen and asses” possess.
Let the educated free negro feel that he is a man; let him be trained in New England churches, schools and workshops; let him support himself, pay his taxes, and cast his vote, like other men, and he will put to everlasting shame the champions of modern democracy, by the overwhelming evidence he will give in his own person of the great Scripture truth, that “God has made of one blood all the nations of men.” A human soul, “that God has created and Christ died for,” is not to be trifled with. It may tenant the body of a Chinaman, a Turk, an Arab or a Hottentot--it is still an immortal spirit; and amid all assumptions of caste, it will in due time vindicate the great fact that, without regard to color or condition, all men are equally children of the common Father.
A few years since, an English lord and his family were riding in his carriage in Liverpool. It was an elegant equipage; the servants were dressed in rich livery; the horses caparisoned in the most costly style; and everything betokened that the establishment belonged to a scion of England’s proudest aristocracy. The carriage stopped in front of a palatial residence. At this moment a poor beggar woman rushed to the side of the carriage, and gently seizing the lady by the hand, exclaimed, “For the love of God give me something to save my poor sick children from starvation. You are rich; I am your poor sister, for God is our common Father.”
“Wretch!” exclaimed the proud lady, casting the woman’s hand away; “Don’t call me sister, I have nothing in common with such low brutes as you.” And the great lady doubtless thought she was formed of finer clay than this suffering mendicant; but when a few days afterwards she was brought to a sick bed by the small-pox, contracted by touching the hand of that poor wretch, she felt the evidence that they belonged to the same great family, and were subject to the same pains and diseases.
The State of Connecticut, like New Jersey, is a border State of New York. New York has a great commercial city, where Aldermen rob by the tens of thousands, and where principal is studied much more than principle. I can readily understand how the negro has come to be debased at the North as well as at the South. The interests of the two sections in the product of negro labor were nearly identical. The North wanted Southern cotton and the South was ready in turn to buy from the North whatever was needed in the way of Northern supplies and manufactures. This community of commercial interests led to an identity in political principles especially in matters pertaining to the negro race--the working race of the South--which produced the cotton and consumed so much of what Northern merchants and manufacturers sold for plantation use. The Southern planters were good customers and were worth conciliating. So when Connecticut proposed in 1818 to continue to admit colored men to the franchise, the South protested against thus elevating the negroes, and Connecticut succumbed. No other New England State has ever so disgraced herself; and now Connecticut democrats are asked to permit the white citizens of this State to express their opinion in regard to re-instating the colored man where our Revolutionary sires placed him under the Constitution. Now, gentlemen, “democrats” as you call yourselves, you who speak so flippantly of your “loyalty,” your “love for the Union” and your “love for the people;” you who are generally talking right and voting wrong, we ask you to come forward and act “democratically,” by letting your masters, the people, speak.
The word “white” in the Constitution cannot be strictly and literally construed. The opposition express great love for white blood. Will they let a mulatto vote half the time, a quadroon three-fourths, and an octoroon seven-eighths of the time? If not, why not? Will they enslave seven-eighths of a white man because one-eighth is not Caucasian? Is this democratic? Shall not the majority seven control the minority one? Out on such “democracy.”
But a Democratic minority committee (of two) seem to have done something besides study ethnology. They have also paid great attention to fine arts, and are particularly anxious that all voters shall have a “genius for the arts.” I would like to ask them if it has always been political practice to insist that every voter in the great “unwashed” and “unterrified” of any party should become a member of the Academy of Arts before he votes the “regular” ticket? I thought he was received into the full fellowship of a political party if he could exhibit sufficient “inventive faculties and genius for the arts,” to enable him to paint a black eye. Can a man whose “genius for the arts” enables him to strike from the shoulder scientifically, be admitted to full fellowship in a political party? Is it evident that the political artist has studied the old masters, if he exhibits his genius by tapping an opponent’s head with a shillelagh? The oldest master in this school of art was Cain; and so canes have been made to play their part in politics, at the polls and even in the United States Senate Chamber.
“Is genius for the arts and those occupations requiring intellect and wisdom” sufficiently exemplified in adroitly stuffing ballot boxes, forging soldiers’ votes, and copying a directory, as has been done, as the return list of votes? Is the “inventive faculty” of “voting early and often,” a passport to political brotherhood? Is it satisfactory evidence of “artistic” genius, to head a mob? and a mob which is led and guided by political passion, as numerous instances in our history prove, is the worst of mobs. Is it evidence of “high art” to lynch a man by hanging him to the nearest tree or lamp post? Is a “whiskey scrimmage” one of the lost arts restored? We all know how the “artists” of both political parties are prone to embellish elections and to enhance the excitements of political campaigns by inciting riots, and the frequency with which these disgraceful outbreaks have occurred of late, especially in some of the populous cities, is cause for just alarm. It is dangerous “art.”
Mr. Speaker: I repeat that I am a friend to the Irishman. I have travelled through his native country and have seen how he is oppressed. I have listened to the eloquent and patriotic appeals of Daniel O’Connell, in Conciliation Hall, in Dublin, and I have gladly contributed to his fund for ameliorating the condition of his countrymen. I rejoice to see them rushing to this land of liberty and independence; and it is because I am their friend that I denounce the demagogues who attempt to blind and mislead them to vote in the interests of any party against the interests of humanity, and the principles of true democracy. My neighbors will testify that at mid-winter I employ Irishmen by the hundred to do work that is not absolutely necessary, in order to help them support their families.
After hearing the minority report last week, I began to feel that I might be disfranchised, for I have no great degree of “genius for the arts;” I felt, therefore, that I must get “posted” on that subject as soon as possible. I at once sauntered into the Senate Chamber to look at the paintings; there I saw portraits of great men, and I saw two empty frames from which the pictures had been removed. These missing paintings, I was told, were portraits of two ex-Governors of the State, whose position on political affairs was obnoxious to the dominant party in the Legislature; and especially obnoxious were the supposed sentiments of these governors on the war. Therefore, the Senate voted to remove the pictures, and thus proved as it would seem, that there is an intimate connection between politics and art.
I have repeatedly travelled through every State in the South, and I assert, what every intelligent officer and soldier who has resided there will corroborate, that the slaves, as a body, are more intelligent than the poor whites. No man who has not been there can conceive to what a low depth of ignorance the poor snuff-taking, clay-eating whites of some portion of the South have descended. I trust the day is not far distant when the “common school” shall throw its illuminating rays through this Egyptian pall.
I have known slave mechanics to be sold for $3,000 and even $5,000 each, and others could not be bought at all; and I have seen intelligent slaves acting as stewards for their masters, travelling every year to New Orleans, Nashville, and even to Cincinnati, to dispose of their master’s crops. The free colored citizens of Opelousas, St. Martinsville, and all the Attakapas country in Louisiana, are as respectable and intelligent as an ordinary community of whites. They speak the French and English languages, educate their children in music, and “the arts” and they pay their taxes on more than fifteen millions of dollars.
Gentlemen of the opposition, I beseech you to remember that our state and our country ask from us something more than party tactics. It is absolutely necessary that the loyal blacks at the South should vote in order to save the loyal whites. Let Connecticut, without regard to party, set them an example that shall influence the action at the South, and prevent a new form of slavery from arising there, which shall make all our expenditure of blood and treasure fruitless.
But some persons have this color prejudice simply by the force of education, and they say, “Well, a nigger is a nigger, and he can’t be anything else. I hate niggers, anyhow.” Twenty years ago I crossed the Atlantic, and among our passengers was an Irish judge, who was coming out to Newfoundland as chief justice. He was an exceedingly intelligent and polished gentleman, and extremely witty. The passengers from the New England States and those from the South got into a discussion on the subject of slavery, which lasted three days. The Southerners were finally worsted, and when their arguments were exhausted, they fell back on the old story, by saying: “Oh! curse a nigger, he ain’t half human anyhow; he had no business to be a nigger, etc.” One of the gentlemen then turned to the Irish judge, and asked his opinion of the merits of the controversy. The judge replied:
“Gentlemen, I have listened with much edification to your arguments pro and con during three days. I was quite inclined to think the anti-slavery gentlemen had justice and right on their side, but the last argument from the South has changed my mind. I say a ‘nigger has no business to be a nigger,’ and we should kick him out of society and trample him under foot--always provided, gentlemen, you prove he was born black at his own particular request. If he had no word to say in the matter of course he is blameless for his color, and is entitled to the same respect that other men are who properly behave themselves!”
Mr. Speaker: I am no politician, I came to this legislature simply because I wished to have the honor of voting for the two constitutional amendments--one for driving slavery entirely out of our country; the other to allow men of education and good moral character to vote, regardless of the color of their skins. To give my voice for these two philanthropic, just, and Christian measures is all the glory I ask legislativewise. I care nothing whatever for any sect or party under heaven, as such. I have no axes to grind, no logs to roll, no favors to ask. All I desire is to do what is right, and prevent what is wrong. I believe in no “expediency” that is not predicated of justice, for in all things--politics, as well as everything else--“I know that honesty is the best policy.” A retributive Providence will unerringly and speedily search out all wrong doing; hence, right is always the best in the long run. Certainly, in the light of the great American spirit of liberty and equal rights which is sweeping over this country, and making the thrones of tyrants totter in the old world, no party can afford to carry slavery, either of body or of mind. Knock off your manacles and let the man go free. Take down the blinds from his intellect, and let in the light of education and Christian culture. When this is done you have developed a man. Give him the responsibility of a man and the self-respect of a man, by granting him the right of suffrage. Let universal education, and the universal franchise be the motto of free America, and the toiling millions of Europe, who are watching you with such intense interest, will hail us as their saviors. Let us loyally sink “party” on this question, and go for “God and our Country.” Let no man attach an eternal stigma to his name by shutting his eyes to the great lesson of the hour, and voting against permitting the people to express their opinion on this important subject. Let us unanimously grant this truly democratic boon. Then, when our laws of franchise are settled on a just basis, let future parties divide where they honestly differ on State or national questions which do not trench upon the claims of manhood or American citizenship.
XXXIX. THE AMERICAN MUSEUM IN RUINS
A TERRIBLE LOSS--HOW I RECEIVED THE NEWS--BURNING OF THE AMERICAN MUSEUM--DETAILS OF THE DISASTER--FAITH IN HERRING’S SAFES--BAKED AND BOILED WHALES--THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE MUSEUM--A PUBLIC CALAMITY--SYMPATHY OF THE LEADING EDITORS--AMOUNT OF MY LOSS--SMALL INSURANCE--MY PROPERTY--INTENTION TO RETIRE TO PRIVATE LIFE--HORACE GREELEY ADVISES ME TO GO A-FISHING--BENEFIT TO THE MUSEUM EMPLOYEES AT THE ACADEMY OF MUSIC--MY SPEECH--WHAT THE NEW YORK SUN SAID ABOUT IT--THE NEW UP-TOWN MUSEUM--OPENING THE ESTABLISHMENT TO THE PUBLIC.
On the thirteenth day of July, 1865, I was speaking in the Connecticut Legislature, in session at Hartford, against the railroad schemes, when a telegram was handed to me from my son-in-law, S. H. Hurd, my assistant manager in New York, stating that the American Museum was in flames and that its total destruction was certain. I glanced over the despatch, folded it, laid it on my desk, and calmly continued my speech as if nothing had happened. At the conclusion of my remarks, the bill I had been advocating was carried, and the House adjourned. I then handed the telegram, announcing my great loss in New York, to my friend and fellow-laborer, Mr. William G. Coe, of Winsted, who immediately communicated the intelligence to several members. Warm sympathizers at once crowded around me, and Mr. Henry B. Harrison, of New Haven, my strongest railroad opponent, pushing forward, seized me by the hand, and said:
“Mr. Barnum, I am really very sorry to hear of your great misfortune.”
“Sorry,” I replied, “why, my dear sir, I shall not have time to be ‘sorry’ in a week! It will take me that length of time before I can get over laughing at having whipped you all so nicely in this attempted railroad imposition.”
The Speaker of the House and my fellow-members all testified that neither my face nor my manner betrayed the slightest intimation when I read the telegram that I had received unpleasant intelligence. One of the local journals, speaking of this incident, two days after the fire, said:
In the midst of Mr. Barnum’s speech a telegram was handed to him, announcing that his Museum was in flames, with no hope of saving any portion of his cherished establishment. Without the slightest evidence of agitation, he laid the telegram upon his desk and finished his speech. When he went next day to New York he saw only a pile of black, smouldering ruins.
Immediately after adjournment that afternoon, I took the cars for Bridgeport, spending the night quietly at home, and the following morning I went to New York to see the ruins of my Museum, and to learn the full extent of the disaster. When I arrived at the scene of the calamity and saw nothing but the smouldering debris of what a few hours before was the American Museum, the sight was sad indeed. Here were destroyed, almost in a breath, the accumulated results of many years of incessant toil, my own and my predecessors, in gathering from every quarter of the globe myriads of curious productions of nature and art--an assemblage of rarities which a half million of dollars could not restore, and a quarter of a century could not collect. In addition to these there were many Revolutionary relics and other links in our national history which never could be duplicated. Not a thousand dollars worth of the entire property was saved; the destruction was complete; the loss was irreparable, and the total amount of insurance was but forty thousand dollars.
The fire probably originated in the engine room, where steam was constantly kept up to pump fresh air into the water of the aquaria and to propel the immense fans for cooling the atmosphere of the halls. The flames burst through into the manager’s office, and rapidly extended to all parts of the building. The desk of my son-in-law, Mr. Hurd, was already in flames when he opened it and took out several thousands of dollars in bank bills, and reflecting upon the risk he might incur in carrying it through the surging crowd outside, with remarkable presence of mind, and faith in Herring’s safes, he hastily thrust this money with the account books into my safe, which already held many thousand dollars, and locking the door, left the whole with entire confidence to the flames. Buttoning his coat, he safely made his way out of the burning building and through the excited throng in the streets.
Mr. Hurd’s faith in Herring was well founded; for, when the safe was recovered from the ruins, its contents were discovered to be in perfect preservation. Of the curiosities and other contents of the establishment nothing was saved. When I first gazed upon the ruins, I saw, down in the depths, the remains of the two white whales, which had arrived only a week before, and which were swimming in the great glass tank when the fire broke out. I had never seen these monsters alive, but the half-consumed carcasses presented to my mind the worst specimens of baked and boiled fish that could be conceived of. All the New York newspapers made a great “sensation” of the fire, and the full particulars were copied in journals throughout the country. A facetious reporter, Mr. Nathan D. Urner, of the Tribune, wrote the following amusing account, which appeared in that journal, July 14, 1865, and was very generally quoted from and copied by provincial papers many of whose readers accepted every line of the glowing narrative as “gospel truth”:
Soon after the breaking out of the conflagration, a number of strange and terrible howls and moans proceeding from the large apartment in the third floor of the Museum, corner of Ann Street and Broadway, startled the throngs who had collected in front of the burning building, and who were at first under the impression that the sounds must proceed from human beings unable to effect their escape. Their anxiety was somewhat relieved on this score, but their consternation was by no means decreased upon learning that the room in question was the principal chamber of the menagerie connected with the Museum, and that there was imminent danger of the release of the animals there confined, by the action of the flames. Our reporter fortunately occupied a room on the north corner of Ann Street and Broadway, the windows of which looked immediately into this apartment; and no sooner was he apprised of the fire than he repaired there, confident of finding items in abundance. Luckily the windows of the Museum were unclosed, and he had a perfect view of almost the entire interior of the apartment. The following is his statement of what followed, in his own language:
Protecting myself from the intense heat as well as I could, by taking the mattress from the bed and erecting it as a bulwark before the window, with only enough space reserved on the top so as to look out, I anxiously observed the animals in the opposite room. Immediately opposite the window through which I gazed, was a large cage containing a lion and lioness. To the right hand was the three storied cage, containing monkeys at the top, two kangaroos in the second story, and a happy family of cats, rats, adders, rabbits, etc., in the lower apartment. To the left of the lion’s cage was the tank containing the two vast alligators, and still further to the left, partially hidden from my sight was the grand tank containing the great white whale, which has created such a furore in our sight-seeing midst for the past few weeks. Upon the floor were caged the boa-constrictor, anacondas and rattlesnakes, whose heads would now and then rise menacingly through the top of the cage. In the extreme right was the cage, entirely shut from my view at first, containing the Bengal tiger and the Polar bear, whose terrific growls could be distinctly heard from behind the partition. With a simultaneous bound the lion and his mate, sprang against the bars, which gave way and came down with a great crash, releasing the beasts, which for a moment, apparently amazed at their sudden liberty, stood in the middle of the floor lashing their sides with their tails and roaring dolefully.
Almost at the same moment the upper part of the three storied cage, consumed by the flames, fell forward, letting the rods drop to the floor, and many other animals were set free. Just at this time the door fell through and the flames and smoke rolled in like a whirlwind from the Hadean river Cocytus. A horrible scene in the right hand corner of the room, a yell of indescribable agony, and a crashing, grating sound, indicated that the tiger and Polar bear were stirred up to the highest pitch of excitement. Then there came a great crash as of the giving way of the bars of their cage. The flames and smoke momentarily rolled back, and for a few seconds the interior of the room was visible in the lurid light of the flames, which revealed the tiger and the lion, locked together in close combat.
The monkeys were perched around the windows, shivering with dread and afraid to jump out. The snakes were writhing about, crippled and blistered by the heat, darting out their forked tongues, and expressing their rage and fear in the most sibilant of hisses. The “Happy Family” were experiencing an amount of beatitude which was evidently too cordial for philosophical enjoyment. A long tongue of flame had crept under the cage, completely singing every hair from the cat’s body. The felicitous adder was slowly burning in two and busily engaged in impregnating his organic system with his own venom. The joyful rat had lost his tail by a falling bar of iron; and the beatific rabbit, perforated by a red hot nail, looked as if nothing would be more grateful than a cool corner in some Esquimaux farmyard. The members of the delectated convocation were all huddled together in the bottom of their cage, which suddenly gave way, precipitating them out of view in the depths below, which by this time were also blazing like the fabled Tophet.
At this moment the flames rolled again into the room and then again retired. The whale and alligators were by this time suffering dreadful torments. The water in which they swam was literally boiling. The alligators dashed fiercely about endeavoring to escape, and opening and shutting their great jaws in ferocious torture; but the poor whale, almost boiled, with great ulcers bursting from his blubbery sides, could only feebly swim about, though blowing excessively, and every now and then sending up great fountains of spray. At length, crack went the glass sides of the great cases, and whale and alligators rolled out on the floor with the rushing and steaming water. The whale died easily, having been pretty well used up before. A few great gasps and a convulsive flap or two of his mighty flukes were his expiring spasm. One of the alligators was killed almost immediately by falling across a great fragment of shattered glass, which cut open his stomach and let out the greater part of his entrails to the light of day. The remaining alligator became involved in a controversy with an anaconda, and joined the melee in the centre of the flaming apartment.
A number of birds which were caged in the upper part of the building were set free by some charitably inclined person at the first alarm of fire and at intervals they flew out. There were many valuable tropical birds, parrots, cockatoos, mocking birds, humming birds, etc., as well as some vultures and eagles and one condor. Great excitement existed among the swaying crowds in the streets below as they took wing. There were confined in the same room a few serpents which also obtained their liberty; and soon after the rising and devouring flames began to enwrap the entire building, a splendid and emblematic sight was presented to the wondering and upgazing throngs. Bursting through the central casement, with flap of wings and lashing coils, appeared an eagle and a serpent wreathed in fight. For a moment they hung poised in mid air, presenting a novel and terrible conflict. It was the earth and air (or their respective representatives) at war for mastery; the base and the lofty, the groveller and the soarer, were engaged in deadly battle. At length the flat head of the serpent sank; his writhing sinuous form grew still; and, wafted upward by the cheers of the gazing multitude, the eagle, with a scream of triumph, and bearing his prey in his iron talons, soared toward the sun. Several monkeys escaped from the burning building to the neighboring roofs and streets; and considerable excitement was caused by the attempts to secure them. One of the most amusing incidents in this respect was in connection with Mr. James Gordon Bennett. The veteran editor of the Herald was sitting in his private office with his back to the open window, calmly discussing with a friend the chances that the Herald establishment would escape the conflagration, which at that time was threateningly advancing up Ann Street, toward Nassau Street. In the course of his conversation Mr. Bennett observed; “Although I have usually had good luck in cases of fire, they say that the devil is ever at one’s shoulder, and”--Here an exclamation from his friend interrupted him, and turning quickly he was considerably taken aback at seeing the devil himself, or something like him, at his very shoulder as he spoke. Recovering his equanimity, with the ease and suavity which is usual with him in all company, Mr. Bennett was about to address the intruder when he perceived that what he had taken for the gentleman in black was nothing more than a frightened orang-outang. The poor creature, but recently released from captivity, and doubtless thinking that he might fill some vacancy in the editorial corps of the paper in question, had descended by the water-pipe and instinctively taken refuge in the inner sanctum of the establishment. Although the editor--perhaps from the fact that he saw nothing peculiarly strange in the visitation--soon regained his composure, it was far otherwise with his friend, who immediately gave the alarm. Mr. Hudson rushed in and boldly attacked the monkey, grasping him by the throat. The book-editor next came in, obtaining a clutch upon the brute by the ears; the musical critic followed, and seized the tail with both hands, and a number of reporters, armed with inkstands and sharpened pencils, came next, followed by a dozen policemen with brandished clubs; at the same time, the engineer in the basement received the preconcerted signal and got ready his hose, wherewith to pour boiling hot water upon the heads of those in the streets, in case it should prove a regular systematized attack by gorillas, Brazil apes, and chimpanzees. Opposed to this formidable combination, the rash intruder fared badly, and was soon in durance vile. Numerous other incidents of a similar kind occurred; but some of the most amusing were in connection with the wax figures.
Upon the same impulse which prompts men in time of fire to fling valuable looking-glasses out of three-story windows and at the same time tenderly to lower down feather beds,--soon after the Museum took fire, a number of sturdy firemen rushed into the building to carry out the wax figures. There were thousands of valuable articles which might have been saved, if there had been less of solicitude displayed for the miserable effigies which are usually exhibited under the appellation of “wax figures.” As it was, a dozen firemen rushed into the apartment where the figures were kept, amid a multitude of crawling snakes, chattering monkeys and escaped paroquets. The “Dying Brigand” was unceremoniously throttled and dragged toward the door; liberties were taken with the tearful “Senorita,” who has so long knelt and so constantly wagged her doll’s head at his side; the mules of the other bandits were upset, and they themselves roughly seized. The full length statue of P. T. Barnum fell down of its own accord, as if disgusted with the whole affair. A red-shirted fireman seized with either hand Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan by their coat-collars, tucked the Prince Imperial of France under one arm, and the Veiled Murderess under the other, and coolly departed for the street. Two ragged boys quarrelled over the Tom Thumb, but at length settled the controversy by one of them taking the head, the other satisfying himself with the legs below the knees. They evidently had Tom under their thumbs, and intended to keep him down. While a curiosity-seeking policeman was garroting Benjamin Franklin, with the idea of abducting him, a small monkey, flung from the window-sill by the strong hand of an impatient fireman, made a straight dive, hitting Poor Richard just below the waistcoat, and passing through his stomach, as the Harlequin in the “Green-Monster” pantomime ever pierced the picture with the slit in it, which always hangs so conveniently low and near. Patrick Henry had his teeth knocked out by a flying missile, and in carrying Daniel Lambert down stairs, he was found to be so large that they had to break off his head in order to get him through the door. At length the heat became intense, the “figgers” began to perspire freely, and the swiftly approaching flames compelled all hands to desist from any further attempt at rescue. Throwing a parting glance behind as we passed down the stairs we saw the remaining dignitaries in a strange plight. Some one had stuck a cigar in General Washington’s mouth, and thus, with his chapeau crushed down over his eyes and his head reclining upon the ample lap of Moll Pitcher, the Father of his Country led the van of as sorry a band of patriots as not often comes within one’s experience to see. General Marion was playing a dummy game of poker with General Lafayette; Governor Morris was having a set-to with Nathan Lane, and James Madison was executing a Dutch polka with Madam Roland on one arm and Lucretia Borgia on the other. The next moment the advancing flames compelled us to retire.
We believe that all the living curiosities were saved; but the giant girl, Anna Swan, was only rescued with the utmost difficulty. There was not a door through which her bulky frame could obtain a passage. It was likewise feared that the stairs would break down, even if she should reach them. Her best friend, the living skeleton, stood by her as long as he dared, but then deserted her, while as the heat grew in intensity, the perspiration rolled from her face in little brooks and rivulets, which pattered musically upon the floor. At length, as a last resort, the employees of the place procured a lofty derrick which fortunately happened to be standing near, and erected it alongside the Museum. A portion of the wall was then broken off on each side of the window, the strong tackle was got in readiness, the tall woman was made fast to one end and swung over the heads of the people in the street, with eighteen men grasping the other extremity of the line, and lowered down from the third story, amid enthusiastic applause. A carriage of extraordinary capacity was in readiness, and entering this, the young lady was driven away to a hotel.
When the surviving serpents, that were released by the partial burning of the box in which they were contained, crept along on the floor to the balcony of the Museum and dropped on the sidewalk, the crowd, siezed with St. Patrick’s aversion to the reptiles, fled with such precipitate haste that they knocked each other down and trampled on one another in the most reckless and damaging manner.
Hats were lost, coats torn, boots burst and pantaloons dropped with magnificent miscellaneousness, and dozens of those who rose from the miry streets into which they had been thrown, looked like the disembodied spirits of a mud bank. The snakes crawled on the sidewalk and into Broadway, where some of them died from injuries received, and others were despatched by the excited populace. Several of the serpents of the copper-head species escaped the fury of the tumultuous masses, and true to their instincts, sought shelter in the World and News offices. A large black bear escaped from the burning Museum into Ann Street and then made his way into Nassau, and down that thoroughfare into Wall, where his appearance caused a sensation. Some superstitious persons believed him the spirit of a departed Ursa Major, and others of his fraternity welcomed the animal as a favorable omen. The bear walked quietly along to the Custom House, ascended the steps of the building, and became bewildered, as many a biped bear has done before him. He seemed to lose his sense of vision, and no doubt, endeavoring to operate for a fall, walked over the side of the steps and broke his neck. He succeeded in his object, but it cost him dearly. The appearance of Bruin in the street sensibly affected the stock market, and shares fell rapidly; but when he lost his life in the careless manner we have described, shares advanced again, and the Bulls triumphed once more.
Broadway and its crossings have not witnessed a denser throng for months than assembled at the fire yesterday. Barnum’s was always popular, but it never drew so vast a crowd before. There must have been forty thousand people on Broadway, between Maiden Lane and Chambers Street, and a great portion stayed there until dusk. So great was the concourse of people that it was with difficulty pedestrians or vehicles could pass.
After the fire several high-art epicures grouping among the ruins found choice morsels of boiled whale, roasted kangaroo and fricasseed crocodile, which, it is said, they relished; though the many would have failed to appreciate such rare edibles. Probably, the recherche epicures will declare the only true way to prepare those meats is to cook them in a museum wrapped in flames, in the same manner that the Chinese, according to Charles Lamb, first discovered roast pig in a burning house, and ever afterward set a house on fire with a pig inside, when they wanted that particular food.
All the New York journals, and many more in other cities, editorially expressed their sympathy with my misfortune, and their sense of the loss the community had sustained in the destruction of the American Museum. The following editorial is from the New York Tribune, of July 14, 1865:
The destruction of no building in this city could have caused so much excitement and so much regret as that of Barnum’s Museum. The collection of curiosities was very large, and though many of them may not have had much intrinsic or memorial value, a considerable portion was certainly of great worth for any Museum. But aside from this, pleasant memories clustered about the place, which for so many years has been the chief resort for amusement to the common people who cannot often afford to treat themselves to a night at the more expensive theatres, while to the children of the city, Barnum’s has been a fountain of delight, ever offering new attractions as captivating and as implicitly believed in as the Arabian Nights Entertainments; Theatre, Menagerie and Museum, it amused, instructed, and astonished. If its thousands and tens of thousands of annual visitors were bewildered sometimes with a Woolly Horse, a What is It? or a Mermaid, they found repose and certainty in a Giraffe, a Whale or a Rhinoceros. If wax effigies of pirates and murderers made them shudder lest those dreadful figures should start out of their glass cases and repeat their horrid deeds, they were reassured by the presence of the mildest and most amiable of giants, and the fattest of mortal women, whose dead weight alone could crush all the wax figures into their original cakes. It was a source of unfailing interest to all country visitors, and New York to many of them was only the place that held Barnum’s Museum. It was the first thing--often the only thing--they visited when they came among us, and nothing that could have been contrived, out of our present resources, could have offered so many attractions unless some more ingenious showman had undertaken to add to Barnum’s collection of waxen criminals by putting in a cage the live Boards of the Common Council. We mourn its loss, but not as without consolation. Barnum’s Museum is gone, but Barnum himself, happily, did not share the fate of his rattlesnakes and his, at least, most un-“happy Family.” There are fishes in the seas and beasts in the forest; birds still fly in the air and strange creatures still roam in the deserts; giants and pigmies still wander up and down the earth; the oldest man, the fattest woman, and the smallest baby are still living, and Barnum will find them.
Or even if none of these things or creatures existed, we could trust to Barnum to make them out of hand. The Museum, then, is only a temporary loss, and much as we sympathize with the proprietor, the public may trust to his well-known ability and energy to soon renew a place of amusement which was a source of so much innocent pleasure, and had in it so many elements of solid excellence.
As already stated, my insurance was but $40,000, while the collection, at the lowest estimate, was worth $400,000, and as my premium was five per cent I had paid the insurance companies more than they returned to me. When the fire occurred, my summer pantomime season had just begun and the Museum was doing an immensely profitable business. My first impulse, after reckoning up my losses, was to retire from active life and from all business occupation beyond what my large real estate interests in Bridgeport, and my property in New York would compel. I felt that I had still a competence and that after a most active and busy life, at fifty-five years, I was entitled to retirement, to comparative rest for the remainder of my days. I called on my old friend, the editor of the Tribune, for advice on the subject.
“Accept this fire as a notice to quit, and go a-fishing,” said Mr. Greeley.
“A-fishing!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, a-fishing; I have been wanting to go a-fishing for thirty years, and have not yet found time to do so,” replied Mr. Greeley.
I really felt that his advice was good and wise, and had I consulted only my own ease and interest I should have acted upon it. But, two considerations moved me to pause: First, one hundred and fifty employees, many of whom depended upon their exertions for their daily bread, were thrown out of work at a season when it would be difficult for them to get engagements elsewhere. Second: I felt that a large city like New York needed a good Museum, and that my experience of a quarter of a century in that direction, afforded extraordinary facilities for founding another establishment of the kind, and so I took a few days for reflection.
Meanwhile, the Museum employees were tendered a benefit at the Academy of Music, at which most of the dramatic artists in the city volunteered their services. I was called out, and made some off-hand remarks in which I stated that nothing which I could utter in behalf of the recipients of that benefit, could plead for them half so eloquently as the smoking ruins of the building where they had so long earned their support by their efforts to gratify the public. At the same time I announced that, moved by the considerations I have mentioned, I had concluded to establish another Museum, and that in order to give present occupation to my employees, I had engaged the Winter Garden Theatre for a few weeks, and I hoped to open a new establishment of my own in the ensuing fall.
The New York Sun commented upon the few remarks which I was suddenly and quite unexpectedly called upon to make, in the following flattering manner:
One of the happiest impromptu oratorial efforts that we have heard for some time, was that made by Barnum at the benefit performance given for his employees on Friday afternoon. If a stranger wanted to satisfy himself how the great showman had managed so to monopolize the ear and eye of the public during his long career, he could not have had a better opportunity of doing so than by listening to this address. Every word, though delivered with apparent carelessness, struck a key note in the hearts of his listeners. Simple, forcible and touching, it showed how thoroughly this extraordinary man comprehends the character of his countrymen, and how easily he can play upon their feelings.
Those who look upon Barnum as a mere charlatan, have really no knowledge of him. It would be easy to demonstrate that the qualities that have placed him in his present position of notoriety and affluence would, in another pursuit, have raised him to far greater eminence. In his breadth of views, his profound knowledge of mankind, his courage under reverses, his indomitable perseverance, his ready eloquence and his admirable business tact, we recognize the elements that are conducive to success in most other pursuits. More than almost any other living man, Barnum may be said to be a representative type of the American mind.
I very soon secured by lease the premises, numbers 535, 537 and 539 Broadway, seventy-five feet front and rear, by two hundred feet deep, and known as the Chinese Museum buildings. In less than four months, I succeeded in converting this building into a commodious Museum and lecture room, and meanwhile I sent agents through America and Europe to purchase curiosities. Besides hundreds of small collections, I bought up several entire museums, and with many living curiosities and my old company of actors and actresses, I opened to the public, November 13, 1865, “Barnum’s New American Museum,” thus beginning a new chapter in my career as a manager and showman.