THE ROAD TO RICHES.
THE MOST POPULAR PLACE OF AMUSEMENT IN THE WORLD--THE MORAL
DRAMA--REFORMING THE ABUSES OF THE STAGE--FAMOUS ACTORS AND
ACTRESSES AT THE MUSEUM--ADDING TO THE SALOONS--AFTERNOON AND
HOLIDAY PERFORMANCES--FOURTH OF JULY FLAGS--THE MUSEUM CONNECTED
WITH ST. PAUL’S--VICTORY OVER THE VESTRYMEN--THE EGRESS--ST.
PATRICK’S DAY IN THE MORNING--A WONDERFUL ANIMAL, THE
“AIGRESS”--INPOURING OF MONEY--ZOOLOGICAL ERUPTION--THE CITY
ASTOUNDED--BABY SHOWS, AND THEIR OBJECT--FLOWER, BIRD, DOG AND
POULTRY SHOWS--GRAND FREE BUFFALO HUNT IN HOBOKEN--N. P.
WILLIS--THE WOOLLY HORSE--WHERE HE CAME FROM--COLONEL BENTON
BEATEN--PURPOSE OF THE EXHIBITION--AMERICAN INDIANS--P. T. BARNUM
EXHIBITED--A CURIOUS SPINSTER--THE TOUCHING STORY OF CHARLOTTE
TEMPLE--SERVICES IN THE LECTURE ROOM--A FINANCIAL VIEW OF THE
MUSEUM--AN “AWFUL RICH MAN.”
The American Museum was the ladder by which I rose to fortune. Whenever
I cross Broadway at the head of Vesey Street, and see the _Herald_
building and that gorgeous pile, the Park Bank, my mind’s eye recalls
that less solid, more showy edifice which once occupied the site and was
covered with pictures of all manner of beasts, birds and creeping
things, and in which were treasures that brought treasures and notoriety
and pleasant hours to me. The Jenny Lind enterprise was more audacious,
more immediately remunerative, and I remember it with a pride which I do
not attempt to conceal; but instinctively I often go back and live over
again the old days of my struggles and triumphs in the American Museum.
The Museum was always open at sunrise, and this was so well known
throughout the country that strangers coming to the city would often
take a tour through my halls before going to breakfast or to their
hotels. I do not believe there was ever a more truly popular place of
amusement. I frequently compared the annual number of visitors with the
number officially reported as visiting (free of charge), the British
Museum in London, and my list was invariably the larger. Nor do I
believe that any man or manager ever labored more industriously to
please his patrons. I furnished the most attractive exhibitions which
money could procure; I abolished all vulgarity and profanity from the
stage, and I prided myself upon the fact that parents and children could
attend the dramatic performances in the so-called Lecture Room, and not
be shocked or offended by anything they might see or hear; I introduced
the “Moral Drama,” producing such plays as “The Drunkard,” “Uncle Tom’s
Cabin,” “Moses in Egypt,” “Joseph and His Brethren,” and occasional
spectacular melodramas produced with great care and at considerable
outlay.
Mr. Sothern, who has since attained such wide-spread celebrity at home
and abroad as a character actor, was a member of my dramatic company for
one or two seasons. Mr. Barney Williams also began his theatrical career
at the Museum, occupying, at first, quite a subordinate position, at a
salary of ten dollars a week. During the past twelve or fifteen years, I
presume his weekly receipts, when he has acted, have been nearly $3,000.
The late Miss Mary Gannon also commenced at the Museum, and many more
actors and actresses of celebrity have been, from time to time, engaged
there. What was once the small Lecture Room was converted into a
spacious and beautiful theatre, extending over the lots adjoining the
Museum, and capable of holding about three thousand persons. The saloons
were greatly multiplied and enlarged, and the “egress” having been made
to work to perfection, on holidays I advertised Lecture Room
performances every hour through the afternoon and evening, and
consequently the actors and actresses were dressed for the stage as
early as eleven o’clock in the morning, and did not resume their
ordinary clothes till ten o’clock at night. In these busy days the meals
for the company were brought in and served in the dressing-rooms and
green-rooms, and the company always received extra pay.
Leaving nothing undone that would bring Barnum and his Museum before the
public, I often engaged some exhibition, knowing that it would directly
bring no extra dollars to the treasury, but hoping that it would incite
a newspaper paragraph which would float through the columns of the
American press and be copied, perhaps, abroad, and my hopes in this
respect were often gratified.
I confess that I liked the Museum mainly for the opportunities it
afforded for rapidly making money. Before I bought it, I weighed the
matter well in my mind, and was convinced that I could present to the
American public such a variety, quantity and quality of amusement,
blended with instruction, “all for twenty-five cents, children half
price,” that my attractions would be irresistible, and my fortune
certain. I myself relished a higher grade of amusement, and I was a
frequent attendant at the opera, first-class concerts, lectures, and the
like; but I worked for the million, and I knew the only way to make a
million from my patrons was to give them abundant and wholesome
attractions for a small sum of money.
About the first of July, 1842, I began to make arrangements for extra
novelties, additional performances, a large amount of extra advertising,
and an outdoor display for the “Glorious Fourth.” Large particolored
bills were ordered, transparencies were prepared, the free band of music
was augmented by a trumpeter, and columns of advertisements, headed with
large capitals, were written and put on file.
I wanted to run out a string of American flags across the street on that
day, for I knew there would be thousands of people passing the Museum
with leisure and pocket-money, and I felt confident that an unusual
display of national flags would arrest their patriotic attention, and
bring many of them within my walls. Unfortunately for my purpose, St.
Paul’s Church stood directly opposite, and there was nothing to which I
could attach my flag-rope, unless it might be one of the trees in the
church-yard. I went to the vestrymen for permission to so attach my flag
rope on the Fourth of July, and they were indignant at what they called
my “insulting proposition”; such a concession would be “sacrilege.” I
plied them with arguments, and appealed to their patriotism, but in
vain.
Returning to the Museum I gave orders to have the string of flags made
ready, with directions at daylight on the Fourth of July to attach one
end of the rope to one of the third story windows of the Museum, and the
other end to a tree in St. Paul’s churchyard. The great day arrived, and
my orders were strictly followed. The flags attracted great attention,
and before nine o’clock I have no doubt that hundreds of additional
visitors were drawn by this display into the Museum. By half-past nine
Broadway was thronged, and about that time two gentlemen in a high
state of excitement rushed into my office, announcing themselves as
injured and insulted vestrymen of St. Paul’s Church.
“Keep cool, gentlemen,” said I; “I guess it is all right.”
“Right!” indignantly exclaimed one of them, “do you think it is right to
attach your Museum to our Church? We will show you what is ‘right’ and
what is law, if we live till to-morrow; those flags must come down
instantly.”
“Thank you,” I said, “but let us not be in a hurry. I will go out with
you and look at them, and I guess we can make it all right.”
Going into the street I remarked: “Really, gentlemen, these flags look
very beautiful; they do not injure your tree; I always stop my balcony
music for your accommodation whenever you hold week-day services, and it
is but fair that you should return the favor.”
“We could indict your ‘music,’ as you call it, as a nuisance, if we
chose,” answered one vestryman, “and now I tell you that if these flags
are not taken down in ten minutes, _I_ will cut them down.”
His indignation was at the boiling point. The crowd in the street was
dense, and the angry gesticulation of the vestryman attracted their
attention. I saw there was no use in trying to parley with him or coax
him, and so, assuming an angry air, I rolled up my sleeves, and
exclaimed, in a loud tone,--
“Well, Mister, I should just like to see you dare to cut down the
American flag on the Fourth of July; you must be a ‘Britisher’ to make
such a threat as that; but I’ll show you a thousand pairs of Yankee
hands in two minutes, if you dare to attempt to take down the stars and
stripes on this great birth-day of American freedom!”
“What’s that John Bull a-saying,” asked a brawny fellow, placing himself
in front of the irate vestryman; “Look here, old fellow,” he continued,
“if you want to save a whole bone in your body, you had better slope,
and never dare to talk again about hauling down the American flag in the
city of New York.”
Throngs of excited, exasperated men crowded around, and the vestryman,
seeing the effect of my ruse, smiled faintly and said, “Oh, of course it
is all right,” and he and his companion quietly edged out of the crowd.
The flags remained up all day and all night. The next morning I sought
the vanquished vestrymen and obtained formal permission to make this use
of the tree on following holidays, in consideration of my willingness to
arrest the doleful strains of my discordant balcony band whenever
services were held on week days in the church.
On that Fourth of July, at one o’clock, P. M., my Museum was so densely
crowded that we could admit no more visitors, and we were compelled to
stop the sale of tickets. I pushed through the throng until I reached
the roof of the building, hoping to find room for a few more, but it was
in vain. Looking down into the street it was a sad sight to see the
thousands of people who stood ready with their money to enter the
Museum, but who were actually turned away. It was exceedingly harrowing
to my feelings. Rushing down stairs, I told my carpenter and his
assistants to cut through the partition and floor in the rear and to put
in a temporary flight of stairs so as to let out people by that egress
into Ann Street. By three o’clock the egress
[Illustration: _VICTORY OVER VESTRYMEN._]
was opened and a few people were passed down the new stairs, while a
corresponding number came in at the front. But I lost a large amount of
money that day by not having sufficiently estimated the value of my own
advertising, and consequently not having provided for the thousands who
had read my announcements and seen my outside show, and had taken the
first leisure day to visit the Museum. I had learned one lesson,
however, and that was to have the egress ready on future holidays.
Early in the following March, I received notice from some of the Irish
population that they meant to visit me in great numbers on “St.
Patrick’s day in the morning.” “All right,” said I to my carpenter, “get
your egress ready for March 17”; and I added, to my assistant manager:
“If there is much of a crowd, don’t let a single person pass out at the
front, even if it were St. Patrick himself; put every man out through
the egress in the rear.” The day came, and before noon we were caught in
the same dilemma as we were on the Fourth of July; the Museum was jammed
and the sale of tickets was stopped. I went to the egress and asked the
sentinel how many hundreds had passed out?
“Hundreds,” he replied, “why only three persons have gone out by this
way and they came back, saying that it was a mistake and begging to be
let in again.”
“What does this mean?” I inquired; “surely thousands of people have been
all over the Museum since they came in.”
“Certainly,” was the reply “but after they have gone from one saloon to
another and have been on every floor, even to the roof, they come down
and travel the same route over again.”
At this time I espied a tall Irish woman with two good-sized children
whom I had happened to notice when they came in early in the morning.
“Step this way, madam,” said I politely, “you will never be able to get
into the street by the front door without crushing these dear children.
We have opened a large egress here and you can pass by these rear stairs
into Ann Street and thus avoid all danger.”
“Sure,” replied the woman, indignantly, “an’ I’m not going out at all,
at all, nor the children aither, for we’ve brought our dinners and we
are going to stay all day.”
Further, investigation showed that pretty much all of my visitors had
brought their dinners with the evident intention of literally “making a
day of it.” No one expected to go home till night; the building was
overcrowded, and meanwhile hundreds were waiting at the front entrance
to get in when they could. In despair I sauntered upon the stage behind
the scenes, biting my lips with vexation, when I happened to see the
scene-painter at work and a happy thought struck me: “Here,” I
exclaimed, “take a piece of canvas four feet square, and paint on it, as
soon as you can, in large letters--
☞TO THE EGRESS.”
Seizing his brush he finished the sign in fifteen minutes, and I
directed the carpenter to nail it over the door leading to the back
stairs. He did so, and as the crowd, after making the entire tour of the
establishment, came pouring down the main stairs from the third story,
they stopped and looked at the new sign, while some of them read
audibly: “To the Aigress.”
“The Aigress,” said others, “sure: that’s an animal we haven’t seen,”
and the throng began to pour down the back stairs only to find that the
“Aigress” was the elephant, and that the elephant was all out o’ doors,
or so much of it as began with Ann Street. Meanwhile, I began to
accommodate those who had long been waiting with their money at the
Broadway entrance.
Notwithstanding my continual outlays for additional novelties and
attractions, or rather I might say, because of these outlays, money
poured in upon me so rapidly that I was sometimes actually embarrassed
to devise means to carry out my original plan for laying out the entire
profits of the first year in advertising. I meant to sow first and reap
afterwards. I finally hit upon a plan which cost a large sum, and that
was to prepare large oval oil paintings to be placed between the windows
of the entire building, representing nearly every important animal known
in zoology. These paintings were put on the building in a single night,
and so complete a transformation in the appearance of an edifice is
seldom witnessed. When the living stream rolled down Broadway the next
morning and reached the Astor House corner, opposite the Museum, it
seemed to meet with a sudden check. I never before saw so many open
mouths and astonished eyes. Some people were puzzled to know what it all
meant; some looked as if they thought it was an enchanted palace that
had suddenly sprung up; others exclaimed, “Well, the animals all seem to
have ‘broken out’ last night,” and hundreds came in to see how the
establishment survived the sudden eruption. At all events, from that
morning the Museum receipts took a jump forward of nearly a hundred
dollars a day, and they never fell back again. Strangers would look at
this great pictorial magazine and argue that an establishment with so
many animals on the outside must have something on the inside, and in
they would go to see. Inside, I took particular pains to please and
astonish these strangers, and when they went back to the country, they
carried plenty of pictorial bills and lithographs, which I always
lavishly furnished, and thus the fame of Barnum’s Museum became so
wide-spread, that people scarcely thought of visiting the city without
going to my establishment.
In fact, the Museum had become an established institution in the land.
Now and then some one would cry out “humbug” and “charlatan,” but so
much the better for me. It helped to advertise me, and I was willing to
bear the reputation--and I engaged queer curiosities, and even
monstrosities, simply to add to the notoriety of the Museum.
Dr. Valentine will be remembered by many as a man who gave imitations
and delineations of eccentric characters. He was quite a card at the
Museum when I first purchased that establishment, and before I
introduced dramatic representations into the “Lecture Room.” His
representations were usually given as follows: A small table was placed
in about the centre of the stage; a curtain reaching to the floor
covered the front and two ends of the table; under this table, on little
shelves and hooks, were placed caps, hats, coats, wigs, moustaches,
curls, cravats, and shirt collars, and all sorts of gear for changing
the appearance of the upper portion of the person. Dr. Valentine would
seat himself in a chair behind the table, and addressing his audience,
would state his intention to represent different peculiar characters,
male and female, including the Yankee tin peddler; “Tabitha Twist,” a
maiden lady; “Sam Slick, Jr.,” the precocious author; “Solomon
Jenkins,” a crusty old bachelor, with a song; the down-east
school-teacher with his refractory pupils, with many other characters;
and he simply asked the indulgence of the audience for a few seconds
between each imitation, to enable him to stoop down behind the table and
“dress” each character appropriately.
The Doctor himself was a most eccentric character. He was very nervous,
and was always fretting lest his audience should be composed of persons
who would not appreciate his “imitations.” During one of his engagements
the Lecture Room performances consisted of negro minstrelsy and Dr.
Valentine’s imitations. As the minstrels gave the entire first half of
the entertainment, the Doctor would post himself at the entrance to the
Museum to study the character of the visitors from their appearance. He
fancied that he was a great reader of character in this way, and as most
of my visitors were from the country, the Doctor, after closely perusing
their faces, would decide that they were not the kind of persons who
would appreciate his efforts, and this made him extremely nervous. When
this idea was once in his head, it took complete possession of the poor
Doctor, and worked him up into a nervous excitement which it was often
painful to behold. Every country-looking face was a dagger to the
Doctor, for he had a perfect horror of exhibiting to an unappreciative
audience. When so much excited that he could stand at the door no
longer, the disgusted Doctor would come into my office and pour out his
lamentations in this wise:
“There, Barnum, I never saw such a stupid lot of country bumpkins in my
life. I shan’t be able to get a smile out of them. I had rather be
horse-whipped than attempt to satisfy an audience who have not got the
brains to appreciate me. Sir, mine is a highly intellectual
entertainment, and none but refined and educated persons can comprehend
it.”
“Oh, I think you will make them laugh some, Doctor,” I replied.
“Laugh, sir, laugh! why, sir, they have no laugh in them, sir; and if
they had, your devilish nigger minstrels would get it all out of them
before I commenced.”
“Don’t get excited, Doctor,” I said; “you will please the people.”
“Impossible, sir! I was a fool to ever permit my entertainment to be
mixed up with that of nigger singers.”
“But you could not give an entire entertainment satisfactorily to the
public; they want more variety.”
“Then you should have got something more refined, sir. Why, one of those
cursed nigger break-downs excites your audience so they don’t want to
hear a word from me. At all events, I ought to commence the
entertainment and let the niggers finish up. I tell you, Mr. Barnum, I
won’t stand it! I would rather go to the poor-house. I won’t stay here
over a fortnight longer! It is killing me!”
In this excited state the Doctor would go upon the stage, dressed very
neatly in a suit of black. Addressing a few pleasant words to the
audience, he would then take a seat behind his little table, and with a
broad smile covering his countenance would ask the audience to excuse
him a few seconds, and he would appear as “Tabitha Twist,” a literary
spinster of fifty-five. On these occasions I was usually behind the
scenes, standing at one of the wings opposite the Doctor’s table, where
I could see and hear all that occurred “behind the curtain.” The moment
the Doctor was down behind the table, a wonderful change came over that
smiling countenance.
“Blast this infernal, stupid audience! they would not laugh to save the
city of New York!” said the Doctor, while he rapidly slipped on a lady’s
cap and a pair of long curls. Then, while arranging a lace handkerchief
around his shoulders, he would grate his teeth and curse the Museum, its
manager, the audience and everybody else. The instant the handkerchief
was pinned, the broad smile would come upon his face, and up would go
his head and shoulders showing to the audience a rollicking specimen of
a good-natured old maid.
“How do you do, ladies and gentlemen? You all know me, Tabitha Twist,
the happiest maiden in the village; always laughing. Now, I’ll sing you
one of my prettiest songs.”
The mock maiden would then sing a lively, funny ditty, followed by faint
applause, and down would bob the head behind the table to prepare for a
presentation of “Sam Slick, junior.”
“Curse such a set of fools” (off goes the cap, followed by the curls).
“They think it’s a country Sunday school” (taking off the lace
handkerchief). “I expect they will hiss me next, the donkeys” (on goes a
light wig of long, flowing hair). “I wish the old Museum was sunk in the
Atlantic” (puts on a Yankee round-jacket, and broadbrimmed hat). “I
never will be caught in this infernal place, curse it;” up jump head
and shoulders of the Yankee, and Sam Slick, junior, sings out a merry--
“Ha! ha! why, folks, how de dew. Darn glad to see you, by hokey; I came
down here to have lots of fun, for you know I always believe we must
laugh and grow fat.”
After five minutes of similar rollicking nonsense, down would bob the
head again, and the cursing, swearing, tearing, and teeth-grating would
commence, and continue till the next character appeared to the audience,
bedecked with smiles and good-humor.
On several occasions I got up “Baby shows,” at which I paid liberal
prizes for the finest baby, the fattest baby, the handsomest twins, for
triplets, and so on. I always gave several months’ notice of these
intended shows and limited the number of babies at each exhibition to
one hundred. Long before the appointed time, the list would be full and
I have known many a fond mother to weep bitterly because the time for
application was closed and she could not have the opportunity to exhibit
her beautiful baby. These shows were as popular as they were unique, and
while they paid in a financial point of view, my chief object in getting
them up was to set the newspapers to talking about me, thus giving
another blast on the trumpet which I always tried to keep blowing for
the Museum. Flower shows, dog shows, poultry shows and bird shows, were
held at intervals in my establishment and in each instance the same end
was attained as by the baby shows. I gave prizes in the shape of medals,
money and diplomas and the whole came back to me four-fold in the shape
of advertising.
There was great difficulty, however, in awarding the
[Illustration: _SQUALLS AND BREEZES._]
principal prize of $100 at the baby shows. Every mother thought her own
baby the brightest and best, and confidently expected the capital prize.
For where was ever seen the mother
Would give her baby for another?
Not foreseeing this when I first stepped into the expectant circle and
announced in a matter of fact way that a committee of ladies had decided
upon the baby of Mrs. So and So as entitled to the leading prize, I was
ill-prepared for the storm of indignation that arose on every side.
Ninety-nine disappointed, and as they thought, deeply injured, mothers
made common cause and pronounced the successful little one the meanest,
homeliest baby in the lot, and roundly abused me and my committee for
our stupidity and partiality. “Very well, ladies,” said I in the first
instance, “select a committee of your own and I will give another $100
prize to the baby you shall pronounce to be the best specimen.” This was
only throwing oil upon flame; the ninety-nine confederates were deadly
enemies from the moment and no new babies were presented in competition
for the second prize. Thereafter, I took good care to send in a written
report and did not attempt to announce the prize in person.
At the first exhibition of the kind, there was a vague, yet very current
rumor, that in the haste of departure from the Museum several young
mothers had exchanged babies (for the babies were nearly all of the same
age and were generally dressed alike) and did not discover the mistake
till they arrived home and some such conversation as this occurred
between husband and wife:
“Did our baby take the prize?”
“No! the darling was cheated out of it.”
“Well, why didn’t you bring home the same baby you carried to the
Museum?”
I am glad to say that I could not trace this cruel rumor to an authentic
source.
In June 1843, a herd of yearling buffaloes was on exhibition in Boston.
I bought the lot, brought them to New Jersey, hired the race course at
Hoboken, chartered the ferry-boats for one day, and advertised that a
hunter had arrived with a herd of buffaloes--I was careful not to state
their age--and that August 31st there would be a “Grand Buffalo Hunt” on
the Hoboken race course--all persons to be admitted free of charge.
The appointed day was warm and delightful, and no less than twenty-four
thousand people crossed the North River in the ferry-boats to enjoy the
cooling breeze and to see the “Grand Buffalo Hunt.” The hunter was
dressed as an Indian, and mounted on horseback; he proceeded to show how
the wild buffalo is captured with a lasso, but unfortunately the
yearlings would not run till the crowd gave a great shout, expressive at
once of derision and delight at the harmless humbug. This shout started
the young animals into a weak gallop and the lasso was duly thrown over
the head of the largest calf. The crowd roared with laughter, listened
to my balcony band, which I also furnished “free,” and then started for
New York, little dreaming who was the author of this sensation, or what
was its object.
Mr. N. P. Willis, then editor of the _Home Journal_, wrote an article
illustrating the perfect good nature with which the American public
submit to a clever humbug. He said that he went to Hoboken to witness
the Buffalo Hunt. It was nearly four o’clock when the boat left the
foot of Barclay Street, and it was so densely crowded that many persons
were obliged to stand on the railings and hold on to the awning posts.
When they reached the Hoboken side a boat equally crowded was coming out
of the slip. The passengers just arriving cried out to those who were
coming away, “Is the Buffalo Hunt over?” To which came the reply, “Yes,
and it was the biggest humbug you ever heard of!” Willis added that
passengers on the boat with him instantly gave three cheers for the
author of the humbug, whoever he might be.
After the public had enjoyed a laugh for several days over the Hoboken
“Free Grand Buffalo Hunt,” I permitted it to be announced that the
proprietor of the American Museum was responsible for the joke, thus
using the buffalo hunt as a sky-rocket to attract public attention to my
Museum. The object was accomplished and although some people cried out
“humbug,” I had added to the notoriety which I so much wanted and I was
satisfied. As for the cry of “humbug,” it never harmed me, and I was in
the position of the actor who had much rather be roundly abused than not
to be noticed at all. I ought to add, that the forty-eight thousand
sixpences--the usual fare--received for ferry fares, less what I paid
for the charter of the boats on that one day, more than remunerated me
for the cost of the buffaloes and the expenses of the “hunt,” and the
enormous gratuitous advertising of the Museum must also be placed to my
credit.
With the same object--that is, advertising my Museum,--I purchased, for
$500, in Cincinnati, Ohio, a “Woolly Horse” I found on exhibition in
that city. It was a well formed, small sized horse, with no mane, and
not a particle of hair on his tail, while his entire body and legs were
covered with thick, fine hair or wool, which curled tight to his skin.
This horse was foaled in Indiana, and was a remarkable freak of nature,
and certainly a very curious looking animal.
I had not the remotest idea, when I bought this horse, what I should do
with him; but when the news came that Colonel John C. Fremont (who was
supposed to have been lost in the snows of the Rocky Mountains) was in
safety, the “Woolly Horse” was exhibited in New York, and was widely
advertised as a most remarkable animal that had been captured by the
great explorer’s party in the passes of the Rocky Mountains. The
exhibition met with only moderate success in New York, and in several
Northern provincial towns, and the show would have fallen flat in
Washington, had it not been for the over-zeal of Colonel Thomas H.
Benton, then a United States Senator from Missouri. He went to the show,
and then caused the arrest of my agent for obtaining twenty-five cents
from him under “false pretences.” No mention had been made of this
curious animal in any letter he had received from his son-in-law,
Colonel John C. Fremont, and therefore the Woolly Horse had not been
captured by any of Fremont’s party. The reasoning was hardly as sound as
were most of the arguments of “Old Bullion,” and the case was dismissed.
After a few days of merriment, public curiosity no longer turned in that
direction, and the old horse was permitted to retire to private life. My
object in the exhibition, however, was fully attained. When it was
generally known that the proprietor of the American Museum was also the
owner of the famous “Woolly Horse,” it caused yet more talk about me
and my establishment, and visitors began to say that they would give
more to see the proprietor of the Museum than to view the entire
collection of curiosities. As for my ruse in advertising the “Woolly
Horse” as having been captured by Fremont’s exploring party, of course
the announcement neither added to nor took from the interest of the
exhibition; but it arrested public attention, and it was the only
feature of the show that I now care to forget.
It will be seen that very much of the success which attended my many
years proprietorship of the American Museum was due to advertising, and
especially to my odd methods of advertising. Always claiming that I had
curiosities worth showing and worth seeing, and exhibited “dog cheap” at
“twenty-five cents admission, children half price”--I studied ways to
arrest public attention; to startle, to make people talk and wonder; in
short, to let the world know that I had a Museum.
About this time, I engaged a band of Indians from Iowa. They had never
seen a railroad or steamboat until they saw them on the route from Iowa
to New York. Of course they were wild and had but faint ideas of
civilization. The party comprised large and noble specimens of the
untutored savage, as well as several very beautiful squaws, with two or
three interesting “papooses.” They lived and lodged in a large room on
the top floor of the Museum, and cooked their own victuals in their own
way. They gave their war-dances on the stage in the Lecture Room with
great vigor and enthusiasm, much to the satisfaction of the audiences.
But these wild Indians seemed to consider their dances as realities.
Hence when they gave a real War Dance, it was dangerous for any
parties, except their manager and interpreter, to be on the stage, for
the moment they had finished their war dance, they began to leap and
peer about behind the scenes in search of victims for their tomahawks
and scalping knives! Indeed, lest in these frenzied moments they might
make a dash at the orchestra or the audience, we had a high rope barrier
placed between them and the savages on the front of the stage.
After they had been a week in the Museum, I proposed a change of
performance for the week following, by introducing new dances. Among
these was the Indian Wedding Dance. At that time I printed but one set
of posters (large bills) per week, so that whatever was announced for
Monday, was repeated every day and evening during that week. Before the
Wedding Dance came off on Monday afternoon, I was informed that I was to
provide a large new red woollen blanket, at a cost of ten dollars, for
the bridegroom to present to the father of the bride. I ordered the
purchase to be made; but was considerably taken aback, when I was
informed that I must have another new blanket for the evening, inasmuch
as the savage old Indian Chief, father-in-law to the bridegroom, would
not consent to his daughter’s being approached with the Wedding Dance
unless he had his blanket present.
I undertook to explain to the chief, through the interpreter, that this
was only a “make believe” wedding; but the old savage shrugged his
shoulders, and gave such a terrific “Ugh!” that I was glad to make my
peace by ordering another blanket. As we gave two performances per day,
I was out of pocket $120 for twelve “wedding blankets,” that week.
One of the beautiful squaws named Do-humme died in the Museum. She had
been a great favorite with many ladies,--among whom I can especially
name Mrs. C. M. Sawyer, wife of the Rev. Dr. T. J. Sawyer. Do-humme was
buried on the border of Sylvan Water, at Greenwood Cemetery, where a
small monument, erected by her friends, designates her last resting
place.
The poor Indians were very sorrowful for many days, and desired to get
back again to their western wilds. The father and the betrothed of
Do-humme cooked various dishes of food and placed them upon the roof of
the Museum, where they believed the spirit of their departed friend came
daily for its supply; and these dishes were renewed every morning during
the stay of the Indians at the Museum.
It was sometimes very amusing to hear the remarks of strangers who came
to visit my Museum. One afternoon a prim maiden lady from Portland,
Maine, walked into my private office, where I was busily engaged in
writing, and taking a seat on the sofa she asked:
“Is this Mr. Barnum?”
“It is,” I replied.
“Is this Mr. P. T. Barnum, the proprietor of the Museum?” she asked.
“The same,” was my answer.
“Why, really, Mr. Barnum,” she continued, “you look much like other
common folks, after all.”
I remarked that I presumed I did; but I could not help it, and I hoped
she was not disappointed at my appearance.
“Oh, no,” she said; “I suppose I have no right to be disappointed, but I
have read and heard so much about you and your Museum that I was quite
prepared to be astonished.”
I asked her if she had been through the establishment.
“I have,” she replied; “I came in immediately after breakfast; I have
been here ever since, and, I can say I think with the Queen of Sheba,
that ‘the half had not been told me.’ But, Mr. Barnum,” she, continued,
“I have long felt a desire to see you; I wanted to attend when you
lectured on temperance in Portland, but I had a severe cold and could
not go out.”
“Do you like my collection as well as you do the one in the Boston
Museum?” I asked.
“Dear me! Mr. Barnum,” said she, “I never went to any Museum before, nor
to any place of amusement or public entertainment, excepting our school
exhibitions; and I have sometimes felt that they even may be wicked, for
some parts of the dialogues seemed frivolous; but I have heard so much
of your ‘moral drama’ and the great good you are doing for the rising
generation that I thought I must come here and see for myself.”
“We represent the pathetic story of ‘Charlotte Temple’ in the Lecture
Room to-day,” I remarked, with an inward chuckle at the peculiarities of
my singular visitor, who, although she was nearly fifty years of age,
had probably never been in an audience of a hundred persons, unless it
might be at a school exhibition, or in Sunday school, or in church.
“Indeed! I am quite familiar with the sad history of Miss Temple, and I
think I can derive great consolation from witnessing the representation
of the touching story.”
At this moment the gong sounded to announce the opening of the Lecture
Room, and the crowd passed on in haste to secure seats. My spinster
visitor sprang to her feet and anxiously inquired:
“Are the services about to commence?”
“Yes,” I replied, “the congregation is now going up.”
She marched along with the crowd as demurely as if she was going to a
funeral. After she was seated, I watched her, and in the course of the
play I noticed that she was several times so much overcome as to be
moved to tears. She was very much affected, and when the “services” were
over, without seeking another interview with me, she went silently and
tearfully away.
One day, two city boys who had thoroughly explored the wonders of the
Museum, on their way out passed the open door of my private office, and
seeing me sitting there, one of them exclaimed to his companion:
“There! That’s Mr. Barnum.”
“No! is it?” asked the other, and then with his mind full of the glories
of the stuffed gander-skins, and other wealth which had been displayed
to his wondering eyes in the establishment, he summed up his views of
the vastness and value of the whole collection, and its fortunate
proprietor in a single sentence:
“Well, he’s an awful rich old cuss, ain’t he!”
Those boys evidently took a strictly financial view of the
establishment.