OTHER ENTERPRISES.
ANOTHER VENTURE--“BARNUM’S GREAT ASIATIC CARAVAN, MUSEUM AND
MENAGERIE”--HUNTING ELEPHANTS--GENERAL TOM THUMB--ELEPHANT PLOWING
IN CONNECTICUT--CURIOUS QUESTIONS FROM ALL QUARTERS--THE PUBLIC
INTEREST IN MY NOVEL FARMING--HOW MUCH AN ELEPHANT CAN REALLY
“DRAW”--COMMODORE VANDERBILT--DAN DREW--SIDE SHOWS AND VARIOUS
ENTERPRISES--OBSEQUIES OF NAPOLEON--THE CRYSTAL
PALACE--CAMPANALOGIANS--AMERICAN INDIANS IN LONDON--AUTOMATON
SPEAKER--THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON--ATTEMPT TO BUY SHAKESPEARE’S
HOUSE--DISSOLVING VIEWS--THE CHINESE COLLECTION--WONDERFUL SCOTCH
BOYS--SOLVING THE MYSTERY OF DOUBLE SIGHT--THE BATEMAN
CHILDREN--CATHERINE HAYES--IRANISTAN ON FIRE--MY ELDEST DAUGHTER’S
MARRIAGE--BENEFITS FOR THE BRIDGEPORT LIBRARY AND THE MOUNTAIN
GROVE CEMETERY.
While I was managing the Lind concerts, in addition to the American
Museum I had other business matters in operation which were more than
enough to engross my entire attention and which, of course, I was
compelled to commit to the hands of associates and agents.
In 1849 I had projected a great travelling museum and menagerie, and, as
I had neither time nor inclination to manage such a concern, I induced
Mr. Seth B. Howes, justly celebrated as a “showman,” to join me, and
take the sole charge. Mr. Sherwood E. Stratton, father of General Tom
Thumb, was also admitted to partnership, the interest being in thirds.
In carrying out a portion of the plan, we chartered the ship “Regatta,”
Captain Pratt, and despatched her, together with our agents, Messrs.
June and Nutter, to Ceylon. The ship left New York in May, 1850, and was
absent one year. Their mission was to procure, either by capture or
purchase, twelve or more living elephants, besides such other wild
animals as they could secure. In order to provide sufficient drink and
provender for a cargo of these huge animals, we purchased a large
quantity of hay in New York. Five hundred tons were left at the Island
of St. Helena, to be taken on the return trip of the ship, and staves
and hoops of water-casks were also left at the same place.
As our agents were unable to purchase the required number of elephants,
either in Columbo or Kandy, the principal towns of the island, (Ceylon,)
they took one hundred and sixty native assistants, and plunged into the
jungles, where, after many most exciting adventures, they succeeded in
securing thirteen elephants of a suitable size for their purpose, with a
female and her calf, or “baby” elephant, only six months old. In the
course of the expedition, Messrs. Nutter and June killed large numbers
of the huge beasts, and had numerous encounters of the most terrific
description with the formidable animals, one of the most fearful of
which took place near Anarajah Poora, while they were endeavoring, by
the aid of the natives and trained elephants, to drive the wild herd of
beasts into an Indian kraal.
They arrived in New York in 1851 with ten of the elephants, and these,
harnessed in pairs to a chariot, paraded up Broadway past the Irving
House, while Jenny Lind was staying at that hotel, on the occasion of
her second visit to New York. Messrs. Nutter and June also brought with
the elephants a native who was competent to manage and control them. We
added a caravan of wild animals and many museum curiosities, the entire
outfit, including horses, vans, carriages, tent, etc., costing $109,000,
and commenced operations, with the presence and under the “patronage” of
General Tom Thumb, who travelled nearly four years as one of the
attractions of “Barnum’s Great Asiatic Caravan, Museum and Menagerie,”
returning us immense profits.
At the end of that time, after exhibiting in all sections of the
country, we sold out the entire establishment--animals, cages, chariots
and paraphernalia, excepting one elephant, which I retained in my own
possession two months for agricultural purposes. It occurred to me that
if I could put an elephant to plowing for a while on my farm at
Bridgeport, it would be a capital advertisement for the American Museum,
which was then, and always during my proprietorship of that
establishment, foremost in my thoughts.
So I sent him to Connecticut in charge of his keeper, whom I dressed in
Oriental costume, and keeper and elephant were stationed on a six-acre
lot which lay close beside the track of the New York and New Haven
Railroad. The keeper was furnished with a time-table of the road, with
special instructions to be busily engaged in his work whenever passenger
trains from either way were passing through. Of course, the matter soon
appeared in the papers and went the entire rounds of the press in this
country and even in Europe, and it was everywhere announced that P. T.
Barnum, “Proprietor of the celebrated American Museum in New York”--and
here is where the advertisement came in--had introduced elephants upon
his farm, to do his plowing and heavy draft work. Hundreds of people
came many miles to witness the novel spectacle. Letters poured in upon
me from the secretaries of hundreds of State and County agricultural
societies throughout the Union, stating that the presidents and
directors of such societies had requested them to propound to me a
series of questions in regard to the new power I had put in operation on
my farm. These questions were greatly diversified, but the “general run”
of them were something like the following:
1. “Is the elephant a profitable agricultural animal?”
2. “How much can an elephant plow in a day?”
3. “How much can he draw?”
4. “How much does he eat?”--this question was invariably asked, and was
a very important one.
5. “Will elephants make themselves generally useful on a farm?” I
suppose some of my inquirers thought the elephant would pick up chips,
or even pins as they have been taught to do, and would rock the baby and
do all the chores, including the occasional carrying of a trunk, other
than his own, to the depot.
6. “What is the price of an elephant?”
7. “Where can elephants be purchased?”
Then would follow a score of other inquiries, such as, whether elephants
were easily managed; if they would quarrel with cattle; if it was
possible to breed them; how old calf elephants must be before they would
earn their own living; and so on indefinitely. I began to be alarmed
lest some one should buy an elephant, and so share the fate of the man
who drew one in a lottery, and did not know what to do with him. I
accordingly had a general letter printed, which I mailed to all my
anxious inquirers. It was headed “strictly confidential,” and I then
stated, begging my correspondents “not to mention it,” that to me the
elephant was a valuable agricultural animal, because he was an
excellent
[Illustration: _ELEPHANTINE AGRICULTURE._]
advertisement to my Museum; but that to other farmers he would prove
very unprofitable for many reasons. In the first place, such an animal
would cost from $3,000 to $10,000; in cold weather he could not work at
all; in any weather he could not earn even half his living; he would eat
up the value of his own head, trunk, and body every year; and I begged
my correspondents not to do so foolish a thing as to undertake elephant
farming.
Newspaper reporters came from far and near, and wrote glowing accounts
of the elephantine performances. One of them, taking a political view of
the matter, stated that the elephant’s sagacity showed that he knew more
than did any laborer on the farm, and yet, shameful to say, he was not
allowed to vote. Another said that Barnum’s elephant built all the stone
wall on the farm; made all the rail fences; planted corn with his trunk,
and covered it with his foot; washed my windows and sprinkled the walks
and lawns, by taking water from the fountain-basin with his trunk;
carried all the children to school, and put them to bed at night,
tucking them up with his trunk; fed the pigs; picked fruit from branches
that could not otherwise be reached; turned the fanning mill and
corn-sheller; drew the mowing machine, and turned and cocked the hay
with his trunk; carried and brought my letters to and from the
post-office (it was a male elephant); and did all the chores about the
house, including milking the cows, and bringing in eggs. Pictures of
Barnum’s plowing elephant appeared in illustrated papers at home and
abroad, and as the cars passed the scene of the performance, passengers’
heads were out of every window, and among many and varied exclamations,
I heard of one man’s saying:
“Well, I declare! That is certainly a real elephant and any man who has
so many elephants that he can afford to work them on his farm, must have
lots of wild animals and curious ‘critters’ in his Museum, and I am
bound to go there the first thing after my arrival in New York.”
The six acres were plowed over at least sixty times before I thought the
advertisement sufficiently circulated, and I then sold the elephant to
Van Amburgh’s Menagerie.
A substantial farmer friend of mine, Mr. Gideon Thompson, called at
Iranistan during the elephant excitement and asked me to accompany him
to the field to let him see “how the big animal worked.” I knew him to
be a shrewd, sharp man and a good farmer, and I tried to excuse myself,
as I did not wish to be too closely questioned. Indeed, for the same
reason, I made it a point at all times to avoid being present when the
plowing was going on. But the old farmer was a particular friend and he
refused to take “no” for an answer; so I went with him “to see the
elephant.”
Arriving at the field, Mr. Thompson said nothing, but stood with folded
arms and sedately watched the elephant for at least fifteen minutes.
Then he walked out on to the plowed ground, and found it so mellow that
he sank nearly up to his knees; for it had already been plowed over and
over many times. As usual, several spectators were present. Mr. Thompson
walked up to where I was standing, and, looking me squarely in the eyes,
he asked with much earnestness:
“What is your object, sir, in bringing that great Asiatic animal on to a
New England farm?”
“To plow,” I replied very demurely.
“To plow!” said Thompson; “don’t talk to me about plowing! I have been
out where he has plowed, and the ground is so soft I thought I should go
through and come out in China. No, sir! You can’t humbug me. You have
got some other object in bringing that elephant up here; now what is
it?”
“Don’t you see for yourself that I am plowing with him?” I asked.
“Nonsense,” said Thompson “that would never pay; I have no doubt he eats
more than he earns every day; you have some other purpose in view, I am
sure you have.”
“Perhaps he does not eat so much as you think,” I replied; “and you see
he draws nobly--in fact, I expect he will be just the animal by and by,
to draw saw logs to mill, and do other heavy work.”
But Uncle Gid., was not to be put aside so easily so he asked very
sharply:
“How much does he eat in a day?”
“Oh,” I replied carelessly, “not more than a quarter of a ton of hay and
three or four bushels of oats.”
“Exactly,” said Thompson, his eyes glistening with delight; “that is
just about what I expected. He can’t draw so much as two pair of my oxen
can, and he costs more than a dozen pair.”
“You are mistaken, friend Thompson,” I replied with much gravity; “that
elephant is a powerful animal; he can draw more than forty yoke of oxen,
and he pays me well for bringing him here.”
“Forty yoke of oxen!” contemptuously replied the old farmer; “I don’t
want to tell you I doubt your word, but I would just like to know what
he can draw.”
“He can draw the attention of twenty millions of American citizens to
Barnum’s Museum,” I replied.
“Oh, you can make him pay in that way, of course,” responded the old
farmer.
“None but a greenhorn could ever have expected he would pay in any other
way,” I replied.
The old man gave a hearty laugh, and said, “Well, I give it up. I have
been a farmer thirty-five years, and I have only just discovered that an
elephant is a very useful and profitable animal on a farm--provided the
farmer also owns a museum.”
In 1851 I became a part owner of the steamship “North America.” Our
intention in buying it was to run it to Ireland as a passenger and
freight ship. The project was, however, abandoned, and Commodore
Cornelius Vanderbilt bought one half of the steamer, while the other
half was owned by three persons, of whom I was one. The steamer was sent
around Cape Horn to San Francisco, and was put into the Vanderbilt line.
After she had made several trips I called upon Mr. Vanderbilt, at his
office, and introduced myself, as this was the first time we had met.
“Is it possible you are Barnum?” exclaimed the Commodore, in surprise,
“why, I expected to see a monster, part lion, part elephant, and a
mixture of rhinoceros and tiger! Is it possible,” he continued, “that
you are the showman who has made so much noise in the world?”
I laughingly replied that I was, and added that if I too had been
governed in my anticipation of his personal appearance by the fame he
had achieved in his line, I should have expected to have been saluted by
a steam whistle, and to have seen him dressed in a pea jacket, blowing
off steam, and crying out “all aboard that’s going.”
“Instead of which,” replied Mr. Vanderbilt, “I suppose you have come to
ask me, ‘to walk up to the Captain’s office and settle.’”
After this interchange of civilities, we talked about the success of the
“North America” in having got safely around the Horn, and of the
acceptable manner in which she was doing her duty on the Pacific side.
“We have received no statement of her earnings yet,” said the Commodore,
“but if you want money, give your receipt to our treasurer, and take
some.”
A few months subsequent to this, I sold out my share in the steamship to
Mr. Daniel Drew. The day after closing with Mr. Drew, I discovered an
error of several hundred dollars (a matter of interest on some portion
of the purchase money, which had been overlooked). I called on Mr. Drew,
and asked him to correct it, but could get no satisfaction. I then wrote
him a threatening letter, but received no response. I was on the eve of
suing him for the amount due me, when the news came that the steamship
“North America” was lying at the bottom of the Pacific. It turned out
that she was sunk several days before I sold out, and as the owners were
mulcted in the sum of many thousands of dollars damages by their
passengers, besides suffering a great loss in their steamship, I said no
more to the millionnaire Drew about the few hundreds which he had
withheld from the showman.
Some reference to the various enterprises and “side shows” connected
with and disconnected from my Museum, is necessary to show how
industriously I have catered for the public’s amusement, not only in
America but abroad. When I was in Paris in 1844, in addition to the
purchase of Robert Houdin’s ingenious automaton writer, and many other
costly curiosities for the Museum, I ordered, at an expense of $3,000, a
panoramic diorama of the obsequies of Napoleon. Every event of that
grand pageant, from the embarkation of the body at St. Helena, to its
entombment at the Hotel des Invalides, amid the most gorgeous parade
ever witnessed in France, was wonderfully depicted. This exhibition,
after having had its day at the American Museum, was sold, and
extensively and profitably exhibited elsewhere. While I was in London,
during the same year, I engaged a company of “Campanalogians, or
Lancashire Bell Ringers,” then performing in Ireland, to make an
American tour. They were really admirable performers, and by means of
their numerous bells, of various sizes, they produced the most
delightful music. They attracted much attention in various parts of the
United States, in Canada, and in Cuba.
As a compensation to England for the loss of the Bell Ringers, I
despatched an agent to America for a party of Indians, including squaws.
He proceeded to Iowa, and returned to London with a company of sixteen.
They were exhibited by Mr. Catlin on our joint account, and were finally
left in his sole charge.
On my first return visit to America from Europe, I engaged Mr. Faber, an
elderly and ingenious German, who had constructed an automaton speaker.
It was of life-size, and when worked with keys similar to those of a
piano, it really articulated words and sentences with surprising
distinctness. My agent exhibited it for several months in Egyptian Hall,
London, and also in the provinces. This was a marvellous piece of
mechanism, though for some unaccountable reason it did not prove a
success. The Duke of Wellington visited it several times, and at first
he thought that the “voice” proceeded from the exhibitor, whom he
assumed to be a skillful ventriloquist. He was asked to touch the keys
with his own fingers, and after some instruction in the method of
operating, he was able to make the machine speak, not only in English
but also in German, with which language the Duke seemed familiar.
Thereafter, he entered his name on the exhibitor’s autograph book, and
certified that the “Automaton Speaker” was an extraordinary production
of mechanical genius.
During my first visit to England I obtained, verbally, through a friend,
the refusal of the house in which Shakespeare was born, designing to
remove it in sections to my Museum in New York; but the project leaked
out, British pride was touched, and several English gentlemen interfered
and purchased the premises for a Shakespearian Association. Had they
slept a few days longer, I should have made a rare speculation, for I
was subsequently assured that the British people, rather than suffer
that house to be removed to America, would have bought me off with
twenty thousand pounds. I did not hesitate to engage, or attempt to
secure anything, at any expense, to please my patrons in the United
States, and I made an effort to transfer Madame Tussaud’s world-wide
celebrated wax-work collection entire to New York. The papers were
actually drawn up for this engagement, but the enterprise finally fell
through.
The models of machinery exhibited in the Royal Polytechnic Institution
in London, pleased me so well that I procured a duplicate; also
duplicates of the “Dissolving Views,” the Chromatrope and Physioscope,
including many American scenes painted expressly to my order, at an
aggregate cost of $7,000. After they had been exhibited in my Museum,
they were sold to itinerant showmen, and some of them were afterwards on
exhibition in various parts of the United States.
In June 1850, I added the celebrated Chinese Collection to the
attractions of the American Museum. I also engaged the Chinese Family,
consisting of two men, two “small-footed” women and two children. My
agent exhibited them in London during the World’s Fair. It may be stated
here, that I subsequently sent to London the celebrated artist De Lamano
to paint a panorama of the Crystal Palace, in which the World’s Fair was
held, and Colonel John S. Dusolle, an able and accomplished editor, whom
I sent with De Lamano, wrote an accompanying descriptive lecture. Like
most panoramas, however, the exhibition proved a failure.
The giants whom I sent to America were not the greatest of my
curiosities, though the dwarfs might have been the least. The “Scotch
Boys” were interesting, not so much on account of their weight, as for
the mysterious method by which one of them, though blindfolded, answered
questions put by the other respecting objects presented by persons who
attended the surprising exhibition. The mystery, which was merely the
result of patient practice, consisted wholly in the manner in which the
question was propounded; in fact, the question invariably carried its
own answer; for instance:
“What is this?” meant gold; “Now what is this?” silver; “Say what is
this?” copper; “Tell me what this is,” iron; “What is the shape?” long;
“Now what shape?” round; “Say what shape,” square; “Please say what this
is,” a watch; “Can you tell what is in this lady’s hand?” a purse; “Now
please say what this is?” a key; “Come now, what is this?” money; “How
much?” a penny; “Now how much?” sixpence; “Say how much,” a quarter of a
dollar; “What color is this?” black; “Now what color is this?” red; “Say
what color,” green; and so on, ad infinitum. To such perfection was this
brought that it was almost impossible to present any object that could
not be quite closely described by the blindfolded boy. This is the key
to all exhibitions of what is called “second sight.”
In 1850, the celebrated Bateman children acted for several weeks at the
American Museum and in June of that year I sent them to London with
their father and Mr. Le Grand Smith, where they played in the St. James
Theatre, and afterwards in the principal provincial theatres. The elder
of these children, Miss Kate Bateman, subsequently attained the highest
histrionic distinction in America and abroad, and reached the very head
of her profession.
In October, 1852, having stipulated with Mr. George A. Wells and Mr.
Bushnell that they should share in the enterprise and take the entire
charge, I engaged Miss Catherine Hayes and Herr Begnis to give a series
of sixty concerts in California, and the engagement was fulfilled to our
entire satisfaction. Mr. Bushnell afterwards went to Australia with Miss
Hayes and they were subsequently married. Both of them are dead.
Before setting out for California, Miss Catherine Hayes, her mother and
sister spent several days at Iranistan and were present at the marriage
of my eldest daughter, Caroline, to Mr. David W. Thompson. The wedding
was to take place in the evening, and in the afternoon I was getting
shaved in a barber-shop in Bridgeport, when Mr. Thompson drove up to
the door in great haste and exclaimed:
“Mr. Barnum, Iranistan is in flames!”
I ran out half-shaved, with the lather on my face, jumped into his wagon
and bade him drive home with all speed. I was greatly alarmed, for the
house was full of visitors who had come from a distance to attend the
wedding, and all the costly presents, dresses, refreshments, and
everything prepared for a marriage celebration to which nearly a
thousand guests had been invited, were already in my house. Mr. Thompson
told me that he had seen the flames bursting from the roof and it seemed
to me that there was little hope of saving the building.
My mind was distressed, not so much at the great pecuniary loss which
the destruction of Iranistan would involve as at the possibility that
some of my family or visitors would be killed or seriously injured in
attempting to save something from the fire. Then I thought of the sore
disappointment this calamity would cause to the young couple, as well as
to those who were invited to the wedding. I saw that Mr. Thompson looked
pale and anxious.
“Never mind!” said I; “we can’t help these things; the house will
probably be burned; but if no one is killed or injured, you shall be
married to-night, if we are obliged to perform the ceremony in the
coach-house.”
On our way, we overtook a fire-company and I implored them to “hurry up
their machine.” Arriving in sight of Iranistan we saw huge volumes of
smoke rolling out from the roof and many men on the top of the house
were passing buckets of water to pour
[Illustration: _MOUNTAIN GROVE CEMETERY._]
upon the fire. Fortunately, several men had been engaged during the day
in repairing the roof, and their ladders were against the house. By
these means and with the assistance of the men employed upon my grounds,
water was passed very rapidly and the flames were soon subdued without
serious damage. The inmates of Iranistan were thoroughly frightened;
Catherine Hayes and other visitors packed their trunks and had them
carried out on the lawn; and the house came as near destruction as it
well could, and escape.
While Miss Hayes was in Bridgeport I induced her to give a concert for
the benefit of the “Mountain Grove Cemetery,” and the large proceeds
were devoted to the erection of the beautiful stone tower and gateway at
the entrance of that charming ground. The land for this cemetery, about
eighty acres, had been bought by me, years before, from several farmers.
I had often shot over the ground while hunting a year or two before, and
had then seen its admirable capabilities for the purpose to which it was
eventually devoted. After deeds for the property were secured, it was
offered for a cemetery, and at a meeting of citizens several lots were
subscribed for, enough, indeed, to cover the amount of the purchase
money. Thus was begun the “Mountain Grove Cemetery,” which is now
beautifully laid out and adorned with many tasteful and costly
monuments. Among these are my own substantial granite monument, the
family monuments of Harral, Bishop, Hubbell, Lyon, Wood, Loomis, Wordin,
Hyde, and others, and General Tom Thumb has erected a tall marble shaft
which is surmounted by a life-size statue of himself. There is no more
charming burial ground in the whole country; yet when the project was
suggested, many persons preferred an intermural cemetery to this rural
resting-place for their departed friends; though now, all concur in
considering it fortunate that this adjunct was secured to Bridgeport
before the land could be permanently devoted to other purposes.
Some time afterwards, when Mr. Dion Boucicault visited me at Bridgeport,
at my solicitation he gave a lecture for the benefit of this cemetery. I
may add that on several occasions I have secured the services of General
Tom Thumb and others for this and equally worthy objects in Bridgeport.
When the General first returned with me from England, he gave
exhibitions for the benefit of the Bridgeport Charitable Society.
September 28, 1867, I induced him and his wife, with Commodore Nutt and
Minnie Warren to give their entertainment for the benefit of the
Bridgeport Library, thus adding $475 to the funds of that institution;
and on one occasion I lectured to a full house in the Methodist Church,
and the entire receipts were given to the library, of which I was
already a life member, on account of previous subscriptions and
contributions.