ABROAD AGAIN.
OLD FRIENDS IN OLD ENGLAND--ALBERT SMITH AS A SHOWMAN--HIS ASCENT
OF MONT BLANC--POPULARITY OF THE ENTERTAINMENT--THE GARRICK
CLUB--“PHINEAS CUTECRAFT”--THE ELEVEN THOUSAND VIRGINS OF
COLOGNE--UTILIZING INCIDENTS--SUBTERRANEAN TERRORS--A
PANIC--EGYPTIAN DARKNESS IN EGYPTIAN HALL--WILLIAM M.
THACKERAY--HIS TWO VISITS TO AMERICA--FRIENDLY RELATIONS WITH THE
NOVELIST--I LOSE HIS SYMPATHY--HIS WARM REGARD FOR HIS AMERICAN
FRIENDS--OTTO GOLDSCHMIDT AND JENNY LIND GOLDSCHMIDT--TENDER OF
THEIR AID--THE FORGED LIND LETTER--BENEDICT AND BELLETTI--GEORGE
AUGUSTUS SALA--CHARLES KEAN--EDMUND YATES--HORACE MAYHEW--GEORGE
PEABODY--MR. BUCKSTONE--MY EXHIBITIONS IN ENGLAND--S. M.
PETTINGILL--MR. LUMLEY.
On arriving at Liverpool, I found that my old friends, Mr. and Mrs.
Lynn, of the Waterloo Hotel, had changed very little during my ten
years’ absence from England. Even the servants in the hotel were mainly
those whom I left there when I last went away from Liverpool--which
illustrates, in a small way, how much less changeable, and more
“conservative” the English people are than we are. The old head-waiter,
Thomas, was still head-waiter, as he had been for full twenty years. His
hair was more silvered, his gait was slower, his shoulders had rounded,
but he was as ready to receive, as I was to repeat, the first order I
ever gave him, to wit: “Fried soles and shrimp sauce.”
And among my many friends in Liverpool and London, but one death had
occurred, and with only two exceptions they all lived in the same
buildings, and pursued the same vocations as when I left them in 1847.
When I reached London, I found one of these exceptions to be Mr. Albert
Smith, who, when I first knew him, was a dentist, a literary hack, a
contributor to _Punch_, and a writer for the magazines,--and who was now
transformed to a first-class showman in the full tide of success, in my
own old exhibition quarters in Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly.
A year or two before, he had succeeded in reaching the top of Mont
Blanc, and after publishing a most interesting account, which was
re-published and translated into several languages, the whole world
over, he concluded to make further use of his expedition by adapting it
to a popular entertainment. He therefore illustrated his ascent by means
of a finely painted and accurate panorama, and he accompanied the
exhibition with a descriptive lecture full of amusing and interesting
incidents, illustrative of his remarkable experiences in accomplishing
the difficult ascent. He also gave a highly-colored and exciting
narrative of his entire journey from London to Switzerland, and back
again, including his trip up and down the Rhine, and introducing the
many peculiar characters of both sexes, he claimed to have met at
different points during his tour. These he imitated and presented in so
life-like a manner, as to fairly captivate and convulse his audiences.
It was one of the most pleasing and popular entertainments ever
presented in London, and was immensely remunerative to the
projector,--resulting, indeed, in a very handsome fortune. The
entertainments were patronized by the most cultivated classes, for
information was blended with amusement, and in no exhibition then in
London was there so much genuine fun. Two or three times Albert Smith
was commanded to appear before the Queen at Buckingham Palace, and at
Windsor, and as he gave his entertainment with great success on these
occasions, spite of the fact that he could not take his panorama with
him, it can readily be imagined that the frame was quite as good as the
picture, and that the lecture as compared with the panorama, admirable
as both were, was by no means the least part of the “show.”
Calling upon Albert Smith, I found him the same kind, cordial friend as
ever, and he at once put me on the free list at his entertainment, and
insisted upon my dining frequently with him at his favorite club, the
Garrick.
The first time I witnessed his exhibition he gave me a sly wink from the
stage at the moment of his describing a scene in the golden chamber of
St. Ursula’s church in Cologne, where the old sexton was narrating the
story of the ashes and bones of the eleven thousand innocent virgins
who, according to tradition, were sacrificed on a certain occasion. One
of the characters whom he pretended to have met several times on his
trip to Mont Blanc, was a Yankee, whom he named “Phineas Cutecraft.” The
wink came at the time he introduced Phineas in the Cologne Church, and
made him say at the end of the sexton’s story about the Virgins’ bones:
“Old fellow, what will you take for that hull lot of bones? I want them
for my Museum in America!”
When the question had been interpreted to the old German, he exclaimed
in horror, according to Albert Smith:
“Mine Gott! it is impossible! We will never sell the Virgins’ bones!”
“Never mind,” replied Phineas Cutecraft, “I’ll send another lot of bones
to my Museum, swear mine are the real bones of the Virgins of Cologne,
and burst up your show!”
This always excited the heartiest laughter; but Mr. Smith knew very well
that I would at once recognize it as a paraphrase of the scene wherein
he had figured with me in 1844 at the porter’s lodge of Warwick Castle.
In the course of the entertainment, I found he had woven in numerous
anecdotes I had told him at that time, and many incidents of our
excursion were also travestied and made to contribute to the interest of
his description of the ascent of Mont Blanc.
When we went to the Garrick club that day, Albert Smith introduced me to
several of his acquaintances as his “teacher in the show business.” As
we were quietly dining together, he remarked that I must have recognized
several old acquaintances in the anecdotes at his entertainment. Upon my
answering that I did, “indeed,” he remarked, “you are too old a showman
not to know that in order to be popular, we must snap up and localize
all the good things which we come across.” By thus engrafting his
various experiences upon this Mont Blanc entertainment, Albert Smith
succeeded in serving up a salmagundi feast, which was relished alike by
royal and less distinguished palates.
At one of the Egyptian Hall matinees, Albert Smith, espying me in the
audience, sent an usher to me with a note of invitation to dine with him
and a number of friends immediately after the close of the
entertainment. To this invitation he added the request that as soon as
he concluded his lecture I should at once come to him through the small
door under the stage at the end of the orchestra, and by thus getting
ahead of the large crowd of ladies and gentlemen composing the audience
we should save time and reach the club at an hour for an early dinner.
As soon as he uttered the last word of his lecture, I pushed for the
little door, the highly distinguished audience, which on this occasion
was mainly made up of ladies, meanwhile slowly progressing towards the
exits, while the orchestra was “playing them out” with selections of
popular music. Closing the stage door behind me, I instantly found
myself enveloped in that Egyptian darkness which was peculiar, I
suppose, if not appropriate, to that part of Egyptian Hall. I could hear
Smith and his assistants walking on the stage over my head, but I dare
not call out lest some nervous Duchess or Countess should faint under
the apprehension that the hall was on fire, or that some other severe
disaster threatened.
Groping my way blindly and hitting my head several times against sundry
beams, at last, to my joy, I reached the knob of the door which led me
into this hole, but to my dismay it had been locked from the outside! In
feeling about, however, I discovered a couple of bell pulls, both of
which I desperately jerked and heard a faint tinkling in two opposite
directions. Next, I heard the heavy canvas drop-curtain roll down
rapidly till it struck the stage with a thud. Then the music in the
orchestra suddenly ceased, and I could readily understand by the shrieks
of the women and the loud protestations of masculine voices that the gas
had been turned off and the whole house left in darkness. This was
followed by hurried and heavy footsteps on the stage, the imprecations
of stage carpenters and gasmen, jargon of foreign musicians in the
orchestra, and the earnest voice of my friend Smith excitedly
exclaiming: “Who rung those bells? why are we all left in the dark?
Light up here at once; bless my soul! what does all this mean?”
I was amazed, yet amused and half alarmed. What to do, I did not know,
so I sat still on a box which I had stumbled over, as well as upon,
afraid to move or put out my hand lest I might touch some machinery
which would give the signal for thunder and lightning, or an earthquake,
or more likely, a Mont Blanc avalanche. Restored tranquillity overhead
assured me that the gas had been relighted. I knew Smith must be
anxiously awaiting me, for he was not a man to be behind time when so
important a matter as dinner was the motive of the appointment.
Something desperate must be done; so I carefully groped my way to the
stage door again and with a strong effort managed to wrench it open.
Covered with dust and perspiration I followed behind the rear of the
out-going audience and found Smith, to whom I narrated my under-ground
experiences.
Brushes, water and towels soon put me once more in presentable condition
and we went to the Garrick Club where we dined with several gentlemen of
note. Smith could not refrain from relating my mishaps and their
consequences in my search for him under difficulties, and worse yet,
under his stage, and great was the merriment over the idea that an old
manager like myself should so lose his reckoning in a place with which
he might well be supposed to be perfectly familiar.
When the late William M. Thackeray made his first visit to the United
States, I think in 1852, he called on me at the Museum with a letter of
introduction from our mutual friend Albert Smith. He spent an hour with
me, mainly for the purpose of asking my advice in regard to the
management of the course of lectures on “The English Humorists of the
Eighteenth Century,” which he proposed to deliver, as he did afterwards,
with very great success, in the principal cities of the Union. I gave
him the best advice I could as to management, and the cities he ought to
visit, for which he was very grateful and he called on me whenever he
was in New York. I also saw him repeatedly when he came to America the
second time with his admirable lectures on “The Four Georges,” which, it
will be remembered he delivered in the United States in the season of
1855-56, before he read these lectures to audiences in Great Britain. My
relations with this great novelist, I am proud to say, were cordial and
intimate; and now, when I called upon him, in 1857, at his own house he
grasped me heartily by the hand and said:
“Mr. Barnum, I admire you more than ever. I have read the accounts in
the papers of the examinations you underwent in the New York courts, and
the positive pluck you exhibit under your pecuniary embarrassments is
worthy of all praise. You would never have received credit for the
philosophy you manifest, if these financial misfortunes had not
overtaken you.”
I thanked him for his compliment, and he continued:
“But tell me, Barnum, are you really in need of present assistance? for
if you are you must be helped.”
“Not in the least,” I replied, laughing; “I need more money in order to
get out of bankruptcy and I intend to earn it; but so far as daily bread
is concerned, I am quite at ease, for my wife is worth £30,000 or
£40,000.”
“Is it possible?” he exclaimed, with evident delight; “well, now, you
have lost all my sympathy; why, that is more than I ever expect to be
worth; I shall be sorry for you no more.”
During my stay in London, I met Thackeray several times, and on one
occasion I dined with him. He was a most genial, noble-hearted
gentleman. In our conversations he spoke with the warmest appreciation
of America, and of his numerous friends in this country, and he
repeatedly expressed his obligations to me for the advice and assistance
I had given him on the occasion of his first lecturing visit to the
United States.
The late Charles Kean, then manager of the Princess’s Theatre, in
London, was also exceedingly polite and friendly to me. He placed a box
at my disposal at all times, and took me through his theatre to show me
the stage, dressing rooms, and particularly the valuable “properties” he
had collected. Among other things, he had twenty or more complete suits
of real armor and other costumes and appointments essential to the
production of historical plays, in the most complete and authentic
manner. In the mere matter of stage-setting, Charles Kean has never been
surpassed.
Otto Goldschmidt, the husband of Jenny Lind, also called on me in
London. He and his wife were then living in Dresden, and he said the
first thing his wife desired him to ask me was, whether I was in want. I
assured him that I was not, although I was managing to live in an
economical way and my family would soon come over to reside in London.
He then advised me to take them to Dresden, saying that living was very
cheap there; and, he added, “my wife will gladly look up a proper house
for you to live in.” I thankfully declined his proffered kindness, as
Dresden was too far away from my business. A year subsequent to this, a
letter was generally published in the American papers, purporting to
have been written to me by Jenny Lind, and proffering me a large sum of
money. I immediately pronounced the letter a forgery, and I soon
afterwards received a communication from a young reporter in
Philadelphia acknowledging himself as the author, and saying that he
wrote it from a good motive, hoping it would benefit me. On the contrary
it annoyed me exceedingly.
My old friends Julius Benedict and Giovanni Belletti, called on me and
we had some very pleasant dinners together, when we talked over
incidents of their travels in America. Among the gentlemen whom I met in
London, some of them quite frequently at dinners, were Mr. George
Augustus Sala, Mr. Edmund Yates, Mr. Horace Mayhew, Mr. Alfred Bunn, Mr.
Lumley, of Her Majesty’s Theatre, Mr. Buckstone, of the Haymarket, Mr.
Charles Kean, our princely countrymen Mr. George Peabody, Mr. J. M.
Morris, the manager, Mr. Bates, of Baring, Brothers & Co., Mr. Oxenford,
dramatic critic of the London _Times_, Dr. Ballard, the American
dentist, and many other eminent persons.
I had numerous offers from professional friends on both sides of the
Atlantic who supposed me to be in need of employment. Mr. Barney
Williams, who had not then acted in England, proposed in the kindest
manner to make me his agent for a tour through Great Britain, and to
give me one-third of the profits which he and Mrs. Williams might make
by their acting. Mr. S. M. Pettengill, of New York, the newspaper
advertising agent, offered me the fine salary of $10,000 a year to
transact business for him in Great Britain. He wrote to me: “when you
failed in consequence of the Jerome clock notes, I felt that your
creditors were dealing hard with you; that they should have let you up
and give you a chance, and they would have fared better and I wish I was
a creditor so as to show what I would do.” These offers, both from Mr.
Williams and Mr. Pettengill, I was obliged to decline.
Mr. Lumley, manager of Pier Majesty’s Theatre, used to send me an order
for a private box for every opera night, and I frequently availed myself
of his courtesy. I had an idea that much money might be made by
transferring his entire opera company, which then included Piccolomini
and Titjiens to New York for a short season. The plan included the
charter of a special steamer for the company and the conveyance of the
entire troup, including the orchestra, with their instruments, and the
chorus, costumes, scores, and properties of the company. It was a
gigantic scheme, which would no doubt have been pecuniarily successful,
and Mr. Lumley and I went so far as to draw up the preliminaries of an
arrangement, in which I was to share a due proportion of the profits for
my assistance in the management; but after a while, and to the evident
regret of Mr. Lumley, the scheme was given up.
Meanwhile, I was by no means idle. Cordelia Howard as “Little Eva,” with
her mother as the inimitable “Topsy,” were highly successful in London
and other large cities, while General Tom Thumb, returning after so long
an absence, drew crowded houses wherever he went. These were strong
spokes in the wheel that was moving slowly but surely in the effort to
get me out of debt, and, if possible, to save some portion of my real
estate. Of course, it was not generally known that I had any interest
whatever in either of these exhibitions; if it had been, possibly some
of the clock creditors would have annoyed me; but I busied myself in
these and in other ways, working industriously and making much money,
which I constantly remitted to my trusty agent at home.