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
[Illustration: _GRIZZLY ADAMS AND HIS FAMILY._]
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
[Illustration: THE PRINCE IN THE MUSEUM.]
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.
[Illustration: _EAST BRIDGEPORT._]