MORE ABOUT THE MUSEUM.
ANOTHER RE-OPENING--A CHERRY-COLORED CAT--THE CAT LET OUT OF THE
BAG--MY FIRST WHALING EXPEDITION--PLANS FOR CAPTURE--SUCCESS OF THE
SCHEME--TRANSPORTING LIVING WHALES BY LAND--PUBLIC EXCITEMENT--THE
GREAT TANK--SALT WATER PUMPED FROM THE BAY TO THE MUSEUM--MORE
WHALES--EXPEDITION TO LABRADOR--THE FIRST HIPPOPOTAMUS IN
AMERICA--TROPICAL FISH--COMMODORE NUTT AND HIS FIRST
“ENGAGEMENT”--THE TWO DROMIOS--PRESIDENT LINCOLN SEES COMMODORE
NUTT--WADING ASHORE--A QUESTION OF LEGS--SELF-DECEPTION--THE GOLDEN
ANGEL FISH--ANNA SWAN, THE NOVA SCOTIA GIANTESS--THE TALLEST WOMAN
IN THE WORLD--INDIAN CHIEFS--EXPEDITION TO CYPRUS--MY AGENT IN A
PASHA’S HAREM.
On the 13th of October, 1860, the American Museum was the scene of
another re-opening, which was, in fact, the commencement of the fall
dramatic season, the summer months having been devoted to pantomime. A
grand flourish of trumpets in the way of newspaper advertisements and
flaming posters drew a crowded house. Among other attractions, it was
announced that Mr. Barnum would introduce a mysterious novelty never
before seen in that establishment. I appeared upon the stage behind a
small table, in front of which was nailed a white sack, on which was
inscribed, in large letters, “The cat let out of the bag.” I then stated
that, having spent two of the summer months in the country, leaving the
Museum in charge of Mr. Greenwood, he had purchased a curiosity with
which he was not satisfied; but, for my part, I thought he had received
his money’s worth, and I proposed to exhibit it to the audience, for
the purpose of getting their opinion on the subject. I stated that a
farmer came in from the country, and said he had got a “cherry-colored
cat” at home which he would like to sell; that Mr. Greenwood gave him a
writing promising to pay him twenty-five dollars for such a cat
delivered in good health, provided it was not artificially colored; and
that the cat was then in the bag in front of the table, ready for
exhibition. Whereupon, my assistant drew from the bag a common black
cat, and I informed the audience that when the farmer brought his
“cherry-colored cat,” he quietly remarked to Mr. Greenwood, that, of
course, he meant “a cat of the color of black cherries.” The laughter
that followed this narration was uproarious, and the audience
unanimously voted that the “cherry-colored cat,” all things considered,
was well worth twenty-five dollars. The cat, adorned with a collar
bearing the inscription, “The Cherry-colored Cat,” was then placed in
the cage of the “Happy Family,” and the story getting into the
newspapers, it became another advertisement of the Museum.
In 1861, I learned that some fishermen at the mouth of the St. Lawrence
had succeeded in capturing a living white whale, and I was also informed
that a whale of this kind, if placed in a box lined with sea-weed and
partially filled with salt water, could be transported by land to a
considerable distance, and be kept alive. It was simply necessary that
an attendant, supplied with a barrel of salt water and a sponge, should
keep the mouth and blow-hole of the whale constantly moist. It seemed
incredible that a living whale could be “expressed” by railroad on a
five days’ journey, and although I knew nothing of the white whale or
its habits, since I had never seen one, I determined to experiment in
that direction. Landsman as I was, I believed that I was quite as
competent as a St. Lawrence fisherman to superintend the capture and
transportation of a live white whale.
When I had fully made up my mind to attempt the task, I made every
provision for the expedition, and took precaution against every
conceivable contingency. I determined upon the capture and transport to
my Museum of at least two living whales, and prepared in the basement of
the building a brick and cement tank, forty feet long, and eighteen feet
wide, for the reception of the marine monsters. When this was done,
taking two trusty assistants, I started upon my whaling expedition.
Going by rail to Quebec, and thence by the Grand Trunk Railroad, ninety
miles, to Wells River, where I chartered a sloop to Elbow Island (Isle
au Coudres), in the St. Lawrence River, and found the place populated by
Canadian French people of the most ignorant and dirty description. They
were hospitable, but frightfully filthy, and they gained their
livelihood by farming and fishing. Immense quantities of maple-sugar are
made there, and in exploring about the island, we saw hundreds of
birch-bark buckets suspended to the trees to catch the sap. After
numerous consultations, extending over three whole days, with a party of
twenty-four fishermen, whose gibberish was almost as untranslatable as
it was unbearable, I succeeded in contracting for their services to
capture for me, alive and unharmed, a couple of white whales, scores of
which could at all times be discovered by their “spouting” within sight
of the island. I was to pay these men a stipulated price per day for
their labor, and if they secured the whales, they were to have a liberal
bonus.
[Illustration: _CAPTURING WHITE WHALES._]
The plan decided upon was to plant in the river a “kraal,” composed of
stakes driven down in the form of a V, leaving the broad end open for
the whales to enter. This was done in a shallow place, with the point of
the kraal towards shore; and if by chance one or more whales should
enter the trap at high water, my fishermen were to occupy the entrance
with their boats, and keep up a tremendous splashing and noise till the
tide receded, when the frightened whales would find themselves nearly
“high and dry,” or with too little water to enable them to swim, and
their capture would be the next thing in order. This was to be effected
by securing a slip-noose of stout rope over their tails, and towing them
to the sea-weed lined boxes in which they were to be transported to New
York.
All this was simple enough “on paper”; but several days elapsed before a
single spout was seen inside the kraal, though scores of whales were
constantly around and near it. In time, it became exceedingly
aggravating to see the whales glide so near the trap without going into
it, and our patience was sorely tried. One day a whale actually went
into the kraal, and the fishermen proposed to capture it; but I wanted
another, and while we waited for number two to go in, number one knowing
the proverb, probably, and having an eye to his own interests, went out.
Two days afterwards, I was awakened at daylight by a great noise, and
amid the clamor of many voices, I caught the cheering news that two
whales were even then within the kraal, and hastily dressing myself, I
took a boat for the exciting scene. The real difficulty, which was to
get the whales into the trap, was now over, and the details of capture
and transportation could safely be left to my trusty assistants and the
fishermen. What they were to do until the tide went out and thereafter
was once more fully explained; and after depositing money enough to pay
the bill, if the capture was successful, I started at once for Quebec.
There I learned by telegraph that both whales had been caught, boxed,
and put on board sloop for the nearest point where they could be
transhipped in the cars. I had made every arrangement with the railway
officials, and had engaged a special car for the precious and curious
freight.
Elated as I was at the result of this novel enterprise, I had no idea of
hiding my light under a bushel, and I immediately wrote a full account
of the expedition, its intention, and its success, for publication in
the Quebec and Montreal newspapers. I also prepared a large number of
brief notices which I left at every station on the line, instructing
telegraph operators to “take off” all “whaling messages” that passed
over the wires to New York, and to inform their fellow townsmen at what
hour the whales would pass through each place. The result of these
arrangements may be imagined; at every station crowds of people came to
the cars to see the whales which were travelling by land to Barnum’s
Museum, and those who did not see the monsters with their own eyes, at
least saw some one who had seen them, and I thus secured a tremendous
advertisement, seven hundred miles long, for the American Museum.
When I arrived in New York, a dozen despatches had come from the
“whaling expedition,” and they continued to come every few hours. These
I bulletined in front of the Museum and sent copies to the papers. The
excitement was intense, and, when at last, these marine monsters arrived
and were swimming in the tank that had been prepared for them, anxious
thousands literally rushed to see the strangest curiosities ever
exhibited in New York.
Thus was my first whaling expedition a great success; but I did not know
how to feed or to take care of the monsters, and, moreover, they were in
fresh water, and this, with the bad air in the basement, may have
hastened their death, which occurred a few days after their arrival, but
not before thousands of people had seen them. Not at all discouraged, I
resolved to try again. My plan now was to connect the water of New York
bay with the basement of the Museum by means of iron pipes under the
street, and a steam engine on the dock to pump the water. This I
actually did at a cost of several thousand dollars, with an extra
thousand to the aldermanic “ring” for the privilege, and I constructed
another tank in the second floor of the building. This tank was built of
slate and French glass plates six feet long, five feet broad, and one
inch thick, imported expressly for the purpose, and the tank, when
completed, was twenty-four feet square, and cost $4,000. It was kept
constantly supplied with what would be called Hibernically, “fresh” salt
water, and inside of it I soon had two white whales, caught, as the
first had been, hundreds of miles below Quebec, to which city they were
carried by a sailing vessel, and from thence were brought by railway to
New York.
Of this whole enterprise, I confess I was very proud that I had
originated it and brought it to such successful conclusion. It was a
very great sensation, and it added thousands of dollars to my treasury.
The whales, however, soon died--their sudden and immense popularity was
too much for them--and I then despatched agents to the coast of
Labrador, and not many weeks thereafter I had two more live whales
disporting themselves in my monster aquarium. Certain envious people
started the report that my whales were only porpoises, but this petty
malice was turned to good account, for Professor Agassiz, of Harvard
University, came to see them, and gave me a certificate that they were
genuine white whales, and this indorsement I published far and wide.
The tank which I had built in the basement served for a yet more
interesting exhibition. On the 12th of August, 1861, I began to exhibit
the first and only genuine hippopotamus that had ever been seen in
America, and for several weeks the Museum was thronged by the curious
who came to see the monster. I advertised him extensively and
ingeniously, as “the great behemoth of the Scriptures,” giving a full
description of the animal and his habits, and thousands of cultivated
people, biblical students, and others, were attracted to this novel
exhibition. There was quite as much excitement in the city over this
wonder in the animal creation as there was in London when the first
hippopotamus was placed in the zoölogical collection in Regent’s Park.
Having a stream of salt water at my command at every high tide, I was
enabled to make splendid additions to the beautiful aquarium, which I
was the first to introduce into this country. I not only procured living
sharks, porpoises, sea horses, and many rare fish from the sea in the
vicinity of New York, but in the summer of 1861, I despatched a fishing
smack and crew to the Island of Bermuda and its neighborhood, whence
they brought scores of specimens of the beautiful “angel fish,” and
numerous other tropical fish of brilliant colors and unique forms. These
fish were a great attraction to all classes, and especially to
naturalists and others, who commended me for serving the ends of science
as well as amusement. But as cold weather approached, these tropical
fish began to die, and before the following spring, they were all gone.
I, therefore, replenished this portion of my aquaria during the summer,
and for several summers in succession, by sending a special vessel to
the Gulf for specimens. These operations were very expensive, but I
really did not care for the cost, if I could only secure valuable
attractions.
In the same year, I bought out the Aquarial Gardens in Boston, and soon
after removed the collection to the Museum. I had now the finest
assemblage of fresh as well as salt water fish ever exhibited, and with
a standing offer of one hundred dollars for every living brook-trout,
weighing four pounds or more, which might be brought to me, I soon had
three or four of these beauties, which trout-fishermen from all parts of
the country came to New York to see. But the trout department of my
Museum required so much care, and was attended with such constant risks,
that I finally gave it up.
In December, 1861, I made one of my most “palpable hits.” I was visited
at the Museum by a most remarkable dwarf, who was a sharp, intelligent
little fellow, with a deal of drollery and wit. He had a splendid head,
was perfectly formed, was very attractive, and, in short, for a
“showman,” he was a perfect treasure. His name, he told me, was George
Washington Morrison Nutt, and his father was Major Rodnia Nutt, a
substantial farmer, of Manchester, New Hampshire. I was not long in
despatching an efficient agent to Manchester, and in overcoming the
competition with other showmen who were equally eager to secure this
extraordinary pigmy. The terms upon which I engaged him for three years
were so large that he was christened the $30,000 Nutt; I, in the mean
time, conferring upon him the title of Commodore. As soon as I engaged
him, placards, posters and the columns of the newspapers proclaimed the
presence of “Commodore Nutt,” at the Museum. I also procured for the
Commodore a pair of Shetland ponies, miniature coachman and footman, in
livery, gold-mounted harness and an elegant little carriage, which, when
closed, represented a gigantic English walnut. The little Commodore
attracted great attention and grew rapidly in public favor. General Tom
Thumb was then travelling in the South and West. For some years he had
not been exhibited in New York, and during these years he had increased
considerably in rotundity and had changed much in his general
appearance. It was a singular fact, however, that Commodore Nutt was
almost a _fac-simile_ of General Tom Thumb, as he looked half-a-dozen
years before. Consequently, very many of my patrons, not making
allowance for the time which had elapsed since they had last seen the
General, declared that I was trying to play “Mrs. Gamp” with my “Mrs.
Harris”; that there was, in fact, no such person as “Commodore Nutt”;
and that I was exhibiting my old friend Tom Thumb under a new name. The
mistake was very natural, and to me it was very laughable, for the more
I tried to convince people of their error, the more they winked and
looked wise, and said, “It’s pretty well done, but you can’t take me
in.”
Commodore Nutt enjoyed the joke very much. He would sometimes half admit
the deception, simply to add to the bewilderment of the doubting portion
of my visitors. After he had been in the Museum a few weeks, I took the
Commodore to Bridgeport to spend a couple of days by way of relaxation.
Many of the citizens of Bridgeport, who had known Tom Thumb from his
birth, would salute the Commodore as the General Tom Thumb. The little
fellow would return these salutes, for he delighted in keeping up the
illusion.
Going into a crowded barber-shop one morning with the little Commodore,
we met my friend Mr. Gideon Thompson, who was sitting there, and who
called out:
“Good morning, Charley; how are you? When did you get home?”
“I’m quite well, thank you, and I arrived last night,” responded the
Commodore, with due gravity.
“I’ve got a horse now that will beat yours,” said Mr. Thompson.
“He must be pretty fast, then.”
“Well, Charley, I’ll drive out by your mother’s the first fine day, and
give you a trial.”
“All right,” said little Nutt, “but you had better not wager too much on
your fast horse, for you know mine is some pumpkins.”
“Well, Uncle Gid.,” I exclaimed, “you are ‘had’ this time; this little
gentleman is not General Tom Thumb, but Commodore Nutt.”
“What!” roared friend Gid.; “do you think I am an infernal fool? Why, I
knew Charley Stratton years before you ever saw him, didn’t I, General?”
No one in the room suspected that my little friend was any other than
General Tom Thumb, till Mr. William Bassett, the General’s
brother-in-law, came in and remarked the “wonderful resemblance to our
little Charley, as he looked years ago.”
“Is not this the General?” inquired half a dozen astonished men, who
were speedily assured he was not, but was quite another person. This
gave rise to a proposition to exhibit the Commodore to the General’s
mother, and a coach was procured, and Mr. Bassett, the Commodore, and I
went to Mrs. Stratton’s house. When we arrived, the Commodore shouted
out:
“How are you, mother?”
But the mother, of all persons in Bridgeport, was not to be deceived,
though she expressed her astonishment at the very striking likeness the
Commodore bore to her son as he once looked. Mrs. Bassett concurred in
the testimony and said the Commodore looked so much like her brother
that she was loth to let him go. It is no wonder that other people were
deceived by the resemblance.
It was evident that here was an opportunity to turn all doubts into hard
cash by simply bringing the two dwarf Dromios together, and showing them
on the same platform. I therefore induced Tom Thumb to bring his Western
engagements to a close, and to appear for four weeks, beginning with
August 11, 1862, in my Museum. Announcements headed “The Two Dromios,”
and “Two Smallest Men, and Greatest Curiosities Living,” as I expected,
drew large crowds to see them, and many came especially to solve their
doubts with regard to the genuineness of the “Nutt.” But here I was
considerably nonplussed, for astonishing as it may seem, the doubts of
many of the visitors were confirmed! The sharp people who were
determined “not to be humbugged, anyhow,” still declared that Commodore
Nutt was General Tom Thumb, and that the little fellow whom I was trying
to pass off as Tom Thumb, was no more like the General than he was like
the man in the Moon. It is very amusing to see how people will sometimes
deceive themselves by being too incredulous.
As an illustration--the “Australian Golden Pigeons” which deceived Old
Adams were the occasion of another ludicrous incident. A shrewd lady,
one of my neighbors in Connecticut, was visiting the Museum, and after
inspecting the “Golden Angel Fish” swimming in one of the aquaria, she
abruptly addressed me:
“You can’t humbug me, Mr. Barnum; that fish is painted!”
“Nonsense!” said I, with a laugh; “the thing is impossible.”
“I don’t care, I know it is painted; it is as plain as can be.”
“But, my dear Mrs. H., paint would not adhere to a fish in the water;
and if it would, it would kill him.”
She left the Museum not more than half convinced, and in the afternoon
of the same day I met her in the California Menagerie. She knew I was
part proprietor in the establishment, and seeing me in conversation with
Old Adams, she came to me, her eyes glistening with excitement, and
exclaimed--
“Oh, Mr. Barnum, I never saw anything so beautiful as those elegant
“Golden Pigeons”; you must give me some of their eggs for my own pigeons
to hatch; I should prize them beyond measure.”
“Oh, you don’t want ‘Golden Pigeons,’” I said; “they are painted.”
“No, they are not painted,” said she, with a laugh, “but I half think
the ‘Angel Fish’ is.”
I could scarcely control my laughter as I explained: “Now, Mrs. H., I
never spoil a good joke, even when the exposure betrays a Museum secret.
I assure you, upon honor, that the “Australian Golden Pigeons,” as they
are labelled, are really painted; I bought them for the sole purpose of
giving Old Adams a lesson; in their natural state they are nothing more
than common white ruff-neck pigeons.” She was convinced, and to this day
she blushes whenever any allusion is made to the “Angel Fish” or the
“Golden Pigeons.”
In 1862, I sent the Commodore to Washington, and joining him there, I
received an invitation from President Lincoln to call at the White House
with my little friend. Arriving at the appointed hour I was informed
that the President was in a special cabinet meeting, but that he had
left word if I called to be shown in to him with the Commodore. These
were dark days in the rebellion and I felt that my visit, if not
ill-timed, must at all events be brief. When we were admitted Mr.
Lincoln received us cordially, and introduced us to the members of the
cabinet. When Mr. Chase was introduced as the Secretary of the Treasury,
the little Commodore remarked:
“I suppose you are the gentleman who is spending so much of Uncle Sam’s
money?”
“No, indeed,” said Secretary of War Stanton, very promptly: “I am
spending the money.”
“Well,” said Commodore Nutt, “it is in a good cause, anyhow, and I guess
it will come out all right.”
His apt remark created much amusement. Mr. Lincoln then bent down his
long, lank body, and taking Nutt by the hand, he said:
“Commodore, permit me to give you a parting word of advice. When you are
in command of your fleet, if you find yourself in danger of being taken
prisoner, I advise you to wade ashore.”
The Commodore found the laugh was against him, but placing himself at
the side of the President, and gradually raising his eyes up the whole
length of Mr. Lincoln’s very long legs, he replied:
“I guess Mr. President, you could do that better than I could.”
Commodore Nutt and the Nova Scotia giantess, Anna Swan, illustrate the
old proverb sufficiently to show how extremes occasionally met in my
Museum. He was the shortest of men and she was the tallest of women. I
first heard of her through a quaker who came into my office one day and
told me of a wonderful girl, seventeen years of age, who resided near
him at Pictou, Nova Scotia, and who was probably the tallest girl in the
world. I asked him to obtain her exact height, on his return home, which
he did and sent it to me, and I at once sent an agent who in due time
came back with Anna Swan. She was an intelligent and by no means
ill-looking girl, and during the long period while she was in my employ
she was visited by thousands of persons. After the burning of my second
Museum, she went to England where she attracted great attention.
For many years I had been in the habit of engaging parties of American
Indians from the far West to exhibit at the Museum, and had sent two or
more Indian companies to Europe, where they were regarded as very great
“curiosities.” In 1864, ten or twelve chiefs of as many different
tribes, visited the President of the United States at Washington. By a
pretty liberal outlay of money, I succeeded in inducing the interpreter
to bring them to New York, and to pass some days at my Museum. Of
course, getting these Indians to dance, or to give any illustration of
their games or pastimes, was out of the question. They were real chiefs
of powerful tribes, and would no more have consented to give an
exhibition of themselves than the Chief Magistrate of our own nation
would have done. Their interpreter could not therefore promise that they
would remain at the Museum for any definite time; “for,” said he, “you
can only keep them just so long as they suppose all your patrons come to
pay them visits of honor. If they suspected that your Museum was a place
where people paid for entering,” he continued, “you could not keep them
a moment after the discovery.”
On their arrival at the Museum, therefore, I took them upon the stage
and personally introduced them to the public. The Indians liked this
attention from me, as they had been informed that I was the proprietor
of the great establishment in which they were invited and honored
guests. My patrons were of course pleased to see these old chiefs, as
they knew they were the “_real_ thing,” and several of them were known
to the public, either as being friendly or cruel to the whites. After
one or two appearances upon the stage, I took them in carriages and
visited the Mayor of New York in the Governor’s room at the City Hall.
Here the Mayor made them a speech of welcome, which being interpreted to
the savages was responded to by a speech from one of the chiefs, in
which he thanked the great “Father” of the city for his pleasant words,
and for his kindness in pointing out the portraits of his predecessors
hanging on the walls of the Governor’s room.
On another occasion, I took them by special invitation to visit one of
the large public schools up town. The teachers were pleased to see them,
and arranged an exhibition of special exercises by the scholars, which
they thought would be most likely to gratify their barbaric visitors. At
the close of these exercises, one old chief arose, and simply said,
“This is all new to us. We are mere unlearned sons of the forest, and
cannot understand what we have seen and heard.”
On other occasions, I took them to ride in Central Park, and through
different portions of the city. At every street corner which we passed,
they would express their astonishment to each other, at seeing the long
rows of houses which extended both ways on either side of each
cross-street. Of course, between each of these outside visits I would
return with them to the Museum, and secure two or three appearances upon
the stage to receive the people who had there congregated “to do them
honor.”
As they regarded me as their host, they did not hesitate to trespass
upon my hospitality. Whenever their eyes rested upon a glittering shell
among my specimens of conchology, especially if it had several brilliant
colors, one would take off his coat, another his shirt, and insist that
I should exchange my shell for their garment. When I declined the
exchange, but on the contrary presented them with the coveted article, I
soon found I had established a dangerous precedent. Immediately, they
all commenced to beg for everything in my vast collection, which they
happened to take a liking to. This cost me many valuable specimens, and
often “put me to my trumps” for an excuse to avoid giving them things
which I could not part with.
The chief of one of the tribes one day discovered an ancient shirt of
chain-mail which hung in one of my cases of antique armor. He was
delighted with it, and declared he must have it. I tried all sorts of
excuses to prevent his getting it, for it had cost me a hundred dollars
and was a great curiosity. But the old man’s eyes glistened, and he
would not take “no” for an answer. “The Utes have killed my little
child,” he told me through the interpreter; and now he must have this
steel shirt to protect himself; and when he returned to the Rocky
Mountains he would have his revenge. I remained inexorable until he
finally brought me a new buckskin Indian suit, which he insisted upon
exchanging. I felt compelled to accept his proposal; and never did I see
a man more delighted than he seemed to be when he took the mailed shirt
into his hands. He fairly jumped up and down with joy. He ran to his
lodging room, and soon appeared again with the coveted armor upon his
body, and marched down one of the main halls of the Museum, with folded
arms, and head erect, occasionally patting his breast with his right
hand, as much as to say, “now, Mr. Ute, look sharp, for I will soon be
on the war path!”
Among these Indians were War Bonnet, Lean Bear, and Hand-in-the-water,
chiefs of the Cheyennes; Yellow Buffalo, of the Kiowas; Yellow Bear, of
the same tribe; Jacob, of the Caddos; and White Bull, of the Apaches.
The little wiry chief known as Yellow Bear had killed many whites as
they had travelled through the “far West.” He was a sly, treacherous,
blood-thirsty savage, who would think no more of scalping a family of
women and children, than a butcher would of wringing the neck of a
chicken. But now he was on a mission to the “Great Father” at
Washington, seeking for presents and favors for his tribe, and he
pretended to be exceedingly meek and humble, and continually urged the
interpreter to announce him as a “great friend to the white man.” He
would fawn about me, and although not speaking or understanding a word
of our language, would try to convince me that he loved me dearly.
In exhibiting these Indian warriors on the stage, I explained to the
large audiences the names and characteristics of each. When I came to
Yellow Bear I would pat him familiarly upon the shoulder, which always
caused him to look up to me with a pleasant smile, while he softly
stroked down my arm with his right hand in the most loving manner.
Knowing that he could not understand a word I said, I pretended to be
complimenting him to the audience, while I was really saying something
like the following:
“This little Indian, ladies and gentlemen, is Yellow Bear, chief of the
Kiowas. He has killed, no doubt, scores of white persons, and he is
probably the meanest, black-hearted rascal that lives in the far West.”
Here I patted him on the head, and he, supposing I was sounding his
praises, would smile, fawn upon me, and stroke my arm, while I
continued: “If the blood-thirsty little villain understood what I was
saying, he would kill me in a moment; but as he thinks I am
complimenting him, I can safely state the truth to you, that he is a
lying, thieving, treacherous, murderous monster. He has tortured to
death poor, unprotected women, murdered their husbands, brained their
helpless little ones; and he would gladly do the same to you or to me,
if he thought he could escape punishment. This is but a faint
description of the character of Yellow Bear.” Here I gave him another
patronizing pat on the head, and he, with a pleasant smile, bowed to the
audience, as much as to say that my words were quite true, and that he
thanked me very much for the high encomiums I had so generously heaped
upon him.
After they had been about a week at the Museum, one of the chiefs
discovered that visitors paid money for entering. This information he
soon communicated to the other chiefs, and I heard an immediate murmur
of discontent. Their eyes were opened, and no power could induce them to
appear again upon the stage. Their dignity had been offended, and their
wild, flashing eyes were anything but agreeable. Indeed, I hardly felt
safe in their presence, and it was with a feeling of relief that I
witnessed their departure for Washington the next morning.
In the spring of 1864, the United States Consul at Larnica, Island of
Cyprus, Turkish Dominions, wrote me a letter, declaring that he and the
English Consul, an American physician, resident in the island, and a
large company of Europeans as well as natives, had seen the most
remarkable object, no doubt, in the world,--a _lusus naturæ_, a feminine
phenomenon. This woman was represented to have “four cornicles on her
head, and one large horn, equal in size to an ordinary ram’s horn,
growing out of the side of her head”; and the consistency of the horns
was represented to be similar to that of cows’ or goats’ horns. This
singular story continued: “These horns have been growing for ten or
twelve years, and were carefully concealed by the woman until a few
weeks since, when a vision appeared in the person of an old man, and
warned her to remove the veil she wore, or God would punish her. She
sent to the Greek priest (she being of that persuasion), and confessed
to him, and was ordered to uncover her head, which she at once did.” She
was subsequently seen by the entire population, and the French consul,
in company with others, offered her fifty thousand piastres to go to
Paris for exhibition. The English consul, I was further informed, had
pronounced this woman to be “worth her weight in gold”; and I was
assured that if I wished to add her to my “wonderful Museum, and present
to the American public the most remarkable object yet exhibited,” I had
only to “send an agent immediately to secure the prize.”
Informing myself of the trustworthiness of my correspondent (who also
wrote a similar account to the New York _Observer_), I was not long in
making up my mind to secure this freak of nature; and I despatched Mr.
John Greenwood, Jr., in the steamer “City of Baltimore,” for Liverpool,
April 30, 1864. He went to London and Paris, and thence to Marseilles,
where he took a Syrian and Egyptian steamer to Palermo, and from thence
proceeded to Cyprus. On arriving, if he could have seen the woman at
once, he could have re-embarked on the steamer, which sailed again in a
few hours for other islands; but unfortunately, the woman was a few
miles in the interior, and poor Greenwood was detained a month on the
island before he could take another steamer to get away. Worse yet, the
woman, spite of the impression she had made upon so many and such
respectable witnesses, was really no curiosity after all, as it proved
upon examination, that her “horns” were not horns at all, but fleshy
excrescences, which may have been singularly shaped tumors, or wens. It
is needless to add that my agent did not engage her; and after a month
of discomfort and hard living, he succeeded in getting away, and sailed
for Constantinople, mainly to see what could be done in the way of
securing one or more Circassian women for exhibition in my Museum.
On his way through the Mediterranean, he had the following adventure: On
board the steamer, the harem of a Turkish Pasha occupied one side of the
quarter deck, which was divided off from the rest by a hurdle fence run
longitudinally through the middle of the deck. Greenwood was one day
sitting in an easy chair with his back to these women and their
attendants, when, feeling his chair move, he turned and saw one of the
Pasha’s wives getting over the hurdle, and as there was scarcely room
for her to squeeze herself between the chairs in which passengers were
sitting, he moved his own chair out of the way and rising, offered his
hand to assist the woman over the fence. She indignantly jumped back,
and Greenwood was immediately seized by two of the Pasha’s attendants,
violently shaken, and taken to task in Turkish for daring to offer to
touch the hand of one of his Excellency’s women. Greenwood had that day
formed the acquaintance of a fellow-passenger, a young Greek from Scio,
who was going to Beyrout to act as clerk for a merchant in that place.
He spoke good English, and seeing Greenwood in trouble among the Turks,
and knowing that he could speak neither Greek nor Arabic, he went to the
rescue, and demanded an explanation of the difficulty.
Upon hearing what was the trouble, he informed the
[Illustration: _TROUBLE IN A TURKISH HAREM._]
turbulent fellows that Greenwood had no motive in his act beyond simple
common courtesy. The prisoner, however, was still detained in the grasp
of the Turks, till the will of the insulted Pasha could be known. On
deck soon came the irate Pasha, in company with an old gentleman who was
said to have been tutor, formerly, to the present Sultan of Turkey. When
the two heard the charge and the explanation, and had consulted together
a little while, Greenwood was released. But for the friendly
interposition of the Greek, he might have been bastinadoed, or even
bowstrung.
During the remainder of the voyage he was closely watched, but he was
very careful to be guilty of no act of “politeness,” and he went on
shore at Constantinople without so much as saying good-by to the Pasha.
In Constantinople he had some very singular adventures. To carry out his
purpose of getting access to the very interior of the slave-marts, he
dressed himself in full Turkish costume, learned a few words and phrases
which would be necessary in his assumed character as a slave-buyer, and,
as the Turks are a notably reticent people, he succeeded very well in
passing himself off for what he appeared, though he ran a risk of
detection many times every day. In this manner, he saw a large number of
Circassian girls and women, some of them the most beautiful beings he
had ever seen, and after a month in Constantinople and in other Turkish
cities, he sailed for Marseilles, then went to Paris, picking up many
treasures for my Museum, and returned to New York, after a journey of
13,112 miles.