SECTION 508. No railroad company, which has had a system of

commutation fares in force for more than four years, shall abolish,

alter, or modify the same, except for the regulation of the price

charged for such commutation; and such price shall, in no case, be

raised to an extent that shall alter the ratio between such

commutation and the rates then charged for way fare, on the

railroad of such company.

The New York and New Haven Railroad Company seemed determined to move

heaven and earth to prevent the passage of this law. The halls of

legislation were thronged with railroad lobbyists, who button-holed

nearly every member. My motives were attacked, and the most foolish

slanders were circulated. Not only every legal man in the house was

arrayed against me, but occasionally a “country member” who had promised

to stick by and aid in checking the cupidity of railroad managers, would

drop off, and be found voting on the other side. I devoted many hours,

and even days, to explaining the true state of things to the members

from the rural regions, and although the prospect of carrying this great

reform looked rather dark, I felt that I had a majority of the honest

and disinterested members of the house with me. Finally, Senator Ballard

informed me that he had canvassed the Senate and was convinced that the

bill could be carried through that body if I could be equally

successful with the house. At last it was known that the final debate

would take place and the vote be taken on the morning of July 13.

When the day arrived the excitement was intense. The passages leading to

the hall were crowded with railroad lobbyists; for nearly every railroad

in the State had made common cause with the New York and New Haven

Company, and every representative was in his seat, excepting the sick

man, who had doctored the railroads till he needed doctoring himself.

The debate was led off by skirmishers on each side, and was finally

closed on the part of the railroads by Mr. Harrison, of New Haven, who

was chairman of the railroad committee. Mr. Henry B. Harrison was a

close and forcible debater and a clear-headed lawyer. His speech

exhibited considerable thought, and his earnestness and high character

as a gentleman of honor, carried much weight. Besides, his position as

chairman of the committee naturally influenced some votes. He claimed to

understand thoroughly the merits of the question, from having, in his

capacity as chairman, heard all the testimony and arguments which had

come before that committee; and a majority of the committee, after due

deliberation, had reported against the proposed bill.

On closing the debate, I endeavored to state briefly the gist of the

case,--that, only a few years before, the New York and New Haven Company

had fixed their own price for commuters’ tickets along the whole line of

the road, and had thus induced hundreds of New York citizens to remove

to Connecticut with their families, and build their houses on heretofore

unimproved property, thus vastly increasing the value of the lands, and

correspondingly helping our receipts for taxes. I urged that there was

a tacit understanding between the railroad and these commuters and the

public generally, that such persons as chose thus to remove from a

neighboring State, and bring their families and capital within our

borders, should have the right to pass over the railroad on the terms

fixed at the time by the president and directors;--that any claim that

the railroad could not afford to commute at the prices they had

themselves established was absurd, from the fact that even now, if one

thousand families who reside in New York, and had never been in our own

State, should propose to the railroad to remove these families

(embracing in the aggregate five thousand persons), to Connecticut, and

build one thousand new houses on the line of the New York and New Haven

Railroad, provided the railroad would carry the male head of the family

at all times for nothing, the company could well afford to accept the

proposition, because they would receive full prices for transporting all

other members of these families, at all times, as well as full prices

for all their visitors and servants.

And now, what are the facts? Do we desire the railroad to carry

even one-fifth of these new comers for nothing? Do we, indeed,

desire to compel them to transport them for any definitely fixed

price at all? On the contrary, we find that during the late

rebellion, when gold was selling for two dollars and eighty cents

per dollar, this company doubled its prices of commutation, and

retains the same prices now, although gold is but one half that

amount ($1.40). We don’t ask them to go back to their former

prices; we don’t compel them to rest even here; we simply say,

increase your rates, pile up your demands just as high as you

desire, only you shall not make fish of one and fowl of another.

You have fixed and increased your prices to passengers of all

classes just as you liked, and established your own ratio between

those who pay by the year, and those who pay by the single trip;

and now, all we ask is, that you shall not change the ratio. Charge

ten dollars per passenger from New York to New Haven, if you have

the courage to risk the competition of the steamboats; and whatever

percentage you choose to increase the fare of transient passengers,

we permit you to increase the rates of commuters in the same ratio.

The interests of the State, as well as commuters, demand this law;

for if it is once fixed by statute that the prices of commutation

are not to be increased, many persons will leave the localities

where extortion is permitted on the railroads, and will settle in

our State. But these railroad gentlemen say they have no intention

to increase their rates of commutation, and they deprecate what

they term “premature legislation,” and an uncalled for meddling

with their affairs. Mr. Speaker, “an ounce of prevention is worth a

pound of cure.” Men engaged in plots against public interests

always ask to be “let alone.” Jeff Davis only asked to be “let

alone,” when the North was raising great armies to prevent the

dissolution of the Union. The people cannot afford to let these

railroads alone. This hall, crowded with railroad lobbyists, as the

frogs thronged Egypt, is an admonition to all honest legislators,

that it is unsafe to allow the monopolies the chance to rivet the

chains which already fetter the limbs of those whom circumstances

place in the power of these companies.

It was at this point in my remarks when I received the telegram from my

son-in-law in New York, announcing the burning of the American Museum.

Reading the despatch, and laying it on my desk without further

attention, I continued:

These railroad gentlemen absolutely deny any intention of raising

the fares of commuters, and profess to think it very hard that

disinterested and conscientious gentlemen like them should be

judged by the doings of the Hudson River and Harlem Railroads. But

now, Mr Speaker, I am going to expose the duplicity of these men. I

have had detectives on their track, for men who plot against public

interests deserve to be watched. I have in my pocket positive

proofs that they did, and do, intend to spring their trap upon the

unprotected commuters on the New York and New Haven Railroad.

I then drew from my pocket and read two telegrams received that morning,

one from New York and the other from Bridgeport, announcing that the New

York and New Haven Railroad Directory had held a secret meeting in New

York, the day before, for the purpose of immediately raising the fares

of commuters twenty per cent, so that in case my bill became a law they

could get ahead of me. I continued:

Now, Mr. Speaker, I know that these despatches are true; my

information is from the inside of the camp. I see a director of the

New York and New Haven Railroad sitting in this hall; I know that

he knows these despatches are true; and if he will go before the

railroad committee and make oath that he don’t know that such a

meeting took place yesterday for exactly this purpose, I will

forfeit and pay one thousand dollars to the families of poor

soldiers in this city. In consideration of this attempt to

forestall the action of this legislature, I offer an amendment to

the bill now under consideration by adding after the word “ratio,”

the words “as it existed on the first day of July, 1865.” In this

way, we shall cut off any action which these sleek gentlemen may

have taken yesterday. It is now evident that these railroad

gentlemen have set a trap for this legislature; and I propose that

we now spring the trap, and see if we cannot catch these wily

railroad directors in it. Mr. Speaker, I move the previous

question.

The opposition were astounded at the revelation and the previous

question was ordered. The bill as amended was carried almost with a

“hurrah.” It is now an act in the statute book of the State, and it

annually adds many dollars to the assessment roll of Connecticut, since

the protection afforded to commuters against the extortions practised by

railway companies elsewhere is a strong inducement to permanent settlers

along the lines of Connecticut railways.[C]

[C] The New York and New Haven Railroad Company never forgave me for

thus securing a righteous law for the protection of its commuters.

Even as lately as 1871, the venders of books on the trains were

prohibited from selling to passengers this book which exposes their

cupidity. A parallel railroad from New York to New Haven would be

good paying stock, and would materially disturb, if not destroy, the

present railroad and express monopolies.

In the spring of 1866, I was again elected to represent the town of

Fairfield in the Connecticut Legislature. I had not intended to accept a

nomination for that office a second time, but one of the directors of

the New York and New Haven Railroad, who was a citizen of Fairfield and

had been a zealous lobby member of the preceding legislature, had

declared that I should not represent the town again. As the voters of

Fairfield seemed to think that the public interests were of more

importance than the success of railroad conspiracies, combinations, and

monopolies, I accepted their nomination.

Almost the only exciting question before that legislature was the

election of an United States Senator. President Johnson had begun to

show disaffection towards the Republican party which elected him, and

the zealous members of that party were watching with anxious hearts the

actions of those who offered themselves as candidates for offices of

trust and responsibility. One of the Republican United States Senators

had already abandoned the party and affiliated with Johnson. The other

Senator was a candidate for re-election. He had been a favorite

candidate with me, but when I became convinced that he sympathized with

the recreant Senator and President Johnson, no importunities of

political friends or any other inducement could change my determination

to defeat him, if possible. I devoted days and nights to convincing some

of my fellow numbers that the interests of the State and the country

demanded the election of Hon. O. S. Ferry to that important office.

Excitement ran high. Ex-Governor Wm. A. Buckingham was also a candidate.

I knew he would make an excellent Senator but he had filled the

gubernatorial chair for eight years; and as the present senator had held

his office twelve years, and he was from the same city as Governor

Buckingham, I urged that Norwich should not carry off all the honors;

that Fairfield County was entitled to the office; and both before and at

the Republican nominating caucus I set forth, so far as I was able, what

I considered the merits and peculiar claims of Mr. Ferry. I suggested

that Mr. Buckingham might rest on his laurels for a couple of years and

be elected to fill the place of the next retiring senator in 1868. Mr.

Ferry started in the ballotings with a very small vote indeed, and it

required the most delicate management to secure a majority for him in

that caucus. But it was done; and as the great strife was between the

two other rival candidates, Mr. Ferry had scarcely a hope of the

nomination and was much surprised the next morning to hear of his

success. He was elected for the term beginning March 4, 1866, and one of

his opposing candidates in the caucus ex-Governor William A.

Buckingham, was elected, two years afterwards, for the senatorial term

commencing March 4, 1869.

I was again chairman of the Committee on Agriculture, and on the whole

the session at New Haven, in 1866, was very agreeable to me; there were

many congenial spirits in the House and our severer labors were

lightened by some very delightful episodes.

During the summer, Governor Hawley, Hon. David Gallup, Speaker of the

House, Hon. O. S. Ferry, U. S. Senator, Mr. W. G. Coe, of Winsted, Mr.

A. B. Mygatt, of New Milford, Mr. Theodore Tilton, editor of the New

York _Independent_, Mr. George Pratt, of Norwich, Mr. S. H. Wales, of

the _Scientific American_, Mr. David Clark, of Hartford, Mr. A. H.

Byington, of Norwalk, and many other gentlemen of distinction were

occasional guests at Lindencroft. Several times we had delightful sails,

dinners, and clam-bakes at Charles Island, eight miles east of

Bridgeport, a most cool and charming spot in the warm summer days. The

health of my wife, which had been poor since 1855, prevented many

occasions of festivity for which I had all other facilities; for

Lindencroft was indeed a charming residence, and it afforded every

requisite for the entertainment of large numbers of friends.

During the summer Governor Hawley appointed me a commissioner to the

Paris Exposition, but I was unable to attend.

In the spring of 1867, I received from the Republican convention in the

Fourth District in Connecticut the nomination for Congress. As I have

already remarked, politics were always distasteful to me. I possess

naturally too much independence of mind, and too strong a determination

to do what I believe to be right, regardless of party expediency, to

make a lithe and oily politician. To be called on to favor applications

from office-seekers, without regard to their merits, and to do the dirty

work too often demanded by political parties; to be “all things to all

men” though not in the apostolic sense; to shake hands with those whom I

despised, and to kiss the dirty babies of those whose votes were

courted, were political requirements which I felt I could never

acceptably fulfil. Nevertheless, I had become, so far as business was

concerned, almost a man of leisure; and some of my warmest personal

friends insisted that a nomination to so high and honorable a position

as a member of Congress, was not to be lightly rejected, and so I

consented to run. Fairfield and Litchfield counties composed the

district, which in the preceding Congressional election, in 1865, and

just after the close of the war, was republican. In the year following,

however, the district in State election went democratic, although the

republican State ticket was elected. I had this democratic majority to

contend against in 1867, and as the whole State turned over and elected

the democratic ticket, I lost my election. In the next succeeding

Congressional election, in 1869, the Fourth District also elected the

only democratic congressman chosen from Connecticut that year, although

the State itself was republican again by a considerable majority.

I was neither disappointed nor cast down by my defeat. The political

canvass served the purpose of giving me a new sensation, and introducing

me to new phases of human nature,--a subject which I had always great

delight in studying. The filth and scandal, the slanders and

vindictiveness, the plottings and fawnings, the fidelity, treachery,

meanness and manliness, which by turns exhibited themselves in the

exciting scenes preceding the election, were novel to me, and were so

far interesting. My personal efforts in the canvass were mainly confined

to the circulation of documents, and I did not spend a dollar to

purchase a vote.

Shortly after my opponent was nominated, I sent him the following

letter, which was also published in the Bridgeport _Standard_:

BRIDGEPORT, CONN., Feb. 21, 1867.

W. H. BARNUM, Esq., Salisbury, Conn.

DEAR SIR: Observing that the democratic party has nominated you for

Congress from this district, I desire to make you a proposition.

The citizens of this portion of our State will be compelled on the

first Monday in April next, to decide whether you or myself shall

represent their interests and their principles in the Fortieth

Congress of the United States.

The theory of our government is, that the will of the people shall

be the law of the land. It is important, therefore, that the people

shall vote understandingly, and especially at this important crisis

in our national existence. In order, that the voters of this

district shall fully comprehend the principles by which each of

their congressional candidates is guided, I respectfully invite you

to meet me in a serious and candid discussion of the important

political issues of the day, at various towns in the Fourth

Congressional District of Connecticut, on each week day evening,

from the fourth day of March until the thirtieth day of the same

month, both inclusive.

If you will consent to thus meet me in a friendly discussion of

those subjects, now so near and dear to every American heart, and,

I may add, possessing at this time such momentous interest to all

civilized nations in the world, who are suffering from misrule, I

pledge myself to conduct my portion of the debate with perfect

fairness, and with all due respect for my opponent, and doubt not

you will do the same.

Never, in my judgment, in our past history as a nation, have

interests and questions more important appealed to the people for

their wise and careful consideration. It is due to the voters of

the Fourth Congressional District that they have an early and full

opportunity to examine their candidates in regard to these

important problems, and I shall esteem it a great privilege if you

will accept this proposition.

Please favor me with an early answer, and oblige,

Truly yours,

P. T. BARNUM.

To this letter Mr. William H. Barnum replied, declining to accept my

proposition to go before the people of the district, and discuss the

political questions of the day.

During the canvass I received the following letter, which, together with

my reply, was published in the Bridgeport _Standard_ and in the New York

_Tribune_:

LITCHFIELD CO., Conn., Feb. 20, 1867.

P. T. BARNUM.--_Dear Sir_: Although Fairfield County was entitled

to the nomination of the copperhead candidate for Congress from the

Fourth District, and under ordinary circumstances it would have

been given to William F. Taylor, of Danbury, you are, perhaps,

aware that they have changed their tactics and nominated a wealthy

namesake of yours, simply for the purpose of using his money

against you. A democratic ex-Congressman is said to be preparing a

tariff of prices to be paid for votes, and they boast that their

candidate will expend $50,000 to secure his election. Already, I am

credibly informed, the greenbacks are being freely circulated by

his friends. I write to ask what your intentions are in regard to

counteracting this effort of the copperhead party. Do you intend to

fight fire with fire? The day of election is fast approaching, and

we are confident of success, as all our friends are wide awake.

Respectfully yours, ---- ----

The New York _Tribune_, commenting upon the correspondence, said:

Mr. P. T. Barnum, Union candidate for Congress in the Fourth

District of Connecticut, was lately solicited by a friend to spend

money in a manner deemed objectionable by Mr. Barnum, and he

responded as became a patriot.

The following was my reply to the above letter:

BRIDGEPORT, Feb. 23, 1867.

---- ESQ.--_Dear Sir_: Your kind letter of the 20th inst. has

caused me painful emotions. I now wish to say, once for all, that

under no conceivable circumstances will I permit a dollar of mine

to be used to purchase a vote, or to induce a voter to act contrary

to his honest convictions.

The idea that the intelligent reading men of New England can be

bought like sheep in the shambles, and that the sacred principles

which have so far guided them in the terrible struggle between

liberty and slavery can now, in this eventful hour of national

existence, be set up at auction and knocked down to the highest

bidder, seems to me as preposterous as it is shameful and

humiliating. But if it is possible that occasionally a degraded

voter can thus be induced to “sell his birthright for a mess of

pottage,” God grant that I may be a thousand times defeated sooner

than permit one grain of gold to be accursed by using it so basely!

I will not believe that American citizens can lend themselves to

the contemptible meanness of sapping the very life-blood of our

noble institutions by encouraging a fatal precedent, which ignores

all principle, and would soon prevent any honest man, however

distinguished for his intelligence and loyalty, from representing

his district in our national councils. None could then succeed

except unprincipled vagabonds, who, by the lavish expenditure of

money, would debauch and degrade the freemen whose votes they

coveted.

No, sir! Grateful as I am for the distinguished honor of receiving

a unanimous nomination for Congress from the loyal Union party in

my district, I have no aspiration for that high position if it is

only to be attained by bringing into disgrace the noble privilege

of the _free elective franchise_. Think for a moment what a deadly

weapon is being placed in the hands of tyrants throughout the

civilized world, with which to destroy such apostles of liberty as

John Bright and Garibaldi, if it can be said with truth that

American citizens have become so corrupt and degraded, so lost to a

just estimate of the value and true nobility of the ballot, that it

is bought and sold for money.

My dear sir, any party that can gain a temporary ascendancy by such

atrocious means, not only poisons the body politic of a free and

impartial government, but is also sure to bring swift destruction

upon itself. And so it should be.

I am unaccustomed to political life, and know but little of the

manner of conducting a campaign like the present. I believe,

however, it is customary for the State Central Committee to assess

candidates, in order that they shall defray a proper portion of the

expenses incurred for speakers and documents to _enlighten_ the

voters upon the political issues of the day. To that extent I am

willing and anxious to be taxed; for “light and knowledge” are

always desired by the friends of human rights and of public order.

But I trust that all money used for any other purpose, in the

pending election will come from the pockets of those who now (as

during the rebellion) are doing their utmost to aid traitors, and

who, still unrepenting, are vindictively striving to secure at the

ballot-box what their Southern allies failed to accomplish on the

field of battle. If any of our friends misapprehend my true

sentiments upon the subject of bribery, corruption and fraud, I

hope you will read them this letter.

Truly yours,

P. T. BARNUM.

P. S.--The following is the law of Connecticut on the bribery of

electors:

SECTION 64. No person shall offer or receive any money, or other

thing, by way of gift, fee or reward, for giving, or refusing to

give, a vote for electing members of the General Assembly, or any

officer chosen at an electors’ meeting, nor promise, procure, or in

any way confer, any gratuity, reward or preferment, for any vote

given or to be given, in any election; and every person guilty of

so doing shall forfeit the sum of $17, one-half to him who shall

prosecute to effect, and the other half to the treasury of the town

where the offence is committed, and every person who shall be

convicted a second time of a like offence shall be disfranchised.

That section commends itself to the obedience of every law-abiding

voter, and I shall be the last to consent to its violation.

P. T. B.

When Congress met, I was surprised to see by the newspapers that the

seat of my opponent was to be contested on account of alleged bribery,

fraud and corruption in securing his election. This was the first

intimation that I had ever received of such an intention, and I was

never, at any time before or afterwards, consulted upon the subject. The

movement proved to have originated with neighbors and townsmen of the

successful candidate, who claimed to be able to prove that he had paid

large sums of money to purchase votes. They also claimed that they had

proof that men were brought from an adjoining State to vote, and that in

the office of the successful candidate naturalization papers were forged

to enable foreigners to vote upon them. But, I repeat, I took no part

nor lot in the matter, but concluded that if I had been defeated by

fraud, mine was the real success.

CHAPTER XLI.

BENNETT AND THE HERALD.

THE AMERICAN MUSEUM LEASE--ITS VALUE--BENNETT OF THE HERALD BUYS IT

FOR $200,000--HE PURCHASES THE PROPERTY--OVERESTIMATE OF ITS

WORTH--MAX MARETZEK--MISS CLARA LOUISE KELLOGG’S ESTIMATE OF

CERTAIN PEOPLE--THE POWER BEHIND THE HERALD THRONE--THE HERALD’S

INFLUENCE--BENNETT KICKED AND COWHIDED--HIS LAWYER INSISTS UPON MY

TAKING BACK THE MUSEUM LEASE--I DECLINE--BENNETT REFUSES MY

ADVERTISEMENTS--INTERVIEW WITH MR. HUDSON--WAR OF THE MANAGERS UPON

THE HERALD--BENNETT HUMBLED--LOSS OF THE HERALD’S

PRESTIGE--MONEY--DAMAGE TO BENNETT’S ESTABLISHMENT--THE EDITOR

SUED--PEACE BETWEEN THE HERALD AND THE MANAGERS.

When the old American Museum burned down, and while the ruins were still

smoking, I had numerous applications for the purchase of the lease of

the two lots, fifty-six by one hundred feet, which had still nearly

eleven years to run. It will be remembered that in 1847 I came back from

England, while my second lease of five years had yet three years more to

run, and renewed that lease for twenty-five years from 1851 at an annual

rental of $10,000. It was also stipulated that in case the building was

destroyed by fire the proprietor of the property should expend

twenty-four thousand dollars towards the erection of a new edifice, and

at the end of the term of lease he was to pay me the appraised value of

the building, not to exceed $100,000. Rents and real estate values had

trebled since I took this twenty-five years’ lease, and hence the

remaining term was very valuable. I engaged an experienced and competent

real estate broker in Pine Street to examine the terms of my lease, and

in view of his knowledge of the cost of erecting buildings and the

rentals they were commanding in Broadway, I enjoined him to take his

time, and make a careful estimate of what the lease was worth to me, and

what price I ought to receive if I sold it to another party. At the end

of several days, he showed me his figures, which proved that the lease

was fully worth $275,000. As I was inclined to have a museum higher up

town, I did not wish to engage in erecting two buildings at once, so I

concluded to offer my museum lease for sale. Accordingly, I put it into

the hands of Mr. Homer Morgan, with directions to offer it for $225,000,

which was $50,000 less than the value at which it had been estimated.

The next day I met Mr. James Gordon Bennett, who told me that he desired

to buy my lease, and at the same time to purchase the fee of the museum

property, for the erection thereon of a publication building for the New

York _Herald_. I said I thought it was very fitting the _Herald_ should

be the successor of the Museum; and Mr. Bennett asked my price.

“Please to go or send immediately to Homer Morgan’s office,” I replied,

“and you will learn that Mr. Morgan has the lease for sale at $225,000.

This is $50,000 less than its estimated value; but to you I will deduct

$25,000 from my already reduced price, so you may have the lease for

$200,000.”

Bennett replied that he would look into the affair closely; and the next

day his attorney sent for my lease. He kept it several days, and then

appointed an hour for me to come to his office. I called according to

appointment. Mr. Bennett and his attorney had thoroughly examined the

lease. It was the property of my wife. Bennett concluded to accept my

offer. My wife assigned the lease to him, and his attorney handed me Mr.

Bennett’s check on the Chemical Bank for $200,000. That same day I

invested $50,000 in United States bonds; and the remaining $150,000 was

similarly invested on the following day. I learned at that time that

Bennett had agreed to purchase the fee of the property for $500,000. He

had been informed that the property was worth some $350,000 to $400,000,

and he did not mind paying $100,000 extra for the purpose of carrying

out his plans. But the parties who estimated for him the value of the

land knew nothing of the fact that there was a lease upon the property,

else of course they would in their estimate have deducted the $200,000

which the lease would cost. When, therefore, Mr. Bennett saw it stated

in the newspapers that the sum which he had paid for a piece of land

measuring only fifty-six by one hundred feet was more than was ever

before paid in any city in the world for a tract of that size, he

discovered the serious oversight which he had made; and the owner of the

property was immediately informed that Bennett would not take it. But

Bennett had already signed a bond to the owner, agreeing to pay $100,000

cash, and to mortgage the premises for the remaining $400,000.

Supposing that by this step he had shaken off the owner of the fee,

Bennett was not long in seeing that, as he was not to own the land, he

would have no possible use for the lease, for which he had paid the

$200,000; and accordingly his next step was to shake me off also, and

get back the money he had paid me.

At this time Bennett was ruling the managers of the theatres and other

amusements with a rod of iron. He had established a large job printing

office in connection with the _Herald_ office; and woe to the manager

who presumed to have his bills printed elsewhere. Any manager who dared

to decline employing Bennett’s job office to print his small bills and

posters, at Bennett’s exorbitant prices, was ignored in the _Herald_;

his advertisements were refused, and generally, he and his establishment

were black-balled and blackguarded in the columns of the _Herald_. Of

course most of the managers were somewhat sensitive to such attacks, and

therefore submitted to his impositions in the job office, his double

price for newspaper advertisements, and any other overbearing conditions

the _Herald_ might choose to dictate. The advertisements of the Academy

of Music, then under the direction of Mr. Max Maretzek, had been refused

on account of some dissatisfaction in the _Herald_ office in regard to

free boxes, and also because the prima donna, Miss Clara Louise Kellogg,

had certain ideas of her own with regard to social intercourse with

certain people, as Miss Jenny Lind had with regard to the same people,

when she was under my management, and to some degree under my advice,

and these ideas were not particularly relished by the power behind the

_Herald_ throne.

For my own part, I thoroughly understood Bennett and his concern, and I

never cared one farthing for him or his paper. I had seen for years,

especially as Bennett’s enormously overestimated “influence” applied to

public amusements, that whatever the _Herald_ praised, sickened,

drooped, and if the _Herald_ persisted in praising it, finally died;

while whatever the _Herald_ attacked prospered, and all the more, the

more it was abused. It was utterly impossible for Bennett to injure me,

unless he had some more potent weapon than his _Herald_. And that this

was the general opinion was quite evident from the fact that several

years had elapsed since gentlemen were in the almost daily habit of

cuffing, kicking and cowhiding Bennett in the streets and other public

places for his scurrilous attacks upon them, or upon members of their

families. It had come to be seen that what the _Herald_ said, good or

bad, was, like the editor himself, literally of “no account.”

My business for many years, as manager of the Museum and other public

entertainments, compelled me to court notoriety; and I always found

Bennett’s abuse far more remunerative than his praise, even if I could

have had the praise at the same price, that is, for nothing. Especially

was it profitable to me when I could be the subject of scores of lines

of his scolding editorials free of charge, instead of paying him forty

cents a line for advertisements, which would not attract a tenth part so

much attention. Bennett had tried abusing me, off and on, for twenty

years, on one occasion refusing my advertisement altogether for the

space of about a year; but I always managed to be the gainer by his

course. Now, however, when new difficulties threatened, all the leading

managers in New York were members of the “Managers’ Association,” and as

we all submitted to the arbitrary and extortionate demands of the

_Herald_, Bennett thought he had but to crack his whip, in order to keep

any and all of us within the traces. The great Ogre of the _Herald_

supposed he could at all times frighten the little managerial boys into

any holes which might be left open for them to hide in. Accordingly, one

day Bennett’s attorney wrote me a letter, saying that he would like to

have me call on him at his office the following morning. Not dreaming of

the object I called as desired, and after a few pleasant commonplace

remarks about the weather, and other trifles, the attorney said:

“Mr. Barnum, I have sent for you to say that Mr. Bennett has concluded

not to purchase the museum lots, and therefore that you had better take

back the lease, and return the $200,000 paid for it.”

“Are you in earnest?” I asked with surprise.

“Certainly, quite so,” he answered.

“Really,” I said, smiling, “I am sorry I can’t accommodate Mr. Bennett;

I have not got the little sum about me; in fact, I have spent the

money.”

“It will be better for you to take back the lease,” said the attorney

seriously.

“Nonsense,” I replied, “I shall do nothing of the sort, I don’t make

child’s bargains. The lease was cheap enough, but I have other business

to attend to, and shall have nothing to do with it.”

The attorney said very little in reply; but I could see, by the almost

benignant sorrow expressed upon his countenance, that he evidently

pitied me for the temerity that would doubtless lead me into the jaws of

the insatiable monster of the _Herald_. The next morning I observed that

the advertisement of my entertainments with my Museum Company at Winter

Garden was left out of the _Herald_ columns. I went directly to the

editorial rooms of the _Herald_; and learning that Bennett was not in, I

said to Mr. Hudson, then managing editor:

“My advertisement is left out of the _Herald_; is there a screw loose?”

“I believe there is,” was the reply.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“You must ask the Emperor,” said Mr. Hudson, meaning of course Bennett.

“When will the ‘Emperor’ be in?” I inquired; “next Monday,” was the

answer.

“Well, I shall not see him,” I replied; “but I wish to have this thing

settled at once. Mr. Hudson, I now tender you the money for the

insertion of my Museum advertisement on the same terms as are paid by

other places of amusement, will you publish it?”

“I will not,” Mr. Hudson peremptorily replied.

“That is all,” I said. Mr. Hudson then smilingly and blandly remarked,

“I have formally answered your formal demand, because I suppose you

require it; but you know, Mr. Barnum, I can only obey orders.” I assured

him that I understood the matter perfectly, and attached no blame to him

in the premises. I then proceeded to notify the Secretary of the

“Managers’ Association” to call the managers together at twelve o’clock

the following day; and there was a full meeting at the appointed time. I

stated the facts in the case in the _Herald_ affair, and simply

remarked, that if we did not make common cause against any newspaper

publisher who excluded an advertisement from his columns simply to

gratify a private pique, it was evident that either and all of us were

liable to imposition at any time.

One of the managers immediately made a motion that the entire

association should stop their advertising and bill printing at the

_Herald_ office, and have no further connection with that establishment.

Mr. Lester Wallack advised that this motion should not be adopted until

a committee had waited upon Bennett, and had reported the result of the

interview to the Association. Accordingly, Messrs. Wallack, Wheatley and

Stuart were delegated to go down to the _Herald_ office to call on Mr.

Bennett.

The moment Bennett saw them, he evidently suspected the object of their

mission, for he at once commenced to speak to Mr. Wallack in a

patronizing manner; told him how long he had known, and how much he

respected his late father, who was “a true English gentleman of the old

school,” with much more in the same strain. Mr. Wallack replied to

Bennett that the three managers were appointed a committee to wait upon

him to ascertain if he insisted upon excluding from his columns the

Museum advertisements,--not on account of any objection to the contents

of the advertisements, or to the Museum itself, but simply because he

had a private business disagreement with the proprietor?--intimating

that such a proceeding, for such a reason, and no other, might lead to a

rupture of business relations with other managers. In reply, Mr. Bennett

had something to say about the fox that had suffered tailwise from a

trap, and thereupon advised all other foxes to cut their tails off; and

he pointed the fable by setting forth the impolicy of drawing down upon

the Association the vengeance of the _Herald_. The committee, however,

coolly insisted upon a direct answer to their question.

Bennett then answered: “I will not publish Barnum’s advertisement; I do

my business as I please, and in my own way.”

“So do we,” replied one of the managers, and the committee withdrew.

The next day the Managers’ Association met, heard the report, and

unanimously resolved to withdraw their advertisements from the _Herald_,

and their patronage from the _Herald_ job establishment, and it was

done. Nevertheless, the _Herald_ for several days continued to print

gratuitously the advertisements of Wallack’s Theatre and Niblo’s

Garden, and inordinately puffed these establishments, evidently in order

to ease the fall, and to convey the idea that some of the theatres

patronized the _Herald_, and perhaps hoping by praising these managers

to draw them back again, and so to nullify the agreement of the

Association in regard to the _Herald_. Thereupon, the managers headed

their advertisements in all the other New York papers with the line,

“This Establishment does not advertise in the New York _Herald_,” and

for many months this announcement was kept at the top of every

theatrical advertisement and on the posters and playbills.

The _Herald_ then began to abuse and vilify the theatrical and opera

managers, their artists and their performances, and by way of contrast

profusely praised Tony Pastor’s Bowery show, and Sundry entertainments

of a similar character, thereby speedily bringing some of these

side-shows to grief and shutting up their shops. Meanwhile, the

first-class theatres prospered amazingly under the abuse of Bennett.

Their receipts were never larger, and their houses, never more thronged.

The public took sides in the matter with the managers and against the

_Herald_, and thousands of people went to the theatres merely to show

their willingness to support the managers and to spite “Old Bennett.”

The editor was fairly caught in his own trap; other journals began to

estimate the loss the _Herald_ sustained by the action of the managers,

and it was generally believed that this loss in advertising and job

printing was not less than from $75,000 to $100,000 a year. The

_Herald’s_ circulation also suffered terribly, since hundreds of people,

at the hotels and elsewhere, who were accustomed to buy the paper solely

for the sake of seeing what amusements were announced for the evening,

now bought other papers. This was the hardest blow of all, and it fully

accounted for the abuse which the _Herald_ daily poured out upon the

theatres.

But the more Bennett raved the more the people laughed, and the more

determined did they seem to patronize the managers. Many people came to

the Museum, who said they came expressly to show us that the public were

with us and against the _Herald_. The other managers stated their

experience to be the same in this respect. In fact, it was a subject of

general remark, that, without exception, the associated managers never

had done such a thriving business as during the two years in which they

gave the _Herald_ the cold shoulder.

Bennett evidently felt ashamed of the whole transaction; he would never

publish the facts in his columns, though he once stated in an editorial

that it had been reported that he had been cheated in purchasing the

Broadway property; that the case had gone to court, and the public would

soon know all the particulars. Some persons supposed by this that

Bennett had sued me; but this was far from being the case. The owner of

the lots sued Bennett, to compel him to take the title and pay for the

property as per agreement; and that was all the “law” there was about

it. He held James Gordon Bennett’s bond, that he would pay him half a

million of dollars for the land, as follows: $100,000 cash, and a bond

and mortgage upon the premises for the remaining $400,000. The day

before the suit was to come to trial, Bennett came forward, took the

deed, and paid $100,000 cash and gave a bond and mortgage of the entire

premises for $400,000. That lien still exists against the _Herald_

property.

Had I really taken back the lease as Bennett desired, he would have been

in a worse scrape than ever; for having been compelled to take the

property, he would have been obliged, as my landlord, to go on and

assist in building a Museum for me according to the terms of my lease,

and a Museum I should certainly have built on Bennett’s property, even

if I had owned a dozen Museums up town. As it was, Bennett was badly

beaten on every side, and especially by the managers, who forever

established the fact that the _Herald’s_ abuse was profitable, and its

patronage fatal to any enterprise; and who taught Mr. Bennett personally

the lesson of his own insignificance, as he had not learned it since the

days when gentlemen used to kick and cowhide him up and down the whole

length of Nassau Street. In the autumn of 1868, the associated managers

came to the conclusion that the punishment of Bennett for two years was

sufficient, and they consented to restore their advertisements to the

_Herald_. I was then associated with the Van Amburgh Company in my new

Museum, and we concluded that the cost of advertising in the _Herald_

was more than it was worth, and so we did not enter into the new

arrangement made by the Managers’ Association.

CHAPTER XLII.

PUBLIC LECTURING.

MY TOUR AT THE WEST--THE CURIOSITY EXHIBITOR HIMSELF A

CURIOSITY--BUYING A FARM IN WISCONSIN--HELPING THOSE WHO HELP

THEMSELVES--A RIDE ON A LOCOMOTIVE--PUNCTUALITY IN MY

ENGAGEMENTS--TRICKS TO SECURE SEATS IN THE LADIES’ CAR--I SUDDENLY

BECAME FATHER TO A YOUNG MARRIED COUPLE--MY IDENTITY DENIED--PITY

AND CHARITY--REVEREND DOCTOR CHAPIN PULLS THE BELL--TEMPERANCE--HOW

I BECAME A TEETOTALER--MODERATE DRINKING AND ITS DANGERS--DOCTOR

CHAPIN’S LECTURE IN BRIDGEPORT--MY OWN EFFORTS IN THE TEMPERANCE

CAUSE--LECTURING THROUGHOUT THE COUNTRY--NEWSPAPER ARTICLES--THE

STORY OF VINELAND, IN NEW JERSEY.

During the summer of 1866, Mr. Edwin L. Brown, Corresponding Secretary

of the “Associated Western Literary Societies,” opened a correspondence

with me relative to delivering, in the ensuing season, my lecture on

“Success in Life,” before some sixty lyceums, Young Men’s Christian

Associations, and Literary Societies belonging to the union which Mr.

Brown represented. The scheme embraced an extended tour through

Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Missouri and Iowa, and

I was to receive one hundred dollars for every repetition of my lecture,

with all my travelling expenses on the route. Agreeing to these terms, I

commenced the engagement at the appointed time, and, averaging five

lectures a week, I finished the prescribed round just before New Year’s.

Before beginning this engagement, however, I gave the lecture for other

associations at Wheeling, Virginia, Cincinnati, Ohio, and Louisville,

Kentucky. I also delivered the lecture in Chicago, for Professor

Eastman, who at that time had one of his Business Colleges in that city.

He engaged the celebrated Crosby Opera House for the occasion, and I

think, with, perhaps, two exceptions, I never spoke before so large and

intelligent an audience as was there assembled. It was estimated that

from five to six thousand ladies and gentlemen were gathered in that

capacious building; and nearly as many more went away unable to obtain

admission. I was glad to observe by the action of the audience, and by

the journals of the following day, that my efforts on that occasion were

satisfactory. Indeed, though it is necessarily egotistical, I may truly

say that with this lecture I always succeeded in pleasing my hearers. I

may add, that I have invariably, as a rule, devoted to charitable

purposes every penny I ever received for lecturing, except while I was

under the great Jerome Clock cloud in England, when I needed all I could

earn.

My western tour was delightful; indeed it was almost an ovation. I

found, in fact, that when I had strayed so far from home, the curiosity

exhibitor himself became quite a curiosity. On several occasions, in

Iowa, I was introduced to ladies and gentlemen who had driven thirty

miles in carriages to hear me. I insisted, however, that it was more to

see than to hear; and I asked them if that was not really the case. In

several instances they answered in the affirmative. In fact, one quaint

old lady said: “Why, to tell you the truth, Mr. Barnum, we have read so

much about you, and your Museum and your queer carryings-on, that we

were not quite sure but you had horns and cloven feet, and so we came to

satisfy our curiosity; but, la, me! I don’t see but what you look a good

deal like other folks, after all.”

While at the West, I visited my sister, Mrs. Minerva Drew, and her

family, at Bristol, Wisconsin, where they reside on a farm which I

presented to her about twenty years ago. Her children having grown up

and married, all except her son, Fairchild B. Drew, who had just

attained his majority, his father (Ezekiel Drew) wished to retain his

services on the farm. Fairchild, however, felt that the farm was not

quite large enough for his aspirations. I found also that he coveted a

neighboring farm, which, with its stock, was for sale for less than five

thousand dollars. I bought it for him, on condition that he should

continue the care of the old farm, and that the two should be worked

together. I trust that the arrangement will prove beneficial to all

concerned; for there is great pleasure in helping others who try to help

themselves; without such effort on their part, all good offices in their

favor are thrown away,--it is simply attempting to make a sieve hold

water.

On my tour, in attempting to make the connection from Cleveland, Ohio,

to Fort Wayne, Indiana, via Toledo, I arrived at the latter city at one

o’clock, P.M., which was about two hours too late to catch the train in

time for the hour announced for my lecture that evening. I went to Mr.

Andrews, the superintendent of the Toledo, Wabash and Western Railway,

and told him I wanted to hire a locomotive and car to run to Fort Wayne,

as I must be there at eight o’clock at night.

“It is an impossibility,” said Mr. Andrews; “the distance is ninety-four

miles, and no train leaves here till morning. The road is much occupied

by freight trains, and we never run extra trains in this part of the

country, unless the necessity is imperative.”

I suppose I looked astonished, as well as chagrined. I knew that if I

missed lecturing in Fort Wayne that evening, I could not appoint another

time for that purpose, for every night was engaged during the next two

months. I also felt that a large number of persons in Fort Wayne would

be disappointed, and I grew desperate. Drawing my wallet from my pocket,

I said:

“I will give two hundred dollars, and even more, if you say so, to be

put into Fort Wayne before eight o’clock to-night; and, really, I hope

you will accommodate me.”

The superintendent looked me thoroughly over in half a minute, and I

fancied he had come to the conclusion that I was a burglar, a

counterfeiter, or something worse, fleeing from justice. My surmise was

confirmed, when he slowly remarked:

“Your business must be very pressing, sir.”

“It is indeed,” I replied; “I am Barnum, the museum man, and am engaged

to speak in Fort Wayne to-night.”

He evidently did not catch the whole of my response, for he immediately

said:

“Oh, it is a show, eh? Where is old Barnum himself?”

“I am Barnum,” I replied, “and it is a lecture which I am advertised to

give to-night; and I would not disappoint the people for anything.”

“Is this P. T. Barnum?” said the superintendent, starting to his feet.

“I am sorry to say it is,” I replied.

“Well, Mr. Barnum,” said he, earnestly, “if you can stand it to ride to

Fort Wayne in the caboose of a freight train, your well-established

reputation for punctuality in keeping your engagements shall not suffer

on account of the Toledo, Wabash and Western Railroad.”

“Caboose!” said I, with a laugh, “I would ride to Fort Wayne astride of

the engine, or boxed up and stowed away in a freight car, if necessary,

in order to meet my engagement.”

A freight train was on the point of starting for Fort Wayne; all the

cars were at once ordered to be switched off, except two, which the

superintendent said were necessary to balance the train; the freight

trains on the road were telegraphed to clear the track, and the polite

superintendent pointing to the caboose, invited me to step in. I drew

out my pocket-book to pay, but he smilingly shook his head, and said:

“You have a through ticket from Cleveland to Fort Wayne; hand it to the

freight agent on your arrival, and all will be right.” I was much moved

by this unexpected mark of kindness, and expressing myself to that

effect, I stepped into the caboose, and we started.

The excited state of mind which I had suffered while under the

impression that the audience in Fort Wayne must be disappointed now

changed, and I felt as happy as a king. In fact, I enjoyed a new

sensation of imperial superiority, in that I was “monarch of all I

surveyed,” emperor of my own train, switching all other trains from the

main track, and making conductors all along the line wonder what grand

mogul had thus taken complete possession and control of the road.

Indeed, as we sped past each train, which stood quietly on a side track

waiting for us to pass, I could not help smiling at the glances of

excited curiosity which were thrown into our car by the agent and

brakemen of the train which had been so peremptorily ordered to clear

[Illustration: _THE GREAT UNKNOWN._]

the track; and always stepping at the caboose door, I raised my hat,

receiving in return an almost reverent salute, which the occupants of

the waiting train thought due, no doubt, to the distinguished person for

whom they were ordered by special telegram to make way.

I now began to reflect that the Fort Wayne lecture committee, upon

discovering that I did not arrive by the regular passenger train, would

not expect me at all, and that probably they might issue small bills

announcing my failure to arrive. I therefore prepared the following

telegram which I despatched to them on our arrival at Napoleon, the

first station at which we stopped:

Lecture Committee, Fort Wayne:--Rest perfectly tranquil. I am to be

delivered at Fort Wayne by contract by half-past seven

o’clock--special train.

At the same station I received a telegram from Mr. Andrews, the

superintendent, asking me how I liked the caboose. I replied:

The springs of the caboose are softer than down; I am as happy as a

clam at high water; I am being carried towards Fort Wayne in a

style never surpassed by Cæsar’s triumphal march into Rome. Hurrah

for the Toledo and Wabash Railroad!

At the invitation of the engineer, I took a ride of twenty miles upon

the locomotive. It fairly made my head swim. I could not reconcile my

mind to the idea that there was no danger; and intimating to the

engineer that it would be a relief to get where I could not see ahead, I

was permitted to crawl back again to the caboose.

I reached Fort Wayne in ample time for the lecture; and as the committee

had discreetly kept to themselves the fact of my non-arrival by the

regular train, probably not a dozen persons were aware of the trouble I

had taken to fulfil my engagement, till in the course of my lecture,

under the head of “perseverance,” I recounted my day’s adventures, as an

illustration of exercising that quality when real necessity demanded.

The Fort Wayne papers of the next day published accounts of “Barnum on a

Locomotive,” and “A Journey in a Caboose”; and as I always had an eye to

advertising, these articles were sent marked to newspapers in towns and

cities where I was to lecture, and of course were copied,--thus

producing the desired effects, first, of informing the public that the

“showman” was coming, and next, assuring the lecture committee that

Barnum would be punctually on hand as advertised, unless prevented by

“circumstances over which he had no control.”

The managers of railroads running west from Chicago pretty rigidly

enforce a rule excluding from certain reserved cars all gentlemen

travelling without ladies. As I do not smoke, I avoided the smoking

cars; and as the ladies’ car was sometimes more select and always more

comfortable than the other cars, I tried various expedients to smuggle

myself in. If I saw a lady about to enter the car alone, I followed

closely, hoping thus to elude the vigilance of the brakeman, who

generally acted as door-keeper. But the car Cerberus is pretty well up

to all such dodges, and I did not always succeed. On one occasion,

seeing a young couple, evidently just married, and starting on a bridal

tour, about to enter the car, I followed closely, but was stopped by the

door-keeper, who called out:

“How many gentlemen are with this lady.”

I have always noticed that young newly-married people are very fond of

saying “my husband” and “my wife;” they are new terms which sound

pleasantly to the ears of those who utter them; so in answer to the

peremptory inquiry of the door-keeper, the bridegroom promptly

responded:

“I am this lady’s husband.”

“And I guess you can see by the resemblance between the lady and

myself,” said I to Cerberus, “that I am her father.”

The astounded husband and the blushing bride were too much “taken aback”

to deny their newly-discovered parent, but the brakeman said, as he

permitted the young couple to pass into the car:

“We can’t pass all creation with one lady.”

“I hope you will not deprive me of the company of my child during the

little time we can remain together,” I said with a demure countenance.

The brakeman evidently sympathized with the fond “parient” whose

feelings were sufficiently lacerated at losing his daughter through her

finding a husband, and I was permitted to pass. I immediately apologized

to the young bride and her husband, and told them who I was, and my

reasons for the assumed paternity, and they enjoyed the joke so heartily

that they called me “father” during our entire journey together. Indeed,

the husband privately and slyly hinted to me that the first boy should

be christened “P. T.” My friend the Rev. Dr. Chapin, by the by an

inveterate punster, is never tired of ringing the changes on the names

in my family; he says that my wife and I are the most sympathetic couple

he ever saw, since she is “Charity” and I am “Pity” (P. T.) On one

occasion, at my house in New York, he called my attention to the

monogram, P. T. B., on the door and said, “I did it,” “Did what,” I

asked: “Why that,” replied the doctor, “P. T. B.,--Pull The Bell, of

course,” thus literally ringing a new change on my initials.

At another time during my western lecturing trip, I was following

closely in the wake of a lady who was entering the favorite car, when

the brakeman exclaimed; “You can’t go in there, sir!”

“I rather guess I can go in with a lady,” said I, pointing to the one

who had just entered.

“Not with that lady, old fellow; for I happen to know her, and that is

more than you do; we are up to all these travellers’ tricks out here;

it’s no go.”

I saw indeed that it was “no go,” and that I must try something else;

“Look here, my dear fellow,” said I; “I am travelling every day on the

railroads, on a lecturing tour throughout the West, and I really hope

you will permit me to take a seat in the ladies’ car. I am Barnum, the

Museum man from New York.”

Looking sharply at me for an instant, the altogether too wide-awake

brakeman exclaimed: “Not by a d--n sight you ain’t! I know Barnum!”

I could not help laughing; and pulling several old letters from my

pocket, and showing him the directions on the envelopes, I replied:

“Well, you may know him, but the ‘old fellow’ has changed in his

appearance, perhaps. You see by these letters that I am the ‘crittur.’”

The brakeman looked astonished, but finally said: “Well, that is a fact

sure enough. I know you when I come to look again, but really I did not

believe you at first. You see we have all sorts of tricks played on us,

and we learn to doubt everybody. You are very welcome to go in, Mr.

Barnum, and I am glad to see you,” and as this conversation was heard

throughout the car, “Barnum, the showman,” was the subject of general

observation and remark.

I fulfilled my entire engagement, which covered the lecturing season,

and returned to New York greatly pleased with my Western tour. Public

lecturing was by no means a new experience with me; for, apart from my

labors in that direction in England, and occasional addresses before

literary and agricultural associations at home, I had been prominently

in the field for many years as a lecturer on temperance. My attention

was turned to this subject in the following manner:

In the fall of 1847, while exhibiting General Tom Thumb at Saratoga

Springs, where the New York State Fair was then being held, I saw so

much intoxication among men of wealth and intellect, filling the highest

positions in society, that I began to ask myself the question, What

guarantee is there that _I_ may not become a drunkard? and I forthwith

pledged myself at that time never again to partake of any kind of

spirituous liquors as a beverage. True, I continued to partake of wine,

for I had been instructed, in my European tour, that this was one of the

innocent and charming indispensables of life. I however regarded myself

as a good temperance man, and soon began to persuade my friends to

refrain from the intoxicating cup. Seeing need of reform in Bridgeport,

I invited my friend, the Reverend Doctor E. H. Chapin, to visit us, for

the purpose of giving a public temperance lecture. I had never heard him

on that subject, but I knew that on whatever topic he spoke, he was as

logical as he was eloquent.

He lectured in the Baptist Church in Bridgeport. His subject was

presented in three divisions: The liquor-seller, the moderate drinker,

and the indifferent man. It happened, therefore, that the second, if not

the third clause of the subject, had a special bearing upon me and my

position. The eloquent gentleman overwhelmingly proved that the

so-called respectable liquor-seller, in his splendid saloon or hotel

bar, and who sold only to “gentlemen,” inflicted much greater injury

upon the community than a dozen common groggeries--which he abundantly

illustrated. He then took up the “moderate drinker,” and urged that he

was the great stumbling-block to the temperance reform. He it was, and

not the drunkard in the ditch, that the young man looked at as an

example when he took his first glass. That when the drunkard was asked

to sign the pledge, he would reply, “Why should I do so? What harm can

there be in drinking, when such men as respectable Mr. A, and moral Mr.

B drink wine under their own roof?” He urged that the higher a man stood

in the community, the greater was his influence either for good or for

evil. He said to the moderate drinker: “Sir, you either do or you do not

consider it a privation and a sacrifice to give up drinking. Which is

it? If you say that you can drink or let it alone, that you can quit it

forever without considering it a self-denial, then I appeal to you as a

man, to do it for the sake of your suffering fellow-beings.” He further

argued that if it was a self-denial to give up wine-drinking, then

certainly the man should stop, for he was in danger of becoming a

drunkard.

What Doctor Chapin said produced a deep impression upon my mind, and

after a night of anxious thought, I rose in the morning, took my

champagne bottles, knocked off their heads, and poured their contents

upon the ground. I then called upon Doctor Chapin, asked him for the

teetotal pledge, and signed it. He was greatly surprised in discovering

that I was not already a teetotaler. He supposed such was the case, from

the fact that I had invited him to lecture, and he little thought, at

the time of his delivering it, that his argument to the moderate drinker

was at all applicable to me. I felt that I had now a duty to

perform,--to save others, as I had been saved, and on the very morning

when I signed the pledge, I obtained over twenty signatures in

Bridgeport. I talked temperance to all whom I met, and very soon

commenced lecturing upon the subject in the adjacent towns and villages.

I spent the entire winter and spring of 1851-2 in lecturing through my

native State, always travelling at my own expense, and I was glad to

know that I aroused many hundreds, perhaps thousands, to the importance

of the temperance reform. I also lectured frequently in the cities of

New York and Philadelphia, as well as in other towns in the neighboring

States.

While in Boston with Jenny Lind, I was earnestly solicited to deliver

two temperance lectures in the Tremont Temple, where she gave her

concerts. I did so; and though an admission fee was charged for the

benefit of a benevolent society, the building on each occasion was

crowded. In the course of my tour with Jenny Lind, I was frequently

solicited to lecture on temperance on evenings when she did not sing. I

always complied when it was in my power. In this way I lectured in

Baltimore, Washington, Charleston, New Orleans, Cincinnati, St. Louis,

and other cities, also in the ladies’ saloon of the steamer Lexington,

on Sunday morning. In August, 1853, I lectured in Cleveland, Ohio, and

several other towns, and afterwards in Chicago, Illinois, and in

Kenosha, Wisconsin. An election was to be held in Wisconsin in October,

and the friends of prohibition in that State solicited my services for

the ensuing month, and I could not refuse them. I therefore hastened

home to transact some business which required my presence for a few

days, and then returned, and lectured on my way in Toledo, Norwalk,

Ohio, and Chicago, Illinois. I made the tour of the State of Wisconsin,

delivering two lectures per day for four consecutive weeks, to crowded

and attentive audiences.

My lecture in New Orleans, when I was in that city, was in the great

Lyceum Hall, in St. Charles Street, and I lectured by the invitation of

Mayor Crossman and several other influential gentlemen. The immense hall

contained more than three thousand auditors, including the most

respectable portion of the New Orleans public. I was in capital humor,

and had warmed myself into a pleasant state of excitement, feeling that

the audience was with me. While in the midst of an argument illustrating

the poisonous and destructive nature of alcohol to the animal economy,

some opponent called out, “How does it affect us, externally or

internally?”

“_E_-ternally,” I replied.

I have scarcely ever heard more tremendous merriment than that which

followed this reply, and the applause was so prolonged that it was some

minutes before I could proceed.

On the first evening when I lectured in Cleveland, Ohio, (it was in the

Baptist Church,) I commenced in this wise: “If there are any ladies or

gentlemen present who have never suffered in consequence of the use of

intoxicating drinks as a beverage, either directly, or in the person of

a dear relative or friend, I will thank them to rise.” A man with a

tolerably glowing countenance arose. “Had you never a friend who was

intemperate?” I asked.

“Never!” was the positive reply.

A giggle ran through the opposition portion of the audience. “Really, my

friends,” I said, “I feel constrained to make a proposition which I did

not anticipate. I am, as you are all aware, a showman, and I am always

on the lookout for curiosities. This gentleman is a stranger to me, but

if he will satisfy me to-morrow morning that he is a man of credibility,

and that no friend of his was ever intemperate, I will be glad to engage

him for ten weeks at $200 per week, to exhibit him in my American Museum

in New York, as the greatest curiosity in this country.”

A laugh that was a laugh followed this announcement.

“They may laugh, but it is a fact,” persisted my opponent with a look of

dogged tenacity.

“The gentleman still insists that it is a fact,” I replied. “I would

like, therefore, to make one simple qualification to my offer, I made it

on the supposition that, at some period of his life, he had friends. Now

if he never had any friends, I withdraw my offer; otherwise, I will

stick to it.”

This, and the shout of laughter that ensued, was too much for the

gentleman, and he sat down. I noticed throughout my speech that he paid

strict attention, and frequently indulged in a hearty laugh. At the

close of the lecture he approached me, and extending his hand, which I

readily accepted, he said, “I was particularly green in rising to-night.

Having once stood up, I was determined not to be put down, but your last

remark fixed me!” He then complimented me very highly on the

reasonableness of my arguments, and declared that ever afterwards he

would be found on the side of temperance.

Among the most gratifying incidents of my life have been several of a

similar nature to the following: After a temperance speech in

Philadelphia, a man about thirty years of age came forward, signed the

teetotal pledge, and then, giving me his hand, he said, “Mr. Barnum, you

have this night saved me from ruin. For the last two years I have been

in the habit of tippling, and it has kept me continually under the

harrow. This gentleman (pointing to a person at his side) is my partner

in business, and I know he is glad I have signed the pledge to-night.”

“Yes, indeed I am, George, and it is the best thing you ever did,”

replied his partner, “if you’ll only stick to it.”

“That will I do till the day of my death; and won’t my dear little wife

Mary cry for joy to-night, when I tell her what I have done!” he

exclaimed in great exultation. At that moment he was a happy man, but he

could not have been more so than I was.

Sir William Don--who came to this country and acted in several theatres,

afterwards going to Australia, and dying, I believe, soon after his

return to England--once heard me lecture, and immediately afterwards

came forward and signed the pledge. He kept it for a short period only,

although when he signed, he said that strong drink was the bane of his

life. It is the one bane of too many brilliant men, who but for this one

misfortune might attain almost every desirable success in life.

I may add, that I have lectured in Montreal, Canada, and many towns and

cities in the United States, at my own expense. One of the greatest

consolations I now enjoy is that of believing I have carried happiness

to the bosom of many a family. In the course of my life I have written

much for newspapers, on various subjects, and always with earnestness,

but in none of these have I felt so deep an interest as in that of the

temperance reform. Were it not for this fact, I should be reluctant to

mention, that besides numerous articles for the daily and weekly press,

I wrote a little tract on “The Liquor Business,” which expresses my

practical view of the use and traffic in intoxicating drinks. In every

one of my temperance lectures since the beginning of the year 1869, I

have regularly read the following report, made by Mr. T. T. Cortis,

Overseer of the Poor in Vineland, New Jersey:

Though we have a population of 10,000 people, for the period of six

months no settler or citizen of Vineland has required relief at my

hands as Overseer of the Poor. Within seventy days, there has only

been one case among what we call the floating population, at the

expense of $4.00. During the entire year, there has only been but

one indictment, and that a trifling case of assault and battery,

among our colored population. So few are the fires in Vineland,

that we have no need of a fire department. There has only been one

house burnt down in a year, and two slight fires, which were soon

put out. We practically have no debt, and our taxes are only one

per cent on the valuation. The police expenses of Vineland amount

to $75.00 per year, the sum paid to me; and our poor expenses a

mere trifle. I ascribe this remarkable state of things, so nearly

approaching the golden age, to the industry of our people, and the

absence of King Alcohol. Let me give you, in contrast to this, the

state of things in the town from which I came, in New England. The

population of the town was 9,500--a little less than that of

Vineland. It maintained forty liquor shops. These kept busy a

police judge, city marshal, assistant marshal, four night watchmen,

six policemen. Fires were almost continual. That small place

maintained a paid fire department, of four companies, of forty men

each, at an expense of $3,000.00 per annum. I belonged to this

department for six years, and the fires averaged about one every

two weeks, and mostly incendiary. The support of the poor cost

$2,500.00 per annum. The debt of the township was $120,000.00. The

condition of things in this New England town is as favorable in

that country as that of many other places where liquor is sold.

It seems to me that there is an amount of overwhelming testimony and

unanswerable argument in this one brief extract, that makes it in itself

one of the most perfect and powerful temperance lectures ever written.

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE NEW MUSEUM.

A GIGANTIC AMUSEMENT COMPANY--IMMENSE ADDITIONS TO THE NEW

COLLECTION--CURIOSITIES FROM EVERYWHERE--THE GORDON CUMMINGS

COLLECTION FROM AFRICA--THE GORILLA--WHAT THE PAPERS SAID ABOUT THE

MONSTER--MY PRIVATE VIEW OF THE ANIMAL--AMUSING INTERVIEW WITH PAUL

DU CHAILLU--A SUPERB MENAGERIE--THE NEW THEATRE--PROJECT FOR A FREE

NATIONAL INSTITUTION--MESSRS. E. D. MORGAN, WILLIAM C. BRYANT,

HORACE GREELEY AND OTHERS FAVOR MY PLAN--PRESIDENT JOHNSON INDORSES

IT--DESTRUCTION OF MY SECOND MUSEUM BY FIRE--THE ICE-CLAD RUINS--A

SAD, YET SPLENDID SPECTACLE--OUT OF THE BUSINESS--FOOT RACES AT THE

WHITE MOUNTAINS--HOW I WAS NOT BEATEN--OPENING OF WOOD’S MUSEUM IN

NEW YORK--MY ONLY INTEREST IN THE ENTERPRISE.

My new Museum on Broadway was liberally patronized from the start, but I

felt that still more attractions were necessary in order to insure

constant success. I therefore made arrangements with the renowned Van

Amburgh Menagerie Company to unite their entire collection of living

wild animals with the Museum. The new company was known as the “Barnum

and Van Amburgh Museum and Menagerie Company,” and as such was chartered

by the Connecticut Legislature, the New York Legislature having refused

us a charter unless I would “see” the “ring” a thousand dollars’ worth,

which I declined. I owned forty per cent and the Van Amburgh Company

held the remaining sixty per cent in the new enterprise, which

comprehended a large travelling menagerie through the country in summer,

and the placing of the wild animals in the Museum in winter. The

capital of the company was one million of dollars, with the privilege of

doubling the amount. As one of the conditions of the new arrangement, it

was stipulated that I should withdraw from all active personal attention

to the Museum, but should permit my name to be announced as General

Manager, and I was also elected President of the company. This

arrangement gave me the comparative tranquillity which I now began to

desire. I spent most of my time in Bridgeport, except in winter, when I

resided in New York. I usually visited the Museum about once a week, but

sometimes was absent for several months.

Meanwhile, immense additions were made to the curiosity departments of

the new Museum. Every penny of the profits of this Museum and of the two

immense travelling menageries of wild animals was expended in procuring

additional attractions for our patrons. Among other valuable novelties

introduced in this establishment was the famous collection made by the

renowned lion-slayer, Gordon Cummings. This was purchased for me by my

faithful friend, Mr. George A. Wells, who was then travelling in Great

Britain with General Tom Thumb. The collection consisted of many

hundreds of skins, tusks, heads and skeletons of nearly every species of

African animal, including numerous rare specimens never before exhibited

on this continent. It was a great Museum in itself, and as such had

attracted much attention in London and elsewhere, but it was a mere

addition to our Museum and Menagerie; and was exhibited without extra

charge for admission.

In the summer of 1867, I saw in several New York papers a thrilling

account of an immense gorilla, which had arrived from Africa in charge

of Barnum’s agent, for the Barnum and Van Amburgh Company. The accounts

described the removal of the savage animal in a strong iron cage from

the ship, and his transportation up Broadway to the museum. His cries

and roarings were said to have been terrible, and when he was taken into

the menagerie, he was reported to have bent the heavy iron bars of his

cage, and in his rage to have seized a poker which was thrust at him,

and to have twisted it as if it had been a bit of wire. Nothing so

startlingly sensational in the line of zoölogical description had

appeared since the _Tribune’s_ famous report of the burning of the

American Museum, in 1865.

For several years I had been trying to secure such an animal, and

several African travellers had promised to do their best to procure one

for me; and I had offered as high as $20,000 for the delivery in New

York of a full-grown, healthy gorilla. From the minute description now

given by the reporters, I was convinced that, at last, the long-sought

prize had been secured. I was greatly elated, and at once wrote from

Bridgeport to our manager, Mr. Ferguson, advising him how to exhibit the

valuable animal, and particularly how to preserve its precious life as

long as might be possible. I have owned many ourang-outangs, and all of

them die ultimately of pulmonary disease; indeed, it is difficult to

keep specimens of the monkey tribe through the winter in our climate, on

account of their tendency to consumption. I therefore advised Mr.

Ferguson to have a cage so constructed that no draught of air could pass

through it, and I further instructed him in methods of guarding against

the gorilla’s taking cold.

A few days later I went to New York expressly to see the gorilla, and on

visiting the Museum, I was vexed beyond measure to find that the animal

was simply a huge baboon! He was chained down, so that he could not

stand erect, nor turn his back to visitors. His keeper could easily

irritate him, and when the animal was excited, he would seize the iron

bars with both hands, and, uttering horrid screams, would shake the cage

so fiercely that it could be heard and “felt” in the adjoining saloons.

No doubt many of the visitors recalled Du Chaillu’s accounts of the

genuine gorilla, and were convinced that the veritable animal was before

them. But I had been too long in the business to be caught by such

chaff, and approaching the keeper, I asked him why he did not lengthen

the chain, so that the animal could stand up?

“Because, if I do, he will show his tail,” the keeper confidentially

whispered in my ear.

The imposition was so silly and transparent that I did not care how soon

it was exposed. As usual, however, I looked at the funny side of the

matter, and immediately enclosed a ticket to my friend Mr. Paul Du

Chaillu, who was then stopping at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, at the same

time writing to the great African traveller, that, much as he had done;

the Barnum and Van Amburgh Company had done more, since he had only

killed gorillas, while we had secured a living one, and brought the

monster safely from Africa to America. I informed him, moreover, that

all the gorillas he had seen and described were tailless, while our far

more remarkable specimen had a tail full four feet long!

Mr. Du Chaillu came into the Museum that afternoon, in great glee, with

my open letter in his hand.

“Ah, Mr. Barnum,” he exclaimed, “this is the funniest letter I ever

received. Of course, you know your gorilla’ is no gorilla at all, but

only a baboon. I will not look at him, for when people ask me about

‘Barnum’s gorilla,’ I prefer to be able to say that I have not seen

him.”

“On the contrary,” said I, “I particularly desire that you should see

the animal, and expose it. The imposition is too ridiculous.”

“True; but I think your letter is more curious than your animal.”

“Then I give you full leave to read the letter to all who ask you about

the ‘gorilla.’”

“Thank you,” said Du Chaillu, “and I wish you would let me read it in my

lectures at the West, where I am soon going on a tour.”

I consented that he should do so, and I afterwards heard that he was

delighting as well as enlightening western audiences on the subject of

Manager Ferguson’s management of the great “gorilla” in the Barnum and

Van Amburgh Museum and Menagerie.

The menagerie of living animals was superior in extent to any other

similar collection in America, embracing, as it did, almost every

description of wild animal ever exhibited, including the smallest

African elephant, and the only living giraffe then in the United States.

The collection of lions and royal Bengal tigers was superb. There was a

cage full of young lions that attracted great attention, and the whole

menagerie was an exceedingly valuable one. When I say that to these

attractions was added an able dramatic company, which performed every

afternoon and evening, and that the admission to the entire

establishment was but thirty cents, with no extra charge, except for a

few front seats and private boxes, it is no wonder that this immense

building, five stories high, and covering ground seventy-five by two

hundred feet in area, was thronged “from sunrise to ten P. M.,” and from

top to bottom, with country and city visitors, of both sexes and all

ages. The public was soon thoroughly convinced of the facts; first, that

never before was such an outlay made for so great an assemblage of

useful and amusing attractions, combining instruction with amusement,

and thrown open to the people at so small a charge for admission; and

second, that the surest way of deriving the greatest profit, in the long

run, is to give people as much as possible for their money. That these

facts were fully impressed upon our patrons is instanced in the monthly

returns made to the United States Collector of Internal Revenue for the

district, which showed that our receipts were larger than those of

Wallack’s Theatre, Niblo’s Garden, or any other theatre or place of

amusement in New York, or in America.

Anxious to gather curiosities from every quarter of the globe, I sent

Mr. John Greenwood, junior, (who went for me to the isle of Cyprus and

to Constantinople, in 1864,) on the “Quaker City” excursion, which left

New York June 8, 1867, and returned in the following November. During

his absence Mr. Greenwood travelled 17,735 miles, and brought back

several interesting relics from the Holy Land, which were duly deposited

in the Museum.

Very soon after entering upon the premises, I built a new and larger

lecture room, which was one of the most commodious and complete theatres

in New York, and I largely increased the dramatic company. Our

collection swelled so rapidly that we were obliged to extend our

premises by the addition of another building, forty by one hundred

feet, adjoining the Museum. This addition gave us several new halls,

which were speedily filled with curiosities. The rapid expansion of the

establishment, and the immense interest excited in the public mind led

me to consider a plan I had long contemplated, of taking some decided

steps towards the foundation of a great free institution, which should

be similar to and in some respects superior to the British Museum in

London. “The Barnum and Van Amburgh Museum and Menagerie Company,”

chartered with a capital of $2,000,000 had, in addition to the New York

establishment, thirty acres of land in Bridgeport, whereon it was

proposed to erect suitable buildings and glass and wire edifices for

breeding and acclimating rare animals and birds, and training such of

them as were fit for public performances. In time, a new building in New

York, covering a whole square, and farther up town, would be needed for

the mammoth exhibition, and I was not with out hopes that I might be the

means of establishing permanently in the city an extensive zoölogical

garden.

It was also my intention ultimately to make my Museum the nucleus of a

great free national institution. When the American Museum was burned,

and I turned my attention to the collection of fresh curiosities, I felt

that I needed other assistance than that of my own agents in America and

Europe. It occurred to me that if our government representatives abroad

would but use their influence to secure curiosities in the respective

countries to which they were delegated, a free public Museum might at

once be begun in New York, and I proposed to offer a part of my own

establishment rent-free for the deposit and exhibition of such rarities

as might be collected in this way. Accordingly, a week after the

destruction of the American Museum, a memorial was addressed to the

President of the United States, asking him to give his sanction to the

new effort to furnish the means of useful information and wholesome

amusement, and to give such instructions to public officers abroad as

would enable them, without any conflict with their legitimate duties, to

give efficiency to this truly national movement for the advancement of

the public good, without cost to the government. This memorial was dated

July 20, 1865, and was signed by Messrs. E. D. Morgan, Moses Taylor,

Abram Wakeman, Simeon Draper, Moses H. Grinnell, Stephen Knapp, Benjamin

R. Winthrop, Charles Gould, Wm. C. Bryant, James Wadsworth, Tunis W.

Quick, John A. Pitkin, Willis Gaylord, Prosper M. Wetmore, Henry Ward

Beecher, and Horace Greeley. This memorial was in due time presented,

and was indorsed as follows:

“EXECUTIVE MANSION, WASHINGTON, D. C.

April 27, 1866.

The purpose set forth in this Memorial is highly approved and

commended, and our Ministers, Consuls and commercial agents are

requested to give whatever influence in carrying out the object

within stated they may deem compatible with the duties of their

respective positions, and not inconsistent with the public

interests.

ANDREW JOHNSON.”

I went to Washington myself, and had interviews with the President,

Secretaries Seward, McCulloch and Welles, and also with Assistant

Secretary of the Navy, G. V. Fox, who gave me several muskets and other

“rebel trophies.” During my stay at the capital I had a pleasant

interview with General Grant, who told me he had lately visited my

Museum with one of his sons, and had been greatly gratified. Upon my

mentioning, among other projects, that I had an idea of collecting the

hats of distinguished individuals, he at once offered to send an orderly

for the hat he had worn during his principal campaigns. All these

gentlemen cordially approved of my plan for the establishment of a

National Museum in New York.

But before this plan could be put into effective operation, an event

occurred which is now to be narrated: The winter of 1867-68 was one of

the coldest that had been known for years, and some thirty severe

snowstorms occurred during the season. On Tuesday morning, March 3d,

1868, it was bitter cold. A heavy body of snow was on the ground, and as

I sat at the breakfast table with my wife and an esteemed lady guest,

the wife of my excellent friend Rev. A. C. Thomas, I read aloud the

general news from the morning papers. Leisurely turning to the local

columns, I said, “Hallo! Barnum’s Museum is burned.”

“Yes,” said my wife, with an incredulous smile, “I suspect it is.”

“It is a fact,” said I, “just listen; ‘Barnum’s Museum totally destroyed

by fire.’”

This was read so coolly, and I showed so little excitement, that both of

the ladies supposed I was joking. My wife simply remarked:

“Yes, it was totally destroyed two years ago, but Barnum built another

one.”

“Yes, and that is burned,” I replied; “now listen,” and I proceeded very

calmly to read the account of the fire. Mrs. Thomas, still believing

from my manner that it was a joke, stole slyly behind my chair, and

looking over my shoulder at the newspaper, she exclaimed:

“Why, Mrs. Barnum, the Museum is really burned. Here is the whole

account of it in this morning’s paper.”

“Of course it is,” I remarked, with a smile, “how could you think I

could joke on such a serious subject!”

It was indeed too true, and the subject was no doubt “serious” enough;

in fact the pecuniary blow was perhaps even heavier than the loss of the

other Museum, especially as there was probably no Bennett around who

would give me $200,000 for a lease! But during my whole life I had been

so much accustomed to operations of magnitude for or against my

interests, that large losses or gains were not apt to disturb my

tranquillity. Indeed, my second daughter calling in soon after, and

seeing how coolly I took the disaster, said that her husband had

remarked that morning, “Your father wont care half so much about it as

he would if his pocket had been picked of fifty dollars. That would have

vexed him, but he will take this heavier loss as simply the fortune of

war.”

And this was very nearly the fact. Yet the loss was a large one, and the

complete frustration of our plans for the future was a serious

consideration. But worse than all were the sufferings of the poor wild

animals which were burned to death in their cages. A very few only of

these animals were saved. Even the people who were sleeping in the

building barely escaped with their lives, and next to nothing else, so

sudden was the fire and so rapid its progress. The papers of the

following morning contained full accounts of the fire; and editorial

writers, while manifesting much sympathy for the proprietors, also

expressed profound regret that so magnificent a collection, especially

in the zoölogical department, should be lost to the city.

The cold was so intense that the water froze almost as soon as it left

the hose of the fire engines; and when at last everything was destroyed,

except the front granite wall of the Museum building, that and the

ladder, signs, and lamp-posts in front, were covered in a gorgeous

frame-work of transparent ice, which made it altogether one of the most

picturesque scenes imaginable. Thousands of persons congregated daily in

that locality in order to get a view of the magnificent ruins. By

moonlight the ice-coated ruins were still more sublime; and for many

days and nights the old Museum was “the observed of all observers,” and

photographs were taken by several artists.

When the Museum was burnt, I was nearly ready to bring out a new

spectacle, for which a very large extra company had been engaged, and on

which a considerable sum of money had been expended in scenery,

properties, costumes, and especially in enlarging the stage. I had

expended altogether some $78,000 in building the new lecture-room, and

in refitting the saloons. The curiosities were inventoried by the

manager, Mr. Ferguson, at $288,000. I bought the real estate only a

little while before the fire, for $460,000, and there was an insurance

on the whole of $160,000; and in June, 1868, I sold the lots on which

the building stood for $432,000. The cause of the fire was a defective

flue in a restaurant in the basement of the building.

Thus by the destruction of Iranistan, and two Museums, about a million

of dollars’ worth of my property had been destroyed by fire, and I was

not now long in making up my mind to follow Mr. Greeley’s advice on a

former occasion, to “take this fire as a notice to quit, and go

a-fishing.”

We all know how difficult it is for a person to stop when he is engaged

in business, and how seldom it is that we find a man who thinks he has

accumulated money enough, and is willing to cease trying to make

[Illustration: _AFTER THE FIRE_]

more. An active business life, like everything else, becomes a habit,

and the strife for success in business, through all the changes of

fortune, and ups and downs of trade, becomes an infatuation akin to that

which spurs the gambler. Hence, men often pursue their money-getting

occupations long after the necessity therefor has ceased. Of course, by

wedding themselves to this one ambition they forego many of the higher

pleasures of life, and though they have a vague idea of that “good time

coming,” when they are going to take things easy and enjoy themselves,

that time never comes. Men who are entirely idle are the most miserable

creatures in the world; but when by arduous toil they have secured a

competence, and especially when they have reached a point in life where

they are conscious of a waning of their vital energies, we must admit

that they are unwise if they do not slip out of active business, and

devote a large portion of their time to intellectual pursuits, social

enjoyments, and, if they have not done so through life, to serious

reflections on the ends and aims of human existence.

It is, perhaps, possible that notwithstanding the active life I have

led, I have after all a lazy streak in my composition; at all events, I

confess it was with no small degree of satisfaction that by this last

burning of the Museum, notwithstanding the serious pecuniary loss it

proved to me, I discovered a way open through which I could retire to a

more quiet and tranquil mode of life. I therefore at once dissolved with

the Van Amburgh Company, and sold out to them all my interest in the

personal property of the concern. I was, however, beset on every side to

start another Museum, and men of capital offered to raise a million of

dollars if necessary, for that purpose, provided I would undertake its

management. My constant reply was, “lead me not into temptation.” I felt

that I had enough to live on, and I earnestly believed the doctrine laid

down in my lecture on “Money Getting,” in regard to the danger of

leaving too much property to children.

As I now had something like real leisure at my disposal, in the summer

of 1868 I made my third visit to the White Mountains. To me, the

locality and scene are ever fresh and ever wonderful. From the top of

Mount Washington, one can see on every side within a radius of forty

miles peaks piled on peaks, with smiling valleys here and there between,

and, on a very clear day, the Atlantic Ocean off Portland, Maine, is

distinctly visible--sixty miles away. Beauty, grandeur, sublimity, and

the satisfaction of almost every sense combine to remind one of the

ejaculation of that devout English soul who exclaims: “Look around with

pleasure, and upward with gratitude.”

At the Profile House, near the Notch, in the Franconia range, I met many

acquaintances, some of whom had been there with their families for

several weeks. When tired of scenery-hunting and hill-climbing, and

thrown entirely upon their own resources, they had invented a “sell”

which they perpetrated upon every new-comer. Naturally enough, as I was

considered a capital subject for their fun, before I had been there half

an hour they had made all the arrangements to take me in. The “sell”

consisted in getting up a footrace in which all were to join, and at the

word “go” the contestants were to start and run across the open space in

front of the hotel to a fence opposite, while the last man who should

touch the rail must treat the crowd.

[Illustration: _BARNUM FIVE SECONDS AHEAD_]

Of course, no one touched the rail at all, except the victim. I

suspected no trick, but tried to avoid the race, urging in excuse that I

was too old, too corpulent, and besides, as they knew, I was a

teetotaler and would not drink their liquor.

“Oh, drink lemonade, if you like,” they said, “but no backing out; and

as for corpulence, here is Stephen, our old stage-driver, who weighs

three hundred, and he shall run with the rest.”

And in good truth, Stephen, in a warm day especially, would be likely to

“run” with the best of them; but I did not know then that Stephen was

the stool-pigeon whom they kept to entrap unwary and verdant youths like

myself; so looking at his portly form I at once agreed that if Stephen

ran I would, as I knew that for a stout man I was pretty quick on my

feet. Accordingly, at the word “go,” I started and ran as if the

traditional enemy of mankind were in me or after me, but before I had

accomplished half the distance, I wondered why at least, one or two of

the crowd had not outstripped me, for, in fact, Stephen was the only one

whom I expected to beat. Looking back and at once comprehending the

“sell,” I decided not to be sold. A correspondent of the New York _Sun_

told how I escaped the trick and the penalty, and how I subsequently

paid off the tricksters, in a letter from which I quote the following:

“Barnum threw up his hands before arriving at the railing, and did

not touch it at all! It was acknowledged on all sides that the

‘biters were bit.’ ‘But you ran well,’ said those who intended the

‘sell.’ ‘Yes,’ replied Barnum in high glee, ‘I ran better than I

did for Congress; but I was not green enough to touch the rail!’ Of

course a roar of laughter followed, and the ‘sellers’ resolved to

try the game the next morning on some other new-comer; but their

luck had evidently deserted them, for the next man also ‘smelt a

rat,’ and holding up his hands refused to touch the rail. The two

successive failures dampened the ardor of the “sellers,” and they

relinquished that trick as a bad job. But the way Barnum sold

nearly the whole crowd of ‘sellers,’ in detail, on the following

afternoon, by the old ‘sliver trick,’ was a caution to sore sides.

So much laughing in one day was probably never before done in that

locality. One after another succeeded in extracting from the palm

of Barnum’s hand what each at first supposed was a tormenting

‘sliver,’ but which turned out to be a ‘broom splinter’ a foot long

which was hidden up B.’s sleeve, except the small point which

appeared from under the end of his thumb, apparently protruding

from under the skin of his palm. One ‘weak brother’ nearly fainted

as he saw come forth some twelve inches of what he at first

supposed was a ‘sliver,’ but which he was now thoroughly convinced

was one of the nerves from Barnum’s arm. Mr. O’Brien, the Wall

Street banker, was the first victim. When asked what he thought

upon seeing such a long ‘sliver’ coming from Barnum’s hand, he

solemnly replied, ‘I thought he was a dead man!’ It was

acknowledged by all that Barnum gave them a world of ‘fun,’ and

that he and his friends left the Profile House with flying colors.”

During the year, Mr. George Wood, a most successful and enterprising

manager, had been engaged in enlarging and refitting Banvard’s building,

at the corner of Broadway and Thirteenth Street, for a Museum and

theatre; and wishing to avoid my competition in the business, he

proposed, that for a consideration, to be governed to some degree by the

receipts, I should bind myself to have no other interest in any Museum

or place of amusement in New York, and that I should give him the

benefit of my experience, influence and information, and thus aid in

advancing his interests and in building up and carrying out his

enterprise. His proposition fully met my views, and I accepted it.

Without incurring risk or responsibility, I could occupy portions of my

time, which otherwise, perhaps, might drag heavily on my hands; my mind

especially would be employed in matters with which I was familiar, and I

might gratify my desire to assist in catering to the healthful,

wholesome amusement of the rising generation and the public. I should

not rust out; and, moreover, the new museum would afford me a pleasant

place to drop into when I felt inclined to do so. Nothing in this

arrangement compelled my presence in New York, or even in the United

States; I could go when and where I chose, and could continue to be, as

I hope to be for the rest of my life, “a man of leisure,” which in my

case, and according to my construction, is far from being a man of

idleness.

While I was at the White Mountains, I received a telegram from Mr.

George Wood, stating that he could not consider his list of curiosities

complete unless I would consent to be present at the opening of his

Museum, and I accordingly waived all my chances in any intended foot

races, and hastened to New York, making at Mr. Wood’s request the

opening address in his new establishment, August 31, 1868.

CHAPTER XLIV.

CURIOUS COINCIDENCES.--NUMBER THIRTEEN.

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS--UNLUCKY FRIDAY--UNFORTUNATE SATURDAY--RAINY

SUNDAYS--TERRIBLE THIRTEEN--THE BRETTELLS OF LONDON--INCIDENTS OF

MY WESTERN TRIP--SINGULAR FATALITY--NUMBER THIRTEEN IN EVERY

HOTEL--NO ESCAPE FROM THE FRIGHTFUL FIGURE--ADVICE OF A CLERICAL

FRIEND--THE THIRTEEN COLONIES--THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER OF

CORINTHIANS--THIRTEEN AT MY CHRISTMAS DINNER PARTY--THIRTEEN

DOLLARS AT A FAIR--TWO DISASTROUS DAYS--THE THIRTEENTH DAY IN TWO

MONTHS--THIRTEEN PAGES OF MANUSCRIPT.

In the summer of 1868, a lady who happened to be at that time an inmate

of my family, upon hearing me say that I supposed we must remove into

our summer residence on Thursday, because our servants might not like to

go on Friday, remarked:

“What nonsense that is! It is astonishing that some persons are so

foolish as to think there is any difference in the days. I call it rank

heathenism to be so superstitious as to think one day is lucky and

another unlucky”; and then, in the most innocent manner possible, she

added: “I would not like to remove on a Saturday myself, for they say

people who remove on the last day of the week don’t stay long.”

Of course this was too refreshing a case of undoubted superstition to be

permitted to pass without a hearty laugh from all who heard it.

I suppose most of us have certain superstitions, imbibed in our youth,

and still lurking more or less faintly in our minds. Many would not like

to acknowledge that they had any choice whether they commenced a new

enterprise on a Friday or on a Monday, or whether they first saw the new

moon over the right or left shoulder. And yet, perhaps, a large portion

of these same persons will be apt to observe it when they happen to do

anything which popular superstition calls “unlucky.” It is a common

occurrence with many to immediately make a secret “wish” if they happen

to use the same expression at the same moment when a friend with whom

they are conversing makes it; nevertheless these persons would protest

against being considered superstitious,--indeed, probably they are not

so in the full meaning of the word.

Several years ago an old lady who was a guest at my house, remarked on a

rainy Sunday:

“This is the first Sunday in the month, and now it will rain every

Sunday in the month; that is a sign which never fails, for I have

noticed it many a time.”

“Well,” I remarked, smiling, “watch closely this time, and if it rains

on the next three Sundays I will give you a new silk dress.”

She was in high glee, and replied:

“Well, you have lost that dress, as sure as you are born.”

The following Sunday it did indeed rain.

“Ah, ha!” exclaimed the old lady, “what did I tell you? I knew it would

rain.”

I smiled, and said, “all right, watch for next Sunday.”

And surely enough the next Sunday it did rain, harder than on either of

the preceding Sundays.

“Now, what do you think?” said the old lady, solemnly. “I tell you that

sign never fails. It wont do to doubt the ways of Providence,” she added

with a sigh, “for His ways are mysterious and past finding out.”

The following Sunday the sun rose in a cloudless sky, and not the

slightest appearance of rain was manifested through the day. The old

lady was greatly disappointed, and did not like to hear any allusion to

the subject; but two years afterwards, when she was once more my guest,

it again happened to rain on the first Sunday in the month, and I heard

her solemnly predict that it would, every succeeding Sunday in the

month, for, she remarked, “it is a sign that never fails.” She had

forgotten the failure of two years before; indeed, the continuance and

prevalence of many popular superstitions is due to the fact that we

notice the “sign” when it happens to be verified, and do not observe it,

or we forget it, when it fails. Many persons are exceedingly

superstitious in regard to the number “thirteen.” This is particularly

the case, I have noticed, in Catholic countries I have visited, and I

have been told that superstition originated in the fact of a thirteenth

apostle having been chosen, on account of the treachery of Judas. At any

rate, I have known numbers of French persons who had quite a horror of

this fatal number. Once I knew a French lady who had taken passage in an

ocean steamer, and who, on going aboard, and finding her assigned

state-room to be “No. 13,” insisted upon it that she would not sail in

the ship at all; she had rather forfeit her passage money, though

finally she was persuaded to take another room. And a great many people,

French, English, and American will not undertake any important

enterprise on the thirteenth day of the month, nor sit at table with the

full complement of thirteen persons. With regard to this number to

which so many superstitions cling, I have some interesting experiences

and curious coincidences, which are worth relating as a part of my

personal history.

When I was first in England with General Tom Thumb, I well remember

dining one Christmas day with my friends, the Brettells, in St. James’s

Palace, in London. Just before the dinner was finished (it is a wonder

it was not noticed before) it was discovered that the number at table

was exactly thirteen.

“How very unfortunate,” remarked one of the guests; “I would not have

dined under such circumstances for any consideration, had I known it!”

“Nor I either,” seriously remarked another guest.

“Do you really suppose there is any truth in the old superstition on

that subject?” I asked.

“Truth!” solemnly replied an old lady. “Truth! Why I myself have known

three instances, and have heard of scores of others, where thirteen

persons have eaten at the same table, and in every case one of the

number died before the year was out!”

This assertion, made with so much earnestness, evidently affected

several of the guests, whose nerves were easily excited. I can

truthfully state, however, that I dined at the Palace again the

following Christmas, and although there were seventeen persons present,

every one of the original thirteen who dined there the preceding

Christmas, was among this number, and all in good health; although, of

course, it would have been nothing very remarkable if one had happened

to have died during the last twelve months.

While I was on my Western lecturing tour in 1866, long before I got out

of Illinois, I began to observe that at the various hotels where I

stopped my room very frequently was No. 13. Indeed, it seemed as if this

number turned up to me as often as four times per week, and so before

many days I almost expected to have that number set down to my name

wherever I signed it upon the register of the hotel. Still, I laughed to

myself, at what I was convinced was simply a coincidence. On one

occasion I was travelling from Clinton to Mount Vernon, Iowa, and was to

lecture in the college of the latter place that evening. Ordinarily, I

should have arrived at two o’clock P. M.; but owing to an accident which

had occurred to the train from the West, the conductor informed me that

our arrival in Mount Vernon would probably be delayed until after seven

o’clock. I telegraphed that fact to the committee who were expecting me,

and told them to be patient.

When we had arrived within ten miles of that town it was dark. I sat

rather moodily in the car, wishing the train would “hurry up”; and

happening for some cause to look back over my left shoulder, I

discovered the new moon through the window. This omen struck me as a

coincident addition to my ill-luck, and with a pleasant chuckle I

muttered to myself, “Well, I hope I wont get room number thirteen

to-night, for that will be adding insult to injury.”

I reached Mount Vernon a few minutes before eight, and was met at the

depot by the committee, who took me in a carriage and hurried to the

Ballard House. The committee told me the hall in the college was already

crowded, and they hoped I would defer taking tea until after the

lecture. I informed them that I would gladly do so, but simply wished to

run to my room a moment for a wash. While wiping my face I happened to

think about the new room, and at once stepped outside of my bed-room

door to look at the number. It was “number thirteen.”

After the lecture I took tea, and I confess that I began to think

“number thirteen” looked a little ominous. There I was, many hundreds of

miles from my family; I left my wife sick, and I began to ask myself

does “number thirteen” portend anything in particular? Without feeling

willing even now to acknowledge that I felt much apprehension on the

subject, I must say I began to take a serious view of things in general.

I mentioned the coincidence of my luck in so often having “number

thirteen” assigned to me to Mr. Ballard, the proprietor of the hotel,

giving him all the particulars to date.

“I will give you another room if you prefer it,” said Mr. Ballard.

“No, I thank you,” I replied with a semi-serious smile; “If it is fate,

I will take it as it comes; and if it means anything I shall probably

find it out in time.” That same night before retiring to rest I wrote a

letter to a clerical friend, then residing in Bridgeport, telling him

all my experiences in regard to “number thirteen.” I said to him in

closing: “Don’t laugh at me for being superstitious, for I hardly feel

so; I think it is simply a series of ‘coincidences’ which appear the

more strange because I am sure to notice every one that occurs.” Ten

days afterwards I received an answer from my reverend friend, in which

he cheerfully said: “It’s all right; go ahead and get ‘number thirteen’

as often as you can. It is a lucky number,” and he added:

“Unbelieving and ungrateful man! What is thirteen but the

traditional ‘baker’s dozen,’ indicating ‘good measure, pressed

down, shaken together, and running over,’ as illustrated in your

triumphal lecturing tour? By all means insist upon having room No.

13 at every hotel; and if the guests at any meal be less than that

charmed complement, send out and compel somebody to come in.

“What do you say respecting the Thirteen Colonies? Any ill luck in

the number? Was the patriarch Jacob afraid of it when he adopted

Ephraim and Manasseh, the two sons of Joseph, so as to complete the

magic circle of thirteen?

“Do you not know that chapter thirteen of First Corinthians is the

grandest in the Bible, with verse thirteen as the culmination of

all religious thought? And can you read verse thirteen of the Fifth

chapter of Revelation without the highest rapture?”

But my clerical friend had not heard of a certain curious circumstance

which occurred to me after I had mailed my letter to him and before I

received his answer.

On leaving Mount Vernon for Cedar Rapids the next morning, the landlord,

Mr. Ballard, drove me to the railroad depot. As I was stepping upon the

cars, Mr. Ballard shook my hand, and with a laugh exclaimed: “Good-by,

friend Barnum, I hope you wont get room number thirteen at Cedar Rapids

to-day.” “I hope not!” I replied earnestly, and yet with a smile. I

reached Cedar Rapids in an hour. The lecture committee met and took me

to the hotel. I entered my name, and the landlord immediately called out

to the porter:

“Here John, take Mr. Barnum’s baggage, and show him to ‘number

thirteen!’”

I confess that when I heard this I was startled. I remarked to the

landlord that it was certainly very singular, but was nevertheless true,

that “number thirteen” seemed to be about the only room that I could get

in a hotel.

“We have a large meeting of Railroad directors here at present,” he

replied, “and ‘number thirteen’ is the only room unoccupied in my

house.”

I proceeded to the room, and immediately wrote to Mr. Ballard at Mount

Vernon, assuring him that my letter was written in “number thirteen,”

and that this was the only room I could get in the hotel. During the

remainder of my journey, I was put into “number thirteen” so often in

the various hotels at which I stopped that it came to be quite a matter

of course, though occasionally I was fortunate enough to secure some

other number. Upon returning to New York, I related the foregoing

adventures to my family, and told them I was really half afraid of

“number thirteen.” Soon afterwards, I telegraphed to my daughter who was

boarding at the Atlantic House in Bridgeport, asking her to engage a

room for me to lodge there the next night, on my way to Boston. “Mr.

Hale,” said she to the landlord, “father is coming up to-day; will you

please reserve him a comfortable room?” “Certainly,” replied Mr. Hale,

and he instantly ordered a fire in “room thirteen!” I went to Boston and

proceeded to Lewiston, Maine, and thence to Lawrence, Massachusetts, and

the hotel register there has my name booked for “number thirteen.”

My experience with this number has by no means been confined to

apartments. In 1867 a church in Bridgeport wanted to raise several

thousand dollars in order to get freed from debt. I subscribed one

thousand dollars, by aid of which they assured me they would certainly

raise enough to pay off the debt. A few weeks subsequently, however, one

of the “brethren” wrote me that they were still six hundred dollars

short, with but little prospect of getting it. I replied that I would

pay one-half of the sum required. The brother soon afterwards wrote me

that he had obtained the other half, and I might forward him my

subscription of “thirteen” hundred dollars. During the same season I

attended a fair in Franklin Hall, Bridgeport, given by a temperance

organization. Two of my little granddaughters accompanied me, and

telling them to select what articles they desired, I paid the bill,

twelve dollars and fifty cents. Whereupon I said to the children, “I am

glad you did not make it thirteen dollars, and I will expend no more

here to-night.” We sat awhile listening to the music, and finally

started for home, and as we were going, a lady at one of the stands near

the door, called out: “Mr. Barnum, you have not patronized me. Please

take a chance in my lottery.” “Certainly,” I replied; “give me a

ticket.” I paid her the price (fifty cents), and after I arrived home, I

discovered that in spite of my expressed determination to the contrary,

I had expended exactly “thirteen” dollars!

I invited a few friends to a “clam-bake” in the summer of 1868, and

being determined the party should not be thirteen, I invited fifteen,

and they all agreed to go. Of course, one man and his wife were

“disappointed,” and could not go--and my party numbered thirteen. At

Christmas, in the same year, my children and grandchildren dined with

me, and finding on “counting noses,” that they would number the

inevitable thirteen, I expressly arranged to have a high chair placed at

the table, and my youngest grandchild, seventeen months old, was placed

in it, so that we should number fourteen. After the dinner was over, we

discovered that my son-in-law, Thompson, had been detained down town,

and the number at dinner table, notwithstanding my extra precautions,

was exactly thirteen.

Thirteen was certainly an ominous number to me in 1865, for on the

thirteenth day of July, the American Museum was burned to the ground,

while the thirteenth day of November saw the opening of “Barnum’s New

American Museum,” which was also subsequently destroyed by fire.

Having concluded this veritable history of superstitious coincidences in

regard to thirteen, I read it to a clerical friend, who happened to be

present; and after reading the manuscript, I paged it, when my friend

and I were a little startled to find that the pages numbered exactly

thirteen.

CHAPTER XLV.

A STORY-CHAPTER.