My second visit to America. A caravan journey across the prairies and
the Rockies from New York to San Francisco. My experiences with Red
Indians. A novel treatment of fever. Performances at San Francisco,
Java and Australia. Return to New York. A “spiritualistic” swindle.
Am engaged by Barnum, Bailey and Hutchinson. The baby elephant born
in the show becomes my playmate. An elephant’s wonderful memory. My
mysterious mission to Paris under “sealed orders.” What the sealed
letter contained--instructions to buy “Jumbo.” Agitation in London
over the proposed sale of the big elephant. The Zoological Society
accept Barnum’s offer. Proceedings in Chancery. The matter settled.
“Jumbo’s” opposition. The true story of the delay. A mishap to his car.
I shall never forget my second visit to America in 1879. It was the
most delightful and novel experience a man could possibly have. Imagine
travelling entirely by caravan and on foot right across prairie and
mountain from New York to San Francisco, meeting little else but
buffaloes and Red Indians! We had sixty horses with us, an Indian guide
to lead the way, and it was a perfect holiday the whole time, a portion
of the route taking us from Portland (Oregon), above the Conjoin
Valley, as far as Seattle and through the Rockies amid the wildest and
most romantic scenery. This was before the Klondyke rush and Seattle
was then a tiny village.
Our interviews with the various tribes of Indians we encountered were
most interesting. I expected to find them in their war paint, but it
was not so. They were beginning to forget their native customs under
the influence of American domination. They had not long since had
definite territory assigned them; they were no longer free to wander
where they pleased, and they were very sore about it. When they found
we were English they were most friendly. Had we been Americans I’m
afraid we should have had a reception of quite a different character.
The tribe of Indians which escorted our caravans was the Pendeton, and
they were very useful when we wanted water for our horses and did not
know where to get it. We were easily understood, for most of them spoke
very good English. At first we had the old-fashioned idea that they
were treacherous, but they were nothing of the kind. I found them a
grand people. They took an immense fancy to our coloured costumes and
once one of their chiefs--a fine old fellow of eighty--said to me in
his solemn way: “I like those coloured things you’ve on.”
The coloured things were the variegated tights I was wearing in the
little entertainment we were giving them, and I made him put them on,
which he did--over his ordinary dress. Oh, what a sight! His friends
screamed with delight, and nothing would satisfy them but my putting on
the rest of the costume and doing a war-dance in which they joined. It
was rare fun.
One day we were short of food and the friendly old chief discovering
this, said something in his own tongue to one of the young men who
vanished and in about half an hour returned loaded with a couple of
prairie chickens procured, how and where I can’t say. To cook the
chickens they made a wood fire and planted the birds, feathers and all,
on the top. In about three-quarters of an hour the grill was ready and
the cook, giving the chickens a few taps with his hatchet, feathers and
skin all came off. They were served up on a tin plate with some kind
of black bread, and I can only say that I never tasted anything more
delicious in my life.
The sun was so scorching in the day time that we found it impossible
to work the horses, so we travelled by night. The friendly Indians
continued with us and one day one of the tribe was taken very ill.
When this was told the chief, he said, “We must halt. We must find the
river”--and a couple of scouts were sent on a voyage of discovery and
came back with the news that there was a river about a mile away.
I was very curious to see the Indian method of treatment, in a case of
fever which this was, and the chief asked me to come with him. I said I
would, and leaving about a dozen of the tribe to look after the caravan
and horses we travelled till we got to the riverside. Here some of the
men scooped up mud from the river bed and built a small hut with it.
Then lighting a fire inside they baked it until it was like the hot
room of a Turkish bath. The patient was inserted and after allowing him
to remain some little time his doctors pulled him out and threw him
into the river!
According to our European ideas this heroic treatment ought to have
finished him, but it didn’t. It finished the fever instead and in a few
days the young fellow was quite well.
When we were through the Rocky Mountains our Indian pals left us, and
two days’ journey brought us opposite San Francisco, to reach which we
had to cross a river in barges. We remained in San Francisco a week,
and from here we commenced a most extensive tour, travelling first by
boat to Java, where we performed, more to give the animals exercise
than anything else, and thence to Australia. Just before reaching
Australia we had rather a serious bit of trouble. While crossing the
bight between Adelaide and Fremantle the sea was so rough that the ship
was in jeopardy, and to save it we had by the captain’s orders to throw
some of the animals overboard. With what was left of the circus we gave
some performances in Sydney and did remarkably well, and finally we
returned to New York by a different route, after having been away some
two years.
All that winter in New York I was “resting.” The time passed pleasantly
as I had made a good many friends, and among them Sammy Booth, the
printer, in Centre Street. Mr. Booth--dear old gentleman--was always
ready with a good cigar, and we had many a chat, for he loved to hear
yarns about the old country. I had, of course, often heard stories of
Yankee smartness, and during my acquaintance with Mr. Booth I had
personal experience of what I think I may call a super-instance of this
characteristic supposed to be peculiar to America.
One day while in Mr. Booth’s office a well-dressed man of affable
manners called and gave the firm a very big order to flood New
York with posters announcing a gigantic series of spiritualistic
manifestations, for which he had hired the Academy of Music in
Fourteenth Street, at that time the finest theatre in New York.
Mr. Booth accepted the order and invited some of his friends, of whom
I was one, to go with him on the night in question. We arrived at
the Academy to find the place packed to the roof. The drop went up,
discovering a gentleman at a piano and a row of about twelve chairs.
Then the lecturer in immaculate evening dress made his appearance and
after an elaborate bow asked the assistance of twelve gentlemen of the
audience, requesting them to step on to the stage “to prove that there
is no deception in my spiritualism.”
Upon this Mr. Booth, myself and the others mounted the stage and seated
ourselves on the twelve chairs. The lecturer politely thanked us and
went on to say that while he was away robing himself the gentleman at
the piano would favour the audience with a selection from the national
airs of America. Then he made his exit.
We soon discovered that the repertoire of the gentleman at the piano
was extremely limited. It consisted of only one air--“Yankee Doodle.”
We had “Yankee Doodle,” “Yankee Doodle” over and over again _ad
nauseam_. The tune might have been a squirrel in a revolving cage or a
steam roundabout organ at a country fair.
We waited patiently for half an hour. No lecturer turned up.
No--nothing, in fact, save the eternal “Yankee Doodle.” The audience
grew fidgety; then somebody shouted, somebody else followed, and at
last dimly realising that they had been “had,” an indignant crowd
rushed upon the stage, bent upon taking the lives of the twelve
gentlemen in the twelve chairs under the impression that they were
parties in the swindle. Nothing but the fact of Mr. Booth being
extremely well-known saved us. Yells were heard for the money to be
returned, but no money was forthcoming, the “lecturer” having hopped
away with it some time before. I fancy the poor piano suffered. Some of
us had a little bit of it as a relic. It had played its last “Yankee
Doodle.”
My next engagement was with Barnum, Bailey and Hutchinson’s show, and
we opened in Madison Square Gardens in New York. This was in 1880,
when for some reason or another, or perhaps no reason at all, there
came about a boom in elephants. Perhaps it was due to the attraction
of “Jumbo” at the Regent’s Park Zoo, an immense favourite--in more
senses than one--with the children and believed to be the biggest tame
elephant in the world. Anyhow, everybody was going mad over elephants,
and we at Barnum and Bailey’s believed we had scored over any other
show in Christendom when it was discovered that one of our lady
elephants was about to become a mother. All the necessary preparations
were made, expectation ran high, and at last the youngster came into
the world. It at once became a celebrity and a star, for it was the
only elephant known to be born in bondage. Barnum and Bailey, you may
be sure, made the most of the treasure. The birth was advertised in
one way or another all over the world, and we had doctors from every
part of the States and a few from Europe to see the marvellous little
creature. The mother of the baby elephant was called Mother Hebe--and a
dear kind mother she was. It was a pretty sight if somewhat grotesque
to see her suckle the infant, which she did in quite a human fashion
and totally different from the method adopted by any other animal.
Every afternoon at 4.30 I used to play with the baby elephant. I was
as punctual as clockwork--a very important thing in the training of an
animal’s affections--and I never missed a day. When the baby was six
months old I was nowhere in the game. He was thoroughly master of me
and used to enjoy butting me all over the place. I do believe the old
mother liked to see her son romping with me.
After the animals went into quarters for the winter I did not see my
playmate for fifteen years, when the Barnum Show coming to Olympia
in London, I called and asked Mr. Bailey what had become of the baby
elephant. “You’ll find him the first elephant round the corner,” said
Mr. Bailey. I went and spoke to him and he nearly went off his head
with joy, so much so that he became really dangerous from excitement,
and I had to leave. Elephants rarely forget kindnesses, but a fifteen
years’ memory was a tall order and familiar as I was with the ways of
animals I was quite taken by surprise.
In the course of its wanderings Barnum and Bailey’s show found itself
some time in 1881 at Chester, Pennsylvania. One evening about five
o’clock when I was having tea at my hotel, Mr. Bailey came in. Said he:
“Whimmy, I want you to go to Paris.” Thinking he meant Paris in New
York State I said: “All right. When?”
“Well,” he returned, “you can catch the mail train to New York to-night
and catch the steamer _Alaska_ for Liverpool.”
“Oh, then you mean the Paris in France.”
“Yes.”
Upon this I went to my wife and told her. She agreed and suggested that
while I was in England I might go and see the children, who were in
Hull. As for herself, she would be quite safe in America as Mr. Bailey
would see that she was looked after.
Then came a little mystery which made me fancy I was an important
diplomatic agent engaged on a mission which might plunge the world into
war.
“Whimmy,” said Mr. Bailey, when I was ready to start, “I wish you to
give me your word of honour that you will not open this sealed envelope
until you pass the Goddess of Liberty.”
The Goddess of Liberty, of course, is the enormous figure which is so
prominent an object to all steamers coming to or going from New York.
I gave my promise, said good-bye to my wife, and with my kit, a couple
of shirts, socks, collars and so on, I caught the train to New York and
boarded the _Alaska_.
I needn’t say that I was all agog with curiosity to know what my
“sealed orders” contained, for Mr. Bailey hadn’t given me the slightest
idea of what my mission to Paris meant, and the minute the _Alaska_
passed the Goddess of Liberty I broke open the envelope. These were the
instructions I found inside:
“Go to the Grand Hotel, Paris. There our representative, Davis, is
lying dangerously ill. Do the best for him. Should he have gone before
you get there, get all his papers and see him put away regardless of
expense. After doing your business there go to the Zoological Gardens
and buy “Jumbo.” Don’t give more than 5,000 dollars, and return after
you have finished your business; also bring the Liliputian Aztecs with
you.”
For some months previous the most important topic discussed in London
was the fate of “Jumbo.” The big elephant was now twenty years of age
and though perfectly docile in his daily duty of giving children rides
in the gardens, and quite friendly with and obedient to Scott, his
keeper, had when in confinement periods of irritability. There were
reasons for this, and among others was the constant gorging of buns
and various dainties of the same character and the want of sufficient
exercise. It was known that the Fellows of the Royal Zoological Society
were seriously perturbed what to do with the public’s pet, and at last
it was announced that the dearly beloved “Jumbo” must either be sold or
shot!
Instantly a tremendous furore burst out. Ladies and children swarmed
to the Zoo and “Jumbo” had the time of his life in the way of being
pampered. One lady never missed a day in taking a packet to the huge
beast and dropping a few tears of sympathy. But the fiat had gone
forth. “Jumbo” must be sold, for here was I, having taken on the
responsibilities of Mr. Davis, representing Barnum and Bailey, ready to
plank down the purchase money.
When this fact was announced a squabble arose among the Fellows. A
certain section swore by all the gods that “Jumbo” should not leave
the country, and applied to the Court of Chancery for an injunction
to restrain the Council from selling him, on the ground that they had
no power under their charter. During the hearing of the application
on March 7th, 1882, before Mr. Justice Chitty, it was stated by the
Secretary of the Society that Barnum’s offer had been received on
October 12th, 1881, and that it was resolved to accept this offer. He
considered they had delivered “Jumbo” to Mr. Barnum when the £2,000
was paid. He then told Barnum’s agent that he was the owner of the
elephant, but that if he liked he would keep him for a short time on
deposit.
Mr. Bartlett, the Superintendent of the Gardens, gave some interesting
evidence. Numerous elephants he had known had become dangerous and had
killed persons and had to be shot. “Jumbo” had at times in the last
two years shown signs of “must.” Last autumn he had smashed oak bars
eight inches square, lined with iron, by striking them with his head.
If the Society kept him, they would have to build a special house for
him as the present one was not strong enough. The only thing that could
be done when he went “must” would be to chain him down and put him on
half rations.
The upshot of the matter was that Mr. Justice Chitty decided that when
the secretary reported on the 22nd February that the money had been
paid the elephant was sold and that the Council had power to sell. In
spite of this decision, lamentations went up, and one of “Jumbo’s”
indignant friends tried to start a subscription to keep him in the
country.
Of course, the excitement and sentimentalism over the exodus of the
big beast was all to the good from the showman’s point of view. Mr.
Bailey knew what he was about and he cabled to me to give a dinner to
the Press at the Zoological Gardens before taking away the pet of the
British public.
This dinner took place on a Friday evening and “Jumbo” was to leave
on the following day. While we were enjoying ourselves at the dinner,
Scott, “Jumbo’s” keeper at the Zoo, called me out and told me that
it was impossible to ship “Jumbo” that night as the elephant had
positively refused to enter the travelling car which had been specially
prepared for his conveyance to the docks.
I may say that this car was of peculiar construction. It was more
like a tunnel than a car, being open at both ends, which were to be
closed when “Jumbo” was inside. So many years have elapsed and so many
of those in the “know” have passed away that there is no harm now
in telling the story of “Jumbo” as seen from the inside. The tunnel
arrangement was adopted with a view to taking “Jumbo” in. It was
thought that when he saw the trees, grass, flowers and so on through
the end he would readily enter the tunnel under the impression that he
was walking into the open air. It is my belief that “Jumbo” was far too
shrewd to be “codded”--to use showman’s slang--in this manner.
Besides--and this is where the secret comes in--Mr. Barnum, like
Pharaoh of old, had--so to speak--hardened his heart and would not
let “Jumbo” go. Why should he be in a hurry. The English and American
papers were paragraphing the obstinacy of “Jumbo” day after day, the
difficulties of removal were made as much of as possible. Barnum was
delighted with the fantastic notion that forty millions in Great
Britain were tearing their hair in their anguish at having to part with
their beloved beast, while fifty millions in America were going through
the same operation lest at the eleventh hour something might happen to
prevent them gloating over the possession of the precious pachyderm. It
was a showman’s policy to keep up the excitement for the sake of the
advertisement, and so while it was made out that superhuman efforts
were being made to induce “Jumbo” to set foot in the car, as a matter
of fact this was the last thing desired until there were signs of the
strain on the public mind giving way.
I needn’t say that I put on an expression of intense anxiety when
I announced to the feasting pressmen that I must deal with the
difficulty at once, and as my absence did not mean any cessation of
the festivities, I don’t think they minded my going very much. The
result was that I hurried off, took a hansom to the American Exchange,
and cabled to Mr. Bailey: “Cannot get ‘Jumbo’ away this week. Waiting
instructions from you.” Mr. Bailey cabled in return, “Keep ‘Jumbo’ back
until further orders.” I did. I kept him for six weeks. The _Persian
Monarch_, which had been chartered, sailed without him, and all this
time “Jumbo” obligingly refused to enter his tunnel-car.
When it was considered a suitable moment “Jumbo” was induced to take
up his quarters in the travelling box, which with its living freight
did not weigh much less than 12 tons. An inclined plane had been cut in
the ground to make the floor of the box level with that of the cage,
and all went well until in turning a corner in a somewhat narrow path a
soft bit of gravel was reached, some stupid person called out “Whoa!”
and the team of six powerful dray horses stopped in this awkward
place. Before they could go on again, the wheels had sunk down to the
axles. Here the box remained until night. The horses had to be taken
out while powerful jacks were used to raise the conveyance, which was
accomplished a little before midnight, “Jumbo” in the meantime having
alternate fits of irritation and calmness. A little after 1 a.m. a fair
start was made, and at length the road outside the Gardens was reached,
and without further mishap the car was brought alongside the _Assyrian
Monarch_ at Millwall Docks.