BARNUM ON A RAIL.BARNUM ON A RAIL.
“My dear Mr. Barnum,” he replied, “it was all for our good. Remember, all we need to insure success is notoriety. You will see that this will be noised all about town as a trick played by one of the circus managers upon the other, and our pavilion will be crammed to-morrow night.”
It was even so; the trick was told all over town and every one came to see the circus managers who were in a habit of playing practical jokes upon each other. We had fine audiences while we remained at Annapolis, but it was a long time before I forgave Turner for his rascally “joke.”
THREE MEALS AND LODGING IN ONE HOUR—TURNING THE TABLES ON TURNER—A SON AS OLD AS HIS FATHER—LEAVING THE CIRCUS WITH TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS—MY FIRST TRAVELLING COMPANY—PREACHING TO THE PEOPLE—APPEARING AS A NEGRO MINSTREL—THREATENED WITH ASSASSINATION—ESCAPES FROM DANGER—TEMPERANCE—REPORT OF MY ARREST FOR MURDER—RE-ENFORCING MY COMPANY—“BARNUM’S GRAND SCIENTIFIC AND MUSICAL THEATRE”—OUTWITTING A SHERIFF—“LADY HAYES’S” MANSION AND PLANTATION—A BRILLIANT AUDIENCE—BASS DRUM SOLO—CROSSING THE INDIAN NATION—JOE PENTLAND AS A SAVAGE—TERROR AND FLIGHT OF VIVALLA—A NONPLUSSED LEGERDEMAIN PERFORMER—A MALE EGG-LAYER—DISBANDING MY COMPANY—A NEW PARTNERSHIP—PUBLIC LECTURING—DIFFICULTY WITH A DROVER—THE STEAMBOAT “CERES”—SUDDEN MARRIAGE ON BOARD—MOBBED IN LOUISIANA—ARRIVAL AT NEW ORLEANS.
THREE MEALS AND LODGING IN ONE HOUR—TURNING THE TABLES ON TURNER—A SON AS OLD AS HIS FATHER—LEAVING THE CIRCUS WITH TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS—MY FIRST TRAVELLING COMPANY—PREACHING TO THE PEOPLE—APPEARING AS A NEGRO MINSTREL—THREATENED WITH ASSASSINATION—ESCAPES FROM DANGER—TEMPERANCE—REPORT OF MY ARREST FOR MURDER—RE-ENFORCING MY COMPANY—“BARNUM’S GRAND SCIENTIFIC AND MUSICAL THEATRE”—OUTWITTING A SHERIFF—“LADY HAYES’S” MANSION AND PLANTATION—A BRILLIANT AUDIENCE—BASS DRUM SOLO—CROSSING THE INDIAN NATION—JOE PENTLAND AS A SAVAGE—TERROR AND FLIGHT OF VIVALLA—A NONPLUSSED LEGERDEMAIN PERFORMER—A MALE EGG-LAYER—DISBANDING MY COMPANY—A NEW PARTNERSHIP—PUBLIC LECTURING—DIFFICULTY WITH A DROVER—THE STEAMBOAT “CERES”—SUDDEN MARRIAGE ON BOARD—MOBBED IN LOUISIANA—ARRIVAL AT NEW ORLEANS.
Anamusing incident occurred when we were at Hanover Court House, in Virginia. It rained so heavily that we could not perform there and Turner decided to start for Richmond immediately after dinner, when he was informed by the landlord that as our agent had engaged three meals and lodging for the whole company, the entire bill must be paid whether we went then, or next morning. No compromise could be effected with the stubborn landlord and so Turner proceeded to get the worth of his money as follows:
He ordered dinner at twelve o’clock, which was duly prepared and eaten. The table was cleared and re-set for supper at half-past twelve. At one o’clock we all went to bed, every man carrying a lighted candle to his room. There were thirty-six of us and we all undressed and tumbled into bed as if we were going tostay all night. In half an hour we rose and went down to the hot breakfast which Turner had demanded and which we found smoking on the table. Turner was very grave, the landlord was exceedingly angry, and the rest of us were convulsed with laughter at the absurdity of the whole proceeding. We disposed of our breakfast as if we had eaten nothing for ten hours and then started for Richmond with the satisfaction that we fairly settled with our unreasonable landlord.
At Richmond, after performances were over one night, I managed to partially pay Turner for his Avery trick. A dozen or more of us were enjoying ourselves in the sitting room of the hotel, telling stories and singing songs, when some of the company proposed sundry amusing arithmetical questions, followed by one from Turner, which was readily solved. Hoping to catch Turner I then proposed the following problem:
“Suppose a man is thirty years of age and he has a child one year of age; he is thirty times older than his child. When the child is thirty years old, the father, being sixty, is only twice as old as his child. When the child is sixty the father is ninety, and therefore only one-third older than the child. When the child is ninety the father is one hundred and twenty, and therefore only one-fourth older than the child. Thus you see, the child is gradually but surely gaining on the parent, and as he certainly continues to come nearer and nearer, in time he must overtake him. The question therefore is, suppose it was possible for them to live long enough, how old would the father be when the child overtook him and became of the same age?”
The company generally saw the catch; but Turner was very much interested in the problem, and althoughhe admitted he knew nothing about arithmetic he was convinced that as the son was gradually gaining on the father he must reach him if there was time enough—say, a thousand years, or so—for the race. But an old gentleman gravely remarked that the idea of a son becoming as old as his father while both were living was simply nonsense, and he offered to bet a dozen of champagne that the thing was impossible, even “in figures.” Turner, who was a betting man, and who thought the problem might be proved, accepted the wager; but he was soon convinced that however much the boy might relatively gain upon his father, there would always be thirty years difference in their ages. The champagne cost him $25, and he failed to see the fun of my arithmetic, though at last he acknowledged that it was a fair offset to the Avery trick.
We went from Richmond to Petersburg, and from that place to Warrenton, North Carolina, where, October 30th, my engagement expired with a profit to myself of $1,200. I now separated from the circus company, taking Vivalla, James Sanford, (a negro singer and dancer,) several musicians, horses, wagons, and a small canvas tent with which I intended to begin a travelling exhibition of my own. My company started and Turner took me on the way in his own carriage some twenty miles. We parted reluctantly and my friend wished me every success in my new venture.
On Saturday, November 12, 1836, we halted at Rocky Mount Falls, North Carolina, and on my way to the Baptist Church, Sunday morning, I noticed a stand and benches in a grove near by, and determined to speak to the people if I was permitted. The landlord who was with me said that the congregation, coming from a distanceto attend a single service, would be very glad to hear a stranger and I accordingly asked the venerable clergyman to announce that after service I would speak for half an hour in the grove. Learning that I was not a clergyman, he declined to give the notice, but said that he had no objection to my making the announcement, which I did, and the congregation, numbering about three hundred, promptly came to hear me.
I told them I was not a preacher and had very little experience in public speaking; but I felt a deep interest in matters of morality and religion, and would attempt, in a plain way, to set before them the duties and privileges of man. I appealed to every man’s experience, observation and reason, to confirm the Bible doctrine of wretchedness in vice and happiness in virtue. We cannot violate the laws of God with impunity, and he will not keep back the wages of well-doing. The outside show of things is of very small account. We must look to realities and not to appearances. “Diamonds may glitter on a vicious breast,” but “the soul’s calm sunshine and the heart-felt joy is virtue’s prize.” The rogue, the passionate man, the drunkard, are not to be envied even at the best, and a conscience hardened by sin is the most sorrowful possession we can think of. I went on in this way, with some scriptural quotations and familiar illustrations, for three-quarters of an hour. At the close of my address several persons took me by the hand, expressing themselves as greatly pleased and desiring to know my name; and I went away with the feeling that possibly I might have done some good in the beautiful grove on that charming Sunday morning.
When we were at Camden, South Carolina, Sanford suddenly left me, and as I had advertised negro songsand none of my company was competent to fill Sanford’s place, not to disappoint my audience, I blacked myself and sung the advertised songs, “Zip Coon,” etc., and to my surprise was much applauded, while two of the songs were encored. One evening after singing my songs I heard a disturbance outside the tent and going to the spot found a person disputing with my men. I took part on the side of the men, when the person who was quarrelling with them drew a pistol and exclaiming, “you black scoundrel! how dare you use such language to a white man,” he proceeded to cock it. I saw that he thought I was a negro and meant to blow my brains out. Quick as thought I rolled my sleeve up, showed my skin, and said, “I am as white as you are, sir.” He dropped his pistol in positive fright and begged my pardon. My presence of mind saved me.
On four different occasions in my life I have had a loaded pistol pointed at my head and each time I have escaped death by what seemed a miracle. I have also often been in deadly peril by accidents, and when I think of these things I realize my indebtedness to an all-protecting Providence. Reviewing my career, too, and considering the kind of company I kept for years and the associations with which I was surrounded and connected, I am surprised as well as grateful that I was not ruined. I honestly believe that I owe my preservation from the degradation of living and dying a loafer and a vagabond, to the single fact that I was never addicted to strong drink. To be sure, I have in times past drank liquor, but I have generally wholly abstained from intoxicating beverages, and for more than twenty years past, I am glad to say, I have been a strict “teetotaller.”
At Camden I lost one of my musicians, a Scotchman named Cochran, who was arrested for advising the negro barber who was shaving him to run away to the Free States or to Canada. I made every effort to effect Cochran’s release, but he was imprisoned more than six months.
While I was away from home I generally wrote twice a week to my family and received letters nearly as often from my wife. One of her letters, which I received in Columbia, South Carolina, informed me it was currently reported in Connecticut that I was under sentence of death in Canada for murder! The story grew out of a rumor about a difficulty in Canada between some rowdies and a circus company—not Turner’s,—for we met his troupe at Columbia, December 5, 1836. That company was then to be disbanded and I bought four horses and two wagons and hired Joe Pentland and Robert White to join my company. White, as a negro-singer, would relieve me from that roll, and Pentland, besides being a capital clown, was celebrated as a ventriloquist, comic singer, balancer, and legerdemain performer. My re-enforced exhibition was called “Barnum’s Grand Scientific and Musical Theatre.”
Some time previously, in Raleigh, North Carolina, I had sold one-half of my establishment to a man, whom I will call Henry, who now acted as treasurer and ticket-taker. At Augusta, Georgia, the sheriff served a writ upon this Henry for a debt of $500. As Henry had $600 of the company’s money in his possession, I immediately procured a bill of sale of all his property in the exhibition and returned to the theatre where Henry’s creditor and the creditor’s lawyer were waiting for me. They demanded the keys of the stable so as to levy onthe horses and wagons. I begged delay till I could see Henry, and they consented. Henry was anxious to cheat his creditor and he at once signed the bill of sale. I returned and informed the creditor that Henry refused to pay or compromise the claim. The sheriff then demanded the keys of the stable door to attach Henry’s interest in the property. “Not yet,” said I, showing a bill of sale, “you see I am in full possession of the property as entire owner. You confess that you have not yet levied on it, and if you touch my property, you do it at your peril.”
They were very much taken aback and the sheriff immediately conveyed Henry to prison. The next day I learned that Henry owed his creditors thirteen hundred dollars and that he had agreed when the Saturday evening performance was ended to hand over five hundred dollars (company money) and a bill of sale of his interest, in consideration of which one of the horses was to be ready for him to run away with, leaving me in the lurch! Learning this, I had very little sympathy for Henry and my next step was to secure the five hundred dollars he had secreted. Vivalla had obtained it from him to keep it from the sheriff; I received it from Vivalla, on Henry’s order, as a supposed means of procuring bail for him on Monday morning. I then paid the creditor the full amount obtained from Henry as the price of his half interest in the exhibition and received in return an assignment of five hundred dollars of the creditor’s claims and a guaranty that I should not be troubled by my late partner on that score. Thus, promptness of action and good luck relieved me from one of the most unpleasant positions in which I had ever been placed.
While travelling with our teams and show through a desolate part of Georgia, our advertiser, who was in advance of the party, finding the route, on one occasion, too long for us to reach a town at night, arranged with a poor widow woman named Hayes to furnish us with meals and let us lodge in her hut and out-houses. It was a beggarly place, belonging to one of the poorest of “poor whites.” Our horses were to stand out all night, and a farmer, six miles distant, was to bring a load of provender on the day of our arrival. Bills were then posted announcing a performance under a canvas tent near Widow Hayes’s, for, as a show was a rarity in that region, it was conjectured that a hundred or more small farmers and “poor whites” might be assembled and that the receipts would cover the expenses.
Meanwhile, our advertiser, who was quite a wag, wrote back informing us of the difficulties of reaching a town on that part of our route and stating that he had made arrangements for us to stay over night on the plantation of “Lady Hayes,” and that although the country was sparsely settled, we could doubtless give a profitable performance to a fair audience.
Anticipating a fine time on this noble “plantation,” we started at four o’clock in the morning so as to arrive at one o’clock, thus avoiding the heat of the afternoon. Towards noon we came to a small river where some men, whom we afterwards discovered to be down-east Yankees, from Maine, were repairing a bridge. Every flooring plank had been taken up and it was impossible for our teams to cross. “Could the bridge be fixed so that we could go over?” I inquired; “No; it would take half a day, and meantime if we mustcross, there was a place about sixteen miles down the river where we could get over.” “But we can’t go so far as that; we are under engagement to perform on Lady Hayes’s place to-night and we must cross here. Fix the bridge and we will pay you handsomely.”
They wanted no money, but if we would give them some tickets to our show they thought they might do something for us. I gladly consented and in fifteen minutes we crossed that bridge. The cunning rascals had seen our posters and knew we were coming; so they had taken up the planks of the bridge and had hidden them till they had levied upon us for tickets, when the floor was re-laid in a quarter of an hour. We laughed heartily at the trick and were very glad to cross so cheaply.
Towards dinner time, we began to look out for the grand mansion of “Lady Hayes,” and seeing nothing but little huts we quietly pursued our journey. At one o’clock—the time when we should have arrived at our destination—I became impatient and riding up to a poverty-stricken hovel and seeing a ragged, barefooted old woman, with her sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, who was washing clothes in front of the door, I inquired—
“Hallo! can you tell me where Lady Hayes lives?”
The old woman raised her head, which was covered with tangled locks and matted hair, and exclaimed—
“Hey?”
“No, Hayes, Lady Hayes; where is her plantation?”
“This is the place,” she answered; “I’m Widder Hayes and you are all to stay here to-night.”
We could not believe our ears or eyes; but after putting the dirty old woman through a severe cross-examinationshe finally produced a contract, signed by our advertiser, agreeing for board and lodging for the company and we found ourselves booked for the night. It appeared that our advertiser could find no better quarters in that forlorn section and he had indulged in a joke at our expense by exciting our appetites and imaginations in anticipation of the luxuries we should find in the magnificent mansion of “Lady Hayes.”
Joe Pentland grumbled, Bob White indulged in some very strong language, and Signor Vivalla laughed. He had travelled with his monkey and organ in Italy and could put up with any fare that offered. I took the disappointment philosophically, simply remarking that we must make the best of it and compensate ourselves when we reached a town next day.
When the old woman called us to dinner we crept into her hut and found that she had improvised benches at her table by placing boards upon the only four chairs in her possession, and at that, some of us were obliged to stand. The dinner consisted of a piece of boiled smoked bacon, a large dish of “greens,” and corn bread. Three plates, two knives, and three forks made up the entire table furniture and compelled a resort to our jack-knives. “A short horse is soon curried,” and dinner was speedily despatched. It did not seem possible for an audience to assemble in that forsaken quarter, and we concluded not to take the canvas tent out of the wagon.
By three o’clock, however, at least fifty persons had arrived on the ground to attend the night show and they reported “more a coming.” Accordingly we put up the tent and arranged our small stage and curtains, preparing seats for two hundred people. Those who had already arrived were mostly women, many of themfrom sixteen to twenty years old—poor, thin, sallow-faced creatures, wretchedly clad, some of them engaged in smoking pipes, while the rest were chewing snuff. This latter process was new to me; each chewer was provided with a short stick, softened at one end, by chewing it, and this stick was occasionally dipped into a snuff box and then stuck into the mouth, from whence it protruded like a cigar. The technical term for the proceeding is “snuff-dipping.”
Before night, stragglers had brought the number of people on Lady Hayes’ plantation up to one hundred, and soon after dark, we opened our exhibition to an audience of about two hundred. The men were a pale, haggard set of uncombed, uncouth creatures, whose constantly-moving jaws and the streams of colored saliva exuding from the corners of their mouths indicated that they were confirmed tobacco chewers. I never saw a more stupid and brutish assemblage of human beings. The performance delighted them; Pentland’s sleight-of-hand tricks astonished them and led them to declare that he must be in league with the evil one; Signor Vivalla’s ball-tossing and plate spinning elicited their loudest applause; and Bob White’s negro songs and break-downs made them fairly scream with laughter.
At last, the performance terminated and Pentland stepped forward and delivered the closing address, which he had repeated, word for word, a hundred times, and which was precisely as follows:
“Ladies and Gentlemen: The entertainments of the evening have now come to a conclusion, and, we hope, to your general satisfaction.”
But now came a dilemma; the meaning of thisannouncement was quite above the comprehension of the audience; they had not the remotest idea that the performance was finished, and they sat like statues.
With a hearty laugh at Pentland I told him that his language was not understood in this locality and that he must try again. He was chagrined, and declared that he would not say another word. Little Vivalla laughed, danced around like a monkey, and said, in his broken English:
“Ah, ha! Signor Pentland; you no speak good Eenglish, hah! These educated peoples no understand you, eh? By gar what d——d fools. Ah, Signor Barnum, let me speaks to them; I will make them jump double queek.”
I quite enjoyed the fun and said, “Well, Signor, go ahead.”
The little Italian jumped upon the stage and with a broad grimace and tremendous gesture exclaimed—
“Eet is feenish!”
He then retired behind the curtain, but, of course, the audience did not understand that he had told them the performance was finished. No one would have understood him. Hence, the spectators sat still, wondering what would come next. “By gar,” said Vivalla, losing his temper, “I will give them a hint,” and he loosened the cord and down fell the curtain on one side of the stage.
“Good, good,” cried out an enthusiastic “poor white,” giving his quid a fresh roll to the other side of his mouth, “now we are going to have something new.”
“I reckon they’s totin’ that plunder off to get ready for a dance,” said a delicate “dipper,” making a lunge into her box for another mouthful of the dust.
Things were becoming serious, and I saw that in order to get rid of these people they must be addressed in plain language; so, walking upon the stage, I simply said, making at the same time a motion for them to go,—
“It is all over; no more performance; the show is out.”
This was understood, but they still stood upon the order of their going and were loth to leave, especially as the, to them, extraordinary announcements of Pentland and Vivalla had prepared them for something fresh. Several days before, our band of musicians had left us, reducing our orchestra to an organ and pipes, ground and blown by an Italian whom we had picked up on the road. We had, in addition, a large bass drum, with no one to beat it, and this drum was espied by some of the audience in going out. Very soon I was waited upon by a masculine committee of three, who informed me that “the young ladies were very anxious to hear a tune on the big drum.” Pentland heard the request and replied, “I will accommodate the young ladies,” and strapping on the drum he took a stick in each hand and began to pound tremendously. Occasionally he would rap the sticks together, toss one of them into the air, catching it as it came down, and then pound away again like mad. In fact, he cut up all sorts of pranks with that big drum and when he was tired out and stopped, he was gratified at being told by the “young ladies” that they had never heard a big drum before, but he “played it splendid,” and they thought it was altogether the best part of the entire performance!
The next forenoon we arrived at Macon, and congratulatedourselves that we had again reached the regions of civilization.
In going from Columbus, Georgia, to Montgomery, Alabama, we were obliged to cross a thinly-settled, desolate tract, known as the “Indian Nation,” and as several persons had been murdered by hostile Indians in that region, it was deemed dangerous to travel the road without an escort. Only the day before we started, the mail stage had been stopped and the passengers murdered, the driver alone escaping. We were well armed, however, and trusted that our numbers would present too formidable a force to be attacked, though we dreaded to incur the risk. Vivalla alone was fearless and was ready to encounter fifty Indians and drive them into the swamp.
Accordingly, when we had safely passed over the entire route to within fourteen miles of Montgomery, and were beyond the reach of danger, Joe Pentland determined to test Vivalla’s bravery. He had secretly purchased at Mount Megs, on the way, an old Indian dress with a fringed hunting shirt and moccasins and these he put on, after coloring his face with Spanish brown. Then, shouldering his musket he followed Vivalla and the party and, approaching stealthily, leaped into their midst with a tremendous whoop.
Vivalla’s companions were in the secret, and they instantly fled in all directions. Vivalla himself ran like a deer and Pentland after him, gun in hand and yelling horribly. After running a full mile the poor little Italian, out of breath and frightened nearly to death, dropped on his knees and begged for his life. The “Indian” levelled his gun at his victim, but soon seemed to relent and signified that Vivalla should turnhis pockets inside out—which he did, producing and handing over a purse, containing eleven dollars. The savage then marched Vivalla to an oak and with a handkerchief tied him in the most approved Indian manner to the tree, leaving him half dead with fright.
Pentland then joined us, and washing his face and changing his dress, we all went to the relief of Vivalla. He was overjoyed to see us, and when he was released his courage returned; he swore that after his companions left him the Indian had been re-enforced by six more to whom, in default of a gun or other means to defend himself, Vivalla had been compelled to surrender. We pretended to believe his story for a week and then told him the joke, which he refused to credit, and also declined to take the money which Pentland offered to return, as it could not possibly be his since seven Indians had taken his money. We had a great deal of fun over Vivalla’s courage, but the matter made him so cross and surly that we were finally obliged to drop it altogether. From that time forward, however, Vivalla never boasted of his prowess.
We arrived at Montgomery, February 28th, 1837. Here I met Henry Hawley a legerdemain performer, about forty-five years of age, but as he was prematurely gray he looked at least seventy, and I sold him one-half of my exhibition. He had a ready wit, a happy way of localizing his tricks, was very popular in that part of the country, where he had been performing for several years, and I never saw him nonplussed but once. This was when he was performing on one occasion the well-known egg and bag trick, which he did with his usual success, producing egg after egg from the bag and
THE COWARD AND THE “BRAVE.”THE COWARD AND THE “BRAVE.”
finally breaking one to show that they were genuine. “Now,” said Hawley, “I will show you the old hen that laid them.” It happened, however, that the negro boy to whom had been intrusted the duty of supplying the bag had made a slight mistake which was manifest when Hawley triumphantly produced, not “the old hen that laid the eggs,” but a rooster! The whole audience was convulsed with laughter and the abashed Hawley retreated to the dressing room cursing the stupidity of the black boy who had been paid to put a hen in the bag.
After performing in different places in Alabama, Kentucky, and Tennessee, we disbanded at Nashville in May, 1837, Vivalla going to New York, where he performed on his own account for a while previous to sailing for Cuba, Hawley staying in Tennessee to look after our horses which had been turned out to grass, and I returning home to spend a few weeks with my family.
Early in July, returning west with a new company of performers, I rejoined Hawley and we began our campaign in Kentucky. We were not successful; one of our small company was incompetent; another was intemperate—both were dismissed; and our negro-singer was drowned in the river at Frankfort. Funds were low and I was obliged to leave pledges here and there, in payment for bills, which I afterwards redeemed. Hawley and I dissolved in August and making a new partnership with Z. Graves, I left him in charge of the establishment and went to Tiffin, Ohio, where I re-engaged Joe Pentland, buying his horses and wagons and taking him, with several musicians, to Kentucky.
During my short stay at Tiffin, a religious conversation at the hotel introduced me to several gentlemenwho requested me to lecture on the subjects we had discussed, and I did so to a crowded audience in the school-house Sunday afternoon and evening. At the solicitation of a gentleman from Republic, I also delivered two lectures in that town on the evenings of September 4th and 5th.
On our way to Kentucky, just before we reached Cincinnati, we met a drove of hogs and one of the drivers making an insolent remark because our wagons interfered with his swine, I replied in the same vein, when he dismounted and pointing a pistol at my breast swore he would shoot me if I did not apologize. I begged him to permit me to consult with a friend in the next wagon, and the misunderstanding should be satisfactorily settled. My friend was a loaded double-barreled gun which I pointed at him and said:
“Now, sir,youmust apologize, for your brains are in danger. You drew a weapon upon me for a trivial remark. You seem to hold human life at a cheap price; and now, sir, you have the choice between a load of shot and an apology.”
This led to an apology and a friendly conversation in which we both agreed that many a life is sacrificed in sudden anger because one or both of the contending parties carry deadly weapons.
In our subsequent southern tour we exhibited at Nashville (where I visited General Jackson, at the Hermitage), Huntsville, Tuscaloosa, Vicksburg and intermediate places, doing tolerably well. At Vicksburg we sold all our land conveyances, excepting the band wagon and four horses, bought the steamboat “Ceres” for six thousand dollars, hired the captain and crew, and started down the river to exhibit at places onthe way. At Natchez our cook left us and in the search for another I found a white widow who would go, only she expected to marry a painter. I called on the painter who had not made up his mind whether to marry the widow or not, but I told him if he would marry her the next morning I would hire her at twenty-five dollars a month as cook, employ him at the same wages as painter, with board for both, and a cash bonus of fifty dollars. There was a wedding on board the next day and we had a good cook and a good dinner.
During one of our evening performances at Francisville, Louisiana, a man tried to pass me at the door of the tent, claiming that he had paid for admittance. I refused him entrance; and as he was slightly intoxicated he struck me with a slung shot, mashing my hat and grazing what phrenologists call “the organ of caution.” He went away and soon returned with a gang of armed and half-drunken companions who ordered us to pack up our “traps and plunder” and to get on board our steamboat within an hour. The big tent speedily came down. No one was permitted to help us, but the company worked with a will and within five minutes of the expiration of the hour we were on board and ready to leave. The scamps who had caused our departure escorted us and our last load, waving pine torches, and saluted us with a hurrah as we swung into the stream.
The New Orleans papers of March 19, 1838, announced the arrival of the “Steamer Ceres, Captain Barnum, with a theatrical company.” After a week’s performances, we started for the Attakapas country. At Opelousas we exchanged the steamer for sugar and molasses; our company was disbanded, and I started for home, arriving in New York, June 4, 1838.
DISGUST AT THE TRAVELLING BUSINESS—ADVERTISING FOR AN ASSOCIATE—RUSH OF THE MILLION-MAKERS—COUNTERFEITERS, CHEATS AND QUACKS—A NEW BUSINESS—SWINDLED BY MY PARTNER—DIAMOND THE DANCER—A NEW COMPANY—DESERTIONS—SUCCESSES AT NEW ORLEANS—TYRONE POWER AND FANNY ELLSLER—IN JAIL AGAIN—BACK TO NEW YORK—ACTING AS A BOOK AGENT—LEASING VAUXHALL—FROM HAND TO MOUTH—DETERMINATION TO MAKE MONEY—FORTUNE OPENING HER DOOR—THE AMERICAN MUSEUM FOR SALE—NEGOTIATIONS FOR THE PURCHASE—HOPES AND DISAPPOINTMENTS—THE TRAIN LAID—SMASHING A RIVAL COMPANY.
DISGUST AT THE TRAVELLING BUSINESS—ADVERTISING FOR AN ASSOCIATE—RUSH OF THE MILLION-MAKERS—COUNTERFEITERS, CHEATS AND QUACKS—A NEW BUSINESS—SWINDLED BY MY PARTNER—DIAMOND THE DANCER—A NEW COMPANY—DESERTIONS—SUCCESSES AT NEW ORLEANS—TYRONE POWER AND FANNY ELLSLER—IN JAIL AGAIN—BACK TO NEW YORK—ACTING AS A BOOK AGENT—LEASING VAUXHALL—FROM HAND TO MOUTH—DETERMINATION TO MAKE MONEY—FORTUNE OPENING HER DOOR—THE AMERICAN MUSEUM FOR SALE—NEGOTIATIONS FOR THE PURCHASE—HOPES AND DISAPPOINTMENTS—THE TRAIN LAID—SMASHING A RIVAL COMPANY.
IHAVEsaid that the show business has as many grades of dignity as trade, which ranges all the way from the mammoth wholesale establishment down to the corner stand. The itinerant amusement business is at the bottom of the ladder. I had begun there, but I had no wish to stay there; in fact, I was thoroughly disgusted with the trade of a travelling showman, and although I felt that I could succeed in that line, yet I always regarded it, not as an end, but as a means to something better.
Longing now for some permanent respectable business, I advertised for a partner, stating that I had $2,500 to invest and would add my unremitting personal attention to the capital and the business. This advertisement gave me an altogether new insight into human nature. Whoever wishes to know how some people live, or want to live, let him advertise for a partner, at the same time stating that he has a large or small capital to invest. I was flooded with answers to my advertisements and received no less than ninety-threedifferent propositions for the use of my capital. Of these, at least one-third were from porter-house keepers. Brokers, pawnbrokers, lottery-policy dealers, patent medicine men, inventors, and others also made application. Some of my correspondents declined to specifically state the nature of their business, but they promised to open the door to untold wealth.
I had interviews with some of these mysterious million-makers. One of them was a counterfeiter, who, after much hesitation and pledges of secrecy showed me some counterfeit coin and bank notes; he wanted $2,500 to purchase paper and ink and to prepare new dies, and he actually proposed that I should join him in the business which promised, he declared, a safe and rich harvest. Another sedate individual, dressed in Quaker costume, wanted me to join him in an oat speculation. By buying a horse and wagon and by selling oats, bought at wholesale, in bags, he thought a good business could be done, especially as people would not be particular to measure after a Quaker.
“Do you mean to cheat in measuring your oats?” I asked.
“O, I should probably make them hold out,” he answered, with a leer.
One application came from a Pearl street wool merchant, who failed a month afterwards. Then came a “perpetual motion” man who had a fortune-making machine, in which I discovered a main-spring slyly hid in a hollow post, the spring making perpetual motion—till it ran down. Finally, I went into partnership with a German, named Proler, who was a manufacturer of paste-blacking, water-proof paste for leather, Cologne water and bear’s grease. We took the store No. 101½Bowery, at a rent (including the dwelling) of $600 per annum, and opened a large manufactory of the above articles. Proler manufactured and sold the goods at wholesale in Boston, Charleston, Cleveland, and various other parts of the country. I kept the accounts, and attended to sales in the store, wholesale and retail. For a while the business seemed to prosper—at least till my capital was absorbed and notes for stock began to fall due, with nothing to meet them, since we had sold our goods on long credits. In January, 1840, I dissolved partnership with Proler, he buying the entire interest for $2,600 on credit, and then running away to Rotterdam without paying his note, and leaving me nothing but a few recipes. Proler was a good-looking, plausible, promising—scamp.
During my connection with Proler, I became acquainted with a remarkable young dancer named John Diamond. He was one of the first and best of the numerous negro and “break-down” dancers who have since surprised and amused the public, and I entered into an engagement with his father for his services, putting Diamond in the hands of an agent, as I did not wish to appear in the transaction. In the spring of 1840, I hired and opened the Vauxhall Garden saloon, in New York, and gave a variety of performances, including singing, dancing, Yankee stories, etc. In this saloon Miss Mary Taylor, afterwards so celebrated as an actress and singer, made her first appearance on the stage. The enterprise, however, did not meet my expectation and I relinquished it in August.
What was to be done next? I dreaded resuming the life of an itinerant showman, but funds were low, I had a family to care for, and as nothing better presented Imade up my mind to endure the vexations and uncertainties of a tour in the West and South. I collected a company, consisting of Mr. C. D. Jenkins, an excellent singer and delineator of Yankee and other characters; Master John Diamond, the dancer; Francis Lynch, an orphan vagabond, fourteen years old, whom I picked up at Troy, and a fiddler. My brother-in-law, Mr. John Hallett, preceded us as agent and advertiser, and our route passed through Buffalo, Toronto, Detroit, Chicago, Ottawa, Springfield, the intermediate places, and St. Louis, where I took the steamboat for New Orleans with a company reduced by desertions to Master Diamond and the fiddler.
Arriving in New Orleans, January 2, 1841, I had but $100 in my purse, and I had started from New York four months before with quite as much in my pocket. Excepting some small remittances to my family I had made nothing more than current expenses; and, when I had been in New Orleans a fortnight, funds were so low that I was obliged to pledge my watch as security for my board bill. But on the 16th, I received from the St. Charles Theatre $500 as my half share of Diamond’s benefit; the next night I had $50; and the third night $479 was my share of the proceeds of a grand dancing match at the theatre between Diamond and a negro dancer from Kentucky. Subsequent engagements at Vicksburg and Jackson were not so successful, but returning to New Orleans we again succeeded admirably and afterwards at Mobile. Diamond, however, after extorting considerable sums of money from me, finally ran away, and, March 12th, I started homeward by way of the Mississippi and the Ohio.
While I was in New Orleans I made the acquaintanceof that genial man, Tyrone Power, who was just concluding an engagement at the St. Charles Theatre. In bidding me farewell, he wished me every success and hoped we should meet again. Alas, poor Power! All the world knows how he set sail from our shores, and he and his ship were never seen again. Fanny Ellsler was also in New Orleans, and when I saw seats in the dress circle sold at an average of four dollars and one-half, I gave her agent, Chevalier Henry Wyckoff, great credit for exciting public enthusiasm to the highest pitch and I thought the prices enormous. I did not dream then that, within twelve years, I should be selling tickets in the same city for full five times that sum.
At Pittsburg, where I arrived March 30th, I learned that Jenkins, who had enticed Francis Lynch away from me at St. Louis, was exhibiting him at the Museum under the name of “Master Diamond,” and visiting the performance, the next day I wrote Jenkins an ironical review for which he threatened suit and he actually instigated R. W. Lindsay, from whom I hired Joice Heth in Philadelphia in 1835, and whom I had not seen since, though he was then residing in Pittsburg, to sue me for a pipe of brandy which, it was pretended, was promised in addition to the money paid him. I was required to give bonds of $500, which, as I was among strangers, I could not immediately procure, and I was accordingly thrown into jail till four o’clock in the afternoon, when I was liberated. The next day I caused the arrest of Jenkins for trespass in assuming Master Diamond’s name and reputation for Master Lynch, and he was sent to jail till four o’clock in the afternoon. Each having had his turn at this amusement, we adjourned our controversy to New York whereI beat him. As for Lindsay, I heard nothing more of his claim or him till twelve years afterwards when he called on me in Boston with an apology. He was very poor and I was highly prosperous, and I may add that Lindsay did not lack a friend.
I arrived in New York, April 23rd, 1841, after an absence of eight months; finding my family in good health, I resolved once more that I would never again be an itinerant showman. Three days afterwards I contracted with Robert Sears, the publisher, for five hundred copies of “Sears’ Pictorial Illustrations of the Bible,” at $500, and accepting the United States agency, I opened an office, May 10th, at the corner of Beekman and Nassau Streets, the site of the present Nassau Bank. I had had a limited experience with that book in this way: When I was in Pittsburg, an acquaintance, Mr. C. D. Harker, was complaining that he had nothing to do, when I picked up a New York paper and saw the advertisement of “Sears’s Pictorial Illustrations of the Bible, price $2 a copy.” Mr. Harker thought he could get subscribers, and I bought him a specimen copy, agreeing to furnish him with as many as he wanted at $1.37½ a copy, though I had never before seen the work and did not know the wholesale price. The result was that he obtained eighty subscribers in two days, and made $50. My own venture in the work was not so successful; I advertised largely, had plenty of agents, and, in six months, sold thousands of copies; but irresponsible agents used up all my profits and my capital.
While engaged in this business I once more leased Vauxhall saloon, opening it June 14th, 1841, employing Mr. John Hallett, my brother-in-law, asmanager under my direction, and at the close of the season, September 25th, we had cleared about two hundred dollars. This sum was soon exhausted, and with my family on my hands and no employment I was glad to do anything that would keep the wolf from the door. I wrote advertisements and notices for the Bowery Amphitheatre, receiving for the service four dollars a week, which I was very glad to get, and I also wrote articles for the Sunday papers, deriving a fair remuneration and managing to get a living. But I was at the bottom round of fortune’s ladder, and it was necessary to make an effort which would raise me above want.
I was specially stimulated to this effort by a letter which I received, about this time, from my esteemed friend, Hon. Thomas T. Whittlesey, of Danbury. He held a mortgage of five hundred dollars on a piece of property I owned in that place, and, as he was convinced that I would never lay up anything, he wrote me that I might as well pay him then as ever. This letter made me resolve to live no longer from hand to mouth, but to concentrate my energies upon laying up something for the future.
While I was forming this practical determination I was much nearer to its realization than my most sanguine hopes could have predicted. The road to fortune was close by. Without suspecting it, I was about to enter upon an enterprise, which, while giving full scope for whatever tact, industry and pluck I might possess, was to take me from the foot of the ladder and place me many rounds above.
As outside clerk for the Bowery Amphitheatre I had casually learned that the collection of curiositiescomprising Scudder’s American Museum, at the corner of Broadway and Ann Street, was for sale. It belonged to the daughters of Mr. Scudder, and was conducted for their benefit by John Furzman, under the authority of Mr. John Heath, administrator. The price asked for the entire collection was fifteen thousand dollars. It had cost its founder, Mr. Scudder, probably fifty thousand dollars, and from the profits of the establishment he had been able to leave a large competency to his children. The Museum, however, had been for several years a losing concern, and the heirs were anxious to sell it. Looking at this property, I thought I saw that energy, tact and liberality, were only needed to make it a paying institution, and I determined to purchase it if possible.
“You buy the American Museum!” said a friend, who knew the state of my funds, “what do you intend buying it with?”
“Brass,” I replied, “for silver and gold have I none.”
The Museum building belonged to Mr. Francis W. Olmsted, a retired merchant, to whom I wrote stating my desire to buy the collection, and that although I had no means, if it could, be purchased upon reasonable credit, I was confident that my tact and experience, added to a determined devotion to business, would enable me to make the payments when due. I therefore asked him to purchase the collection in his own name; to give me a writing securing it to me provided I made the payments punctually, including the rent of his building; to allow me twelve dollars and a half a week on which to support my family; and if at any time I failed to meet the instalment due, I would vacate the premises and forfeit all that might have been paid to that date.“In fact, Mr. Olmsted,” I continued in my earnestness, “you may bind me in any way, and as tightly as you please—only give me a chance to dig out, or scratch out, and I will do so or forfeit all the labor and trouble I may have incurred.”
In reply to this letter, which I took to his house myself, he named an hour when I could call on him, and as I was there at the exact moment, he expressed himself pleased with my punctuality. He inquired closely as to my habits and antecedents, and I frankly narrated my experiences as a caterer for the public, mentioning my amusement ventures in Vauxhall Garden, the circus, and in the exhibitions I had managed at the South and West.
“Who are your references?” he inquired.
“Any man in my line,” I replied, “from Edmund Simpson, manager of the Park Theatre, or William Niblo, to Messrs. Welch, June, Titus, Turner, Angevine, or other circus or menagerie proprietors; also Moses Y. Beach, of the New YorkSun.
“Can you get any of them to call on me?” he continued.
I told him that I could, and the next day my friend Niblo rode down and had an interview with Mr. Olmsted, while Mr. Beach and several other gentlemen also called, and the following morning I waited upon him for his decision.
“I don’t like your references, Mr. Barnum,” said Mr. Olmsted, abruptly, as soon as I entered the room.
I was confused, and said “I regretted to hear it.”
“They all speak too well of you,” he added, laughing; “in fact they all talk as if they were partners of yours, and intended to share the profits.”
Nothing could have pleased me better. He then asked me what security I could offer in case he concluded to make the purchase for me, and it was finally agreed that, if he should do so, he should retain the property till it was entirely paid for, and should also appoint a ticket-taker and accountant (at my expense), who should render him a weekly statement. I was further to take an apartment hitherto used as a billiard room in an adjoining building, allowing therefor, $500 a year, making a total rent of $3,000 per annum, on a lease of ten years. He then told me to see the administrator and heirs of the estate, to get their best terms, and to meet him on his return to town a week from that time.
I at once saw Mr. John Heath, the administrator, and his price was $15,000. I offered $10,000, payable in seven annual instalments, with good security. After several interviews, it was finally agreed that I should have it for $12,000, payable as above—possession to be given on the 15th November. Mr. Olmsted assented to this, and a morning was appointed to draw and sign the writings. Mr. Heath appeared, but said he must decline proceeding any farther in my case, as he had sold the collection to the directors of Peale’s Museum (an incorporated institution), for $15,000, and had received $1,000 in advance.
I was shocked, and appealed to Mr. Heath’s honor. He said that he had signed no writing with me; was in no way legally bound, and that it was his duty to do the best he could for the heirs. Mr. Olmsted was sorry, but could not help me; the new tenants would not require him to incur any risk, and my matter was at an end.
Of course, I immediately informed myself as to thecharacter of Peale’s Museum company. It proved to be a band of speculators who had bought Peale’s collection for a few thousand dollars, expecting to join the American Museum with it, issue and sell stock to the amount of $50,000, pocket $30,000 profits, and permit the stockholders to look out for themselves.
I went immediately to several of the editors, including Major M. M. Noah, M. Y. Beach, my good friends West, Herrick and Ropes, of theAtlas, and others, and stated my grievances. “Now,” said I, “if you will grant me the use of your columns, I’ll blow that speculation sky-high.” They all consented, and I wrote a large number of squibs, cautioning the public against buying the Museum stock, ridiculing the idea of a board of broken-down bank directors engaging in the exhibition of stuffed monkey and gander skins; appealing to the case of the Zoölogical Institute, which had failed by adopting such a plan as the one now proposed; and finally I told the public that such a speculation would be infinitely more ridiculous than Dickens’s “Grand United Metropolitan Hot Muffin and Crumpet-baking and Punctual Delivery Company.”
The stock was as “dead as a herring!” I then went to Mr. Heath and asked him when the directors were to pay the other $14,000. “On the 26th day of December, or forfeit the $1,000 already paid,” was the reply. I assured him that they would never pay it, that they could not raise it, and that he would ultimately find himself with the Museum collection on his hands, and if once I started off with an exhibition for the South, I would not touch the Museum atanyprice. “Now,” said I, “if you will agree with me confidentially, that in case these gentlemen do not pay you on the 26th ofDecember, I may have it on the 27th for $12,000, I will run the risk, and wait in this city until that date.” He readily agreed to the proposition, but said he was sure they would not forfeit their $1,000.
“Very well,” said I; “all I ask of you is, that this arrangement shall not be mentioned.” He assented. “On the 27th day of December, at ten o’clock A. M., I wish you to meet me in Mr. Olmsted’s apartments, prepared to sign the writings, provided this incorporated company do not pay you $14,000 on the 26th.” He agreed to this, and by my request put it in writing.
From that moment I felt that the Museum was mine. I saw Mr. Olmsted, and told him so. He promised secrecy, and agreed to sign the documents if the other parties did not meet their engagement.
This was about November 15th, and I continued my shower of newspaper squibs at the new company, which could not sell a dollar’s worth of its stock. Meanwhile, if any one spoke to me about the Museum, I simply replied that I had lost it.