MANURE CART EXPRESS.MANURE CART EXPRESS.
“It is impossible,” replied the farmer; “I should want two hours for my horse to do it in.”
“But ours is a very pressing case, and if we are not there in time we lose more than five hundred francs,” said Stratton.
The old farmer pricked up his ears at this, and agreed to get us to Brussels in an hour, for eighty francs. Stratton tried to beat him down, but it was of no use.
“Oh, go it, Stratton,” said Sherman; “eighty francs you know is only sixteen dollars, and you will probably save a hundred by it, for I expect a full house at our afternoon exhibition to-day.”
“But I have already spent about ten dollars for nonsense,” said Stratton, “and we shall have to pay for the broken carriage besides.”
“But what can you do better?” chimed in Professor Pinte.
“It is an outrageous extortion to charge sixteen dollars for an old horse and cart to go ten miles. Why, in old Bridgeport I could get it done for three dollars,” replied Stratton, in a tone of vexation.
“It is the custom of the country,” said Professor Pinte, “and we must submit to it.”
By the way, this was a favorite expression of the Professor’s. Whenever we were imposed upon, or felt that we were not used right, Pinte would always endeavor to smooth it over by informing us it was “the custom of the country.”
“Well, it’s a thundering mean custom, any how,” said Stratton, “and I wont stand such an imposition.”
“But what shall we do?” earnestly inquired Mr. Pinte. “It may be a high price, but it is better to pay that than to lose our afternoon performance and five or six hundred francs.”
This appeal to the pocket touched Stratton’s feelings; so submitting to the extortion, he replied to our interpreter, “Well, tell the old robber to dump his dung-cart as soon as possible, or we shall lose half an hour in starting.”
The cart was “dumped” and a large, lazy-looking Flemish horse was attached to it with a rope harness. Some boards were laid across the cart for seats, the party tumbled into the rustic vehicle, a red-haired boy, son of the old farmer, mounted the horse, and Stratton gave orders to “get along.” “Wait a moment,” said the farmer, “you have not paid me yet,” “I’ll pay your boy when we get to Brussels, provided he gets there within the hour,” replied Stratton.
“Oh, he is sure to get there in an hour,” said the farmer, “but I can’t let him go unless you pay in advance.” The minutes were flying rapidly, the anticipated loss of the day exhibition of General Tom Thumb flitted before his eyes, and Stratton, in very desperation, thrust his hand into his pocket and drew forth sixteen five-franc pieces, which he dropped, one at a time, into the hand of the farmer, and then called out to the boy, “There now, do try to see if you can go ahead.”
The boy did go ahead, but it was with such a snail’s pace that it would have puzzled a man of tolerable eyesight to have determined whether the horse was moving or standing still. To make it still more interesting, it commenced raining furiously. As we had left Brussels in a coach, and the morning had promised us a pleasant day, we had omitted our umbrellas. We were soon soaked to the skin. We “grinned and bore it” awhile without grumbling. At length Stratton, who was almost too angry to speak, desired Mr. Pinte to ask the red-hairedboy if he expected to walk his horse all the way to Brussels.
“Certainly,” replied the boy; “he is too big and fat to do any thing but walk. We never trot him.”
Stratton was terrified as he thought of the loss of the day exhibition; and he cursed the boy, the cart, the rain, the luck, and even the battle of Waterloo itself. But it was all of no use, the horse would not run, but the rain did—down our backs.
At two o’clock, the time appointed for our exhibition, we were yet some seven miles from Brussels. The horse walked slowly and philosophically through the pitiless storm, the steam majestically rising from the old manure-cart, to the no small disturbance of our unfortunate olfactories. “It will take two hours to get to Brussels at this rate,” growled Stratton. “Oh, no,” replied the boy, “it will only take about two hours from the time we started.”
“But your father agreed to get us there in an hour,” answered Stratton.
“I know it,” responded the boy, “but he knew it would take more than two.”
“I’ll sue him for damage, by thunder,” said Stratton.
“Oh, there would be no use in that,” chimed in Mr. Pinte, “for you could get no satisfaction in this country.”
“But I shall lose more than a hundred dollars by being two hours instead of one,” said Stratton.
“They care nothing about that; all they care for is your eighty francs,” remarked Pinte.
“But they have lied and swindled me,” replied Stratton.
“Oh, you must not mind that, it is the custom of the country.”
Stratton gave “the country,” and its “customs,” another cursing.
All things will finally have an end, and our party did at length actually arrive in Brussels, cart and all, in precisely two hours and a half from the time we left the farmers house. Of course we were too late to exhibit the little General. Hundreds of visitors had gone away disappointed.
With feelings of utter desperation, Stratton started for a barber’s shop. He had a fine, black, bushy head of hair, of which he was a little proud, and every morning he submitted it to the curling-tongs of the barber. His hair had not been cut for several weeks, and after being shaved, he desired the barber to trim his flowing locks a little. The barber clipped off the ends of the hair, and asked Stratton if that was sufficient. “No,” he replied, “I want it trimmed a little shorter; cut away, and I will tell you when to stop.”
Stratton had risen from bed at an unusual hour, and after having passed through the troubles and excitements of the unlucky morning, he began to feel a little drowsy. This feeling was augmented by the soothing sensations of the tonsorial process, and while the barber quietly pursued his avocation, Stratton as quietly fell asleep. The barber went entirely over his head, cutting off a couple of inches of hair with every clip of his scissors. He then rested for a moment; expecting his customer would tell him that it was sufficient; but the unconscious Stratton uttered not a word, and the barber, thinking he had not cut the hair close enough, went over the head again. Again did he wait for an answer, little thinking that his patron was asleep. Remembering that Stratton had told him to “cut away, and he would tell himwhen to stop,” the innocent barber went over the head the third time, cutting the hair nearly as close as if he had shaved it with a razor! Having finished, he again waited for orders from his customer, but he uttered not a word. The barber was surprised, and that surprise was increased when he heard a noise which seemed very like a snore coming from the nasal organ of his unconscious victim.
The poor barber saw the error that he had committed, and in dismay, as if by mistake, he hit Stratton on the side of the head with his scissors, and woke him. He started to his feet, looked in the glass, and to his utter horror saw that he was unfit to appear in public without a wig! He swore like a trooper, but he could not swear the hair back on to his head, and putting on his hat, which dropped loosely over his eyes, he started for the hotel. His despair and indignation were so great that it was some time before he could give utterance to words of explanation. His feelings were not allayed by the deafening burst of laughter which ensued. He said it was the first time that he ever went a sight-seeing, and he guessed it would be the last!
Several months subsequent to our visit to Waterloo, I was in Birmingham, and there made the acquaintance of a firm who manufactured to order, and sent to Waterloo, barrels of “relics” every year. At Waterloo these “relics” are planted, and in due time dug up, and sold at large prices as precious remembrances of the great battle. Our Waterloo purchases looked rather cheap after this discovery.
While we were in Brussels, Mrs. Stratton, the mother of the General, tasted some sausages which she declared the best things she had eaten in France or Belgium; infact, she said “she had found little that was fit to eat in this country, for every thing was so Frenchified and covered in gravy, she dared not eat it; but there was something that tasted natural about these sausages; she had never eaten any as good, even in America.” She sent to the landlady to inquire the name of them, for she meant to buy some to take along with her. The answer came that they were called “saucisse de Lyon,” (Lyons sausages,) and straightway Mrs. Stratton went out and purchased half a dozen pounds. Mr. Sherman soon came in, and, on learning what she had in her package, he remarked: “Mrs. Stratton, do you know what Lyons sausages are made of?”
“No,” she replied; “but I know that they are first-rate!”
“Well,” replied Sherman, “they may be good, but they are made from donkeys!” which is said to be the fact. Mrs. Stratton said she was not to be fooled so easily—that she knew better, and that she should stick to the sausages.
Presently Professor Pinte entered the room. “Mr. Pinte,” said Sherman, “you are a Frenchman, and know every thing about edibles; pray tell me what Lyons sausages are made of.”
“Of asses,” replied the inoffensive professor.
Mrs. Stratton seized the package, the street window was open, and, in less than a minute, a large brindle dog was bearing the “Lyons sausages” triumphantly away.
There were many other amusing incidents during our brief stay at Brussels, but I have no space to record them. After a very pleasant and successful week, we returned to London.
LEVEES IN EGYPTIAN HALL—UNDIMINISHED SUCCESS—OTHER ENGAGEMENTS—“UP IN A BALLOON”—PROVINCIAL TOUR—TRAVELLING BY POST—GOING TO AMERICA—A. T. STEWART—SAMUEL ROGERS—AN EXTRA TRAIN—AN ASTONISHED RAILWAY SUPERINTENDENT—LEFT BEHIND AND LOCKED UP—SUNDAYS IN LONDON—BUSINESS AND PLEASURE—ALBERT SMITH—A DAY WITH HIM AT WARWICK—STRATFORD ON AVON—A POETICAL BARBER—WARWICK CASTLE—OLD GUY’S TRAPS—OFFER TO BUY THE LOT—THREAT TO BURST THE SHOW—ALBERT SMITH AS A SHOWMAN—LEARNING THE BUSINESS FROM BARNUM—THE WARWICK RACES—RIVAL DWARFS—MANUFACTURED GIANTESSES—THE HAPPY FAMILY—THE ROAD FROM WARWICK TO COVENTRY—PEEPING TOM—THE YANKEE GO-AHEAD PRINCIPLE—ALBERT SMITH’S ACCOUNT OF A DAY WITH BARNUM.
LEVEES IN EGYPTIAN HALL—UNDIMINISHED SUCCESS—OTHER ENGAGEMENTS—“UP IN A BALLOON”—PROVINCIAL TOUR—TRAVELLING BY POST—GOING TO AMERICA—A. T. STEWART—SAMUEL ROGERS—AN EXTRA TRAIN—AN ASTONISHED RAILWAY SUPERINTENDENT—LEFT BEHIND AND LOCKED UP—SUNDAYS IN LONDON—BUSINESS AND PLEASURE—ALBERT SMITH—A DAY WITH HIM AT WARWICK—STRATFORD ON AVON—A POETICAL BARBER—WARWICK CASTLE—OLD GUY’S TRAPS—OFFER TO BUY THE LOT—THREAT TO BURST THE SHOW—ALBERT SMITH AS A SHOWMAN—LEARNING THE BUSINESS FROM BARNUM—THE WARWICK RACES—RIVAL DWARFS—MANUFACTURED GIANTESSES—THE HAPPY FAMILY—THE ROAD FROM WARWICK TO COVENTRY—PEEPING TOM—THE YANKEE GO-AHEAD PRINCIPLE—ALBERT SMITH’S ACCOUNT OF A DAY WITH BARNUM.
INLondon the General again opened his levees in Egyptian Hall with undiminished success. His unbounded popularity on the Continent and his receptions by King Louis Philippe, of France, and King Leopold, of Belgium, had added greatly to his prestige and fame. Those who had seen him when he was in London months before came to see him again, and new visitors crowded by thousands to the General’s levees.
Besides giving these daily entertainments, the General appeared occasionally for an hour, during the intermissions, at some place in the suburbs; and for a long time he appeared every day at the Surrey Zoölogical Gardens, under the direction of the proprietor, my particular friend Mr. W. Tyler. This place subsequently became celebrated for its great music hall, in which Spurgeon, the sensational preacher, first attained his notoriety. The place was always crowded, and when the Generalhad gone through with his performances on the little stage, in order that all might see him he was put into a balloon which, secured by ropes, was then passed around the ground just above the people’s heads. Some forty men managed the ropes and prevented the balloon from rising; but, one day, a sudden gust of wind took the balloon fairly out of the hands of half the men who had hold of the ropes, while others were lifted from the ground, and had not an alarm been instantly given which called at least two hundred to the rescue the little General would have been lost.
In addition to other engagements, the General frequently performed in Douglass’s Standard Theatre, in the city, in the play “Hop o’ my Thumb,” which was written for him by my friend, Albert Smith, whom I met soon after my first arrival in London and with whom I became very intimate. After my arrival in Paris, seeing the decided success of “Petit Poucet,” it occurred to me that I should want such a play when I returned to England and the United States. So I wrote to Mr. Albert Smith, inviting him to make me a visit in Paris, intending to have him see this play and either translate or adapt it, or write a new one in English. He came and stayed with me a week, visiting the Vaudeville Theatre to see “Petit Poucet” nearly every night, and we compared notes and settled upon a plan for “Hop o’ my Thumb.” He went back to London and wrote the play and it was very popular indeed.
During our stay of three months, at this time, in Egyptian Hall, we made occasional excursions and gave exhibitions at Brighton, Bath, Cheltenham, Leamington and other watering places and fashionable resorts. It was at the height of the season in these places,and our houses were very large and our profits in proportion.
In October, 1844, I made my first return visit to the United States, leaving General Tom Thumb in England, in the hands of an accomplished and faithful agent, who continued the exhibitions during my absence. One of the principal reasons for my return at this time, was my anxiety to renew the Museum building lease, although my first lease of five years had still three years longer to run. I told Mr. Olmsted that if he would not renew my lease on the same terms, for at least five years more, I would immediately put up a new building, remove my Museum, close his building during the last year of my lease, and cover it from top to bottom with placards, stating where my new Museum was to be found. Pending an arrangement, I went to Mr. A. T. Stewart, who had just purchased the Washington Hall property, at the corner of Broadway and Chambers Street, intending to erect a store on the site, and proposed to join him in building, he to take the lower floor of the new store for his business, and I to own and occupy the upper stories for my Museum. He said he would give me an answer in the course of a week. Meanwhile, Mr. Olmsted gave me the additional five years lease I asked, and I so notified Mr. Stewart. Seeing the kind of building that Mr. Stewart erected on his lots, I do not know if he seriously entertained my proposition to join him in the enterprise; but he was by no means the great merchant then he afterwards became, and neither of us then thought, probably, of the gigantic enterprises we were subsequently to undertake, and the great things we were to accomplish. Having completed my business arrangements in New York, I returned to England with my wife and daughters,and hired a house in London. My house was the scene of constant hospitality which I extended to my numerous friends in return for the many attentions shown to me. It seemed then as if I had more and stronger friends in London than in New York. I had met and had been introduced to “almost everybody who was anybody,” and among them all, some of the best soon became to me much more than mere acquaintances.
Among the distinguished people whom I met, I was introduced to the poet-banker, Samuel Rogers. I saw him at a dinner party at the residence of the American Minister, the Honorable Edward Everett. The old banker was very feeble, but careful nursing and all the appliances that unbounded wealth could bring, still kept the life in him and he managed, not only to continue to give his own celebrated breakfasts, but to go out frequently to enjoy the hospitality of others. As we were going in to dinner, I stepped aside, so that Mr. Rogers who was tottering along leaning on the arm of a friend, could go in before me, when Mr. Rogers said:
“Pass in, Mr. Barnum, pass in; I always consider it an honor to follow an American.”
When our three months’ engagement at Egyptian Hall had expired, I arranged for a protracted provincial tour through Great Britain. I had made a flying visit to Scotland before we went to Paris—mainly to procure the beautiful Scotch costumes, daggers, etc., which were carefully made for the General at Edinburgh, and to teach the General the Scotch dances, with a bit of the Scotch dialect, which added so much to the interest of his exhibitions in Paris and elsewhere. My second visit to Scotland, for the purpose of giving exhibitions, extended as far as Aberdeen.
In England we went to Manchester, Birmingham, and to almost every city, town, and even village of importance. We travelled by post much of the time—that is, I had a suitable carriage made for my party, and a van which conveyed the General’s carriage, ponies, and such other “property” as was needed for our levees,—and we never had the slightest difficulty in finding good post horses at every station where we wanted them. This mode of travelling was not only very comfortable and independent, but it enabled us to visit many out of the way places, off from the great lines of travel, and in such places we gave some of our most successful exhibitions. We also used the railway lines freely, leaving our carriages at any station, and taking them up again when we returned.
I remember once making an extraordinary effort to reach a branch-line station, where I meant to leave my teams and take the rail for Rugby. I had a time-table, and knew at what hour exactly I could hit the train; but unfortunately the axle to my carriage broke, and as an hour was lost in repairing it, I lost exactly an hour in reaching the station. The train had long been gone, and I must be in Rugby, where we had advertised a performance. I stormed around till I found the superintendent, and told him “I must instantly have an extra train to Rugby.”
“Extra train!” said he, with surprise and a half sneer, “extra train! why you can’t have an extra train to Rugby for less than sixty pounds.”
“Is that all?” I asked; “well, get up your train immediately and here are your sixty pounds. What in the world are sixty pounds to me, when I wish to go to Rugby, or elsewhere, in a hurry!”
The astonished superintendent took the money, bustled about, and the train was soon ready. He was greatly puzzled to know what distinguished person—he thought he must be dealing with some prince, or, at least, a duke—was willing to give so much money to save a few hours of time, and he hesitatingly asked whom he had the honor of serving.
“General Tom Thumb.”
We reached Rugby in time to give our performance, as announced, and our receipts were £160, which quite covered the expense of our extra train and left a handsome margin for profit.
When we were in Oxford, a dozen or more of the students came to the conclusion that as the General was a little fellow, the admission fee to his entertainments should be paid in the smallest kind of money. They accordingly provided themselves with farthings, and as each man entered, instead of handing in a shilling for his ticket, he laid down forty-eight farthings. The counting of these small coins was a great annoyance to Mr. Stratton, the General’s father, who was ticket seller, and after counting two or three handsful, vexed at the delay which was preventing a crowd of ladies and gentlemen from buying tickets, Mr. Stratton lost his temper and cried out:
“Blast your quarter pennies! I am not going to count them! you chaps who haven’t bigger money can chuck your copper into my hat and walk in.”
At Cambridge, some of the under-graduates pretended to take offence because our check-taker would not permit them to smoke in the exhibition hall, and one of them managed to involve him in a quarrel which ended with a challenge from the student to the check-taker, who wassure he must fight a duel at sunrise the next morning, and as he expected to be shot, he suffered the greatest mental agony. About midnight, however, after he had been sufficiently scared, I brought him the gratifying intelligence that I had succeeded in settling the dispute. His gratitude at the relief thus afforded, knew no bounds.
Mr. Stratton was a genuine Yankee, and thoroughly conversant with the Yankee vernacular, which he used freely. In exhibiting the General, I often said to visitors, that Tom Thumb’s parents and the rest of the family were persons of the ordinary size, and that the gentleman who presided in the ticket-office was the General’s father. This made poor Stratton an object of no little curiosity, and he was pestered with all sorts of questions; on one occasion an old dowager said to him:
“Are you really the father of General Tom Thumb?”
“Wa’al,” replied Stratton, “I have to support him!”
This evasive method of answering is common enough in New England, but the literal dowager had her doubts, and promptly rejoined:
“I rather think he supports you!”
In my journeyings through England, I always tried to get back to London Saturday night, so as to pass Sunday with my family, and to meet the friends whom we invited to dine with us on the only day in the week when I could be at home. The railway facilities are so excellent in England, that, no matter how far I might be from London, I could generally reach that city by Sunday morning, and yet do a full week’s work in the provinces. This, however, necessitated travel Saturday night, and while I travelled I must sleep. Sleeping cars were, and, I believe, still are unknown in that country; but I travelled so much, and was, by this time, so wellknown to the guards on the leading lines, that I could generally secure one of the compartments in a first-class “coach” to myself, and my method for obtaining a good night’s sleep, was to lay the seat-cushions on the floor of the car, thus, with my blanket to cover me, making a tolerable bed.
On one of these Saturday night excursions, I lay down on my extemporized couch, with the expectation of arriving at London at five o’clock in the morning. When I awoke the car was standing still, and the sun was well up in the heavens. Thinking we were very much behind time, and wondering why the train did not go on, at last I got up and looked out of the window, and, to my utter amazement, I found my car locked up in a yard, surrounded by a high fence. Espying a man who seemed to have charge of the premises, I shouted to him to come and let me out of the car, which was also locked. It instantly flashed across my mind that at this station, the guard, seeing no person sitting on the seats in the car, and concluding that it was empty, had detached it from the train, and switched it off into the yard. The astonished man whom I summoned to my assistance, informed me that I was sixty miles from London, and that there would not be another train to the city till evening. It was ten o’clock, and I was to have been home at five. I raised a great row, and demanded as my right an extra train to carry me to London, to meet the friends whom it was all-important I should see that day. I had to wait, however, till evening, and I arrived home at seven or eight o’clock, long after my friends had gone, though to the great gratification of my family, who thought some serious accident must have happened to me.
It must not be supposed that during my protracted stay abroad I confined myself wholly to business or limited my circle of observation with a golden rim. To be sure, I ever had “an eye to business,” but I had also two eyes for observation and these were busily employed in leisure hours. I made the most of my opportunities and saw, hurriedly, it is true, nearly everything worth seeing in the various places which I visited. All Europe was a great curiosity shop to me and I willingly paid my money for the show.
While in London, my friend Albert Smith, a jolly companion, as well as a witty and sensible author, promised that when I reached Birmingham he would come and spend a day with me in “sight-seeing,” including a visit to the house in which Shakespeare was born.
Early one morning in the autumn of 1844, my friend Smith and myself took the box-seat of an English mail-coach, and were soon whirling at the rate of twelve miles an hour over the magnificent road leading from Birmingham to Stratford. The distance is thirty miles. At a little village four miles from Stratford, we found that the fame of the bard of Avon had travelled thus far, for we noticed a sign over a miserable barber’s shop, “Shakespeare hair-dressing—a good shave for a penny.” In twenty minutes more we were set down at the door of the Red Horse Hotel, in Stratford. The coachman and guard were each paid half a crown as their perquisites.
While breakfast was preparing, we called for a guide-book to the town, and the waiter brought in a book, saying that we should find in it the best description extant of the birth and burial place of Shakespeare. I was not a little proud to find this volume to be no otherthan the “Sketch-Book” of our illustrious countryman, Washington Irving; and in glancing over his humorous description of the place, I discovered that he had stopped at the same hotel where we were then awaiting breakfast.
After examining the Shakespeare House, as well as the tomb and the church in which all that is mortal of the great poet rests, we ordered a post-chaise for Warwick Castle. While the horses were harnessing, a stage-coach stopped at the hotel, and two gentlemen alighted. One was a sedate, sensible-looking man; the other an addle-headed fop. The former was mild and unassuming in his manners; the latter was all talk, without sense or meaning—in fact, a regular Charles Chatterbox. He evidently had a high opinion of himself, and was determined that all within hearing should understand that he was—somebody. Presently the sedate gentleman said:
“Edward, this is Stratford. Let us go and see the house where Shakespeare was born.”
“Who the devil is Shakespeare?” asked the sensible young gentleman.
Our post-chaise was at the door; we leaped into it, and were off, leaving the “nice young man” to enjoy a visit to the birth-place of an individual of whom he had never before heard. The distance to Warwick is fourteen miles. We went to the Castle, and approaching the door of the Great Hall, were informed by a well-dressed porter that the Earl of Warwick and family were absent, and that he was permitted to show the apartments to visitors. He introduced us successively into the “Red Drawing-Room,” “The Cedar Drawing-Room,” “The Gilt Room,” “The State Bed-Room,”“Lady Warwick’s Boudoir,” “The Compass Room,” “The Chapel,” and “The Great Dining-Room.” As we passed out of the Castle, the polite porter touched his head (he of course had no hat on it) in a style which spoke plainer than words, “Half a crown each, if you please, gentlemen.” We responded to the call, and were then placed in charge of another guide, who took us to the top of “Guy’s Tower,” at the bottom of which he touched his hat a shilling’s worth; and placing ourselves in charge of a third conductor, an old man of seventy, we proceeded to the Greenhouse to see the Warwick Vase—each guide announcing at the end of his short tour: “Gentlemen, I go no farther,” and indicating that the bill for his services was to be paid. The old gentleman mounted a rostrum at the side of the vase, and commenced a set speech, which we began to fear was interminable; so tossing him the usual fee, we left him in the middle of his oration.
Passing through the porter’s lodge on our way out, under the impression that we had seen all that was interesting, the old porter informed us that the most curious things connected with the Castle were to be seen in his lodge. Feeling for our coin, we bade him produce his relics, and he showed us a lot of trumpery, which, he gravely informed us, belonged to that hero of antiquity, Guy, Earl of Warwick. Among these were his sword, shield, helmet, breast-plate, walking-staff, and tilting-pole, each of enormous size—the horse armor nearly large enough for an elephant, a large pot which would hold seventy gallons, called “Guy’s Porridge Pot,” his flesh-fork, the size of a farmer’s hay-fork, his lady’s stirrups, the rib of a mastodon which the porter pretended belonged to the great “Dun Cow,” which,according to tradition, haunted a ditch near Coventry, and after doing injury to many persons, was slain by the valiant Guy. The sword weighed nearly 200 pounds, and the armor 400 pounds.
I told the old porter he was entitled to great credit for having concentrated more lies than I had ever before heard in so small a compass. He smiled, and evidently felt gratified by the compliment.
“I suppose,” I continued, “that you have told these marvellous stories so often, that you believe them yourself?”
“Almost!” replied the porter, with a grin of satisfaction that showed he was “up to snuff,” and had really earned two shillings.
“Come now, old fellow,” said I, “what will you take for the entire lot of those traps? I want them for my Museum in America.”
“No money would buy these valuable historical mementos of a by-gone age,” replied the old porter with a leer.
“Never mind,” I exclaimed; “I’ll have them duplicated for my Museum, so that Americans can see them and avoid the necessity of coming here, and in that way I’ll burst up your show.”
Albert Smith laughed immoderately at the astonishment of the porter when I made this threat, and I was greatly amused, some years afterwards, when Albert Smith became a successful showman and was exhibiting his “Mont Blanc” to delighted audiences in London, to discover that he had introduced this very incident into his lecture, of course, changing the names and locality. He often confessed that he derived his very first idea of becoming a showman from my talk about the businessand my doings, on this charming day when we visited Warwick.
The “Warwick races” were coming off that day, within half a mile of the village, and we therefore went down and spent an hour with the multitude. There was very little excitement regarding the races, and we concluded to take a tour through the “penny shows,” the vans of which lined one side of the course for the distance of a quarter of a mile. On applying to enter one van, which had a large pictorial sign of giantesses, white negro, Albino girls, learned pig, big snakes, etc., the keeper exclaimed:
“Come, Mister, you is the man what hired Randall, the giant, for ‘Merika, and you shows Tom Thumb; now can you think of paying less than sixpence for going in here?”
The appeal was irresistible; so, satisfying his demands, we entered. Upon coming out, a whole bevy of showmen from that and neighboring vans surrounded me, and began descanting on the merits and demerits of General Tom Thumb.
“Oh,” says one, “I knows two dwarfs what is better ten times as Tom Thumb.”
“Yes,” says another, “there’s no use to talk about Tom Thumb while Melia Patton is above the ground.”
“Now, I’ve seen Tom Thumb,” added a third, “and he is a fine little squab, but the only ‘vantage he’s got is he can chaff so well. He chaffs like a man; but I can learn Dick Swift in two months, so that he can chaff Tom Thumb crazy.”
“Never mind,” added a fourth, “I’ve got a chap training what you none on you knows, what’ll beat all the ‘thumbs’ on your grapplers.”
“No, he can’t,” exclaimed a fifth, “for Tom Thumb has got the name, and you all know the name’s everything. Tom Thumb couldn’t never shine, even in my van, ‘long side of a dozen dwarfs I knows, if this Yankee hadn’t bamboozled our Queen,—God bless her—by getting him afore her half a dozen times.”
“Yes, yes,—that’s the ticket,” exclaimed another; “our Queen patronizes everything foreign, and yet she wouldn’t visit my beautiful wax-works to save the crown of Hingland.”
“Your beautiful wax-works!” they all exclaimed, with a hearty laugh.
“Yes, and who says they haint beautiful?” retorted the other; “they was made by the best Hitalian hartist in this country.”
“They was made by Jim Caul, and showed all over the country twenty years ago,” rejoined another; “and arter that they laid five years in pawn in old Moll Wiggin’s cellar, covered with mould and dust.”
“Well, that’s a good ’un, that is!” replied the proprietor of the beautiful wax-works, with a look of disdain.
I made a move to depart, when one of the head showmen exclaimed, “Come, Mister, don’t be shabby; can you think of going without standing treat all round?”
“Why should I stand treat?” I asked.
“ ‘Cause ’tain’t every day you can meet such a bloody lot of jolly brother-showmen,” replied Mr. Wax-works.
I handed out a crown, and left them to drink bad luck to the “foreign wagabonds what would bamboozle their Queen with inferior dwarfs, possessing no advantage over the ‘natyves’ but the power of chaffing.”
While in the showmen’s vans seeking for acquisitionsto my Museum in America, I was struck with the tall appearance of a couple of females who exhibited as the “Canadian giantesses, each seven feet in height.” Suspecting that a cheat was hidden under their unfashionably long dresses, which reached to the floor and thus rendered their feet invisible, I attempted to solve the mystery by raising a foot or two of the superfluous covering. The strapping young lady, not relishing such liberties from a stranger, laid me flat upon the floor with a blow from her brawny hand. I was on my feet again in tolerably quick time, but not until I had discovered that she stood upon a pedestal at least eighteen inches high.
We returned to the hotel, took a post-chaise, and drove through decidedly the most lovely country I ever beheld. Since taking that tour, I have heard that two gentlemen once made a bet, each, that he could name the most delightful drive in England. Many persons were present, and the two gentlemen wrote on separate slips of paper the scene which he most admired. One gentleman wrote, “The road from Warwick to Coventry;” the other had written, “The road from Coventry to Warwick.”
In less than an hour we were set down at the outer walls of Kenilworth Castle, which Scott has greatly aided to immortalize in his celebrated novel of that name. This once noble and magnificent castle is now a stupendous ruin, which has been so often described that I think it unnecessary to say anything about it here. We spent half an hour in examining the interesting ruins, and then proceeded by post-chaise to Coventry, a distance of six or eight miles. Here we remained four hours, during which time we visited St. Mary’s Hall, which has attracted the notice of manyantiquaries. We also took our own “peep” at the effigy of the celebrated “Peeping Tom,” after which we visited an exhibition called the “Happy Family,” consisting of about two hundred birds and animals of opposite natures and propensities, all living in harmony together in one cage. This exhibition was so remarkable that I bought it and hired the proprietor to accompany it to New York, and it became an attractive feature in my Museum.
We took the cars the same evening for Birmingham, where we arrived at ten o’clock, Albert Smith remarking, that never before in his life had he accomplished a day’s journey on the Yankee go-ahead principle. He afterwards published a chapter inBentley’s Magazineentitled “A Day with Barnum,” in which he said we accomplished business with such rapidity, that when he attempted to write out the accounts of the day, he found the whole thing so confused in his brain that he came near locating “Peeping Tom” in the house of Shakespeare, while Guy of Warwickwouldstick his head above the ruins of Kenilworth, and the Warwick Vase appeared in Coventry.
THE WIZARD OF THE NORTH—A JUGGLER BEATEN AT HIS OWN TRICKS—SECOND VISIT TO THE UNITED STATES—REVEREND DOCTOR ROBERT BAIRD—CAPTAIN JUDKINS THREATENS TO PUT ME IN IRONS—VIEWS WITH REGARD TO SECTS—A WICKED WOMAN—THE SIMPSONS IN EUROPE—REMINISCENCES OF TRAVEL—SAUCE AND “SASS”—TEA TOO SWEET—A UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE—ROAST DUCK—SNOW IN AUGUST—TALES OF TRAVELLERS—SIMPSON NOT TO BE TAKEN IN—HOLLANDERS IN BRUSSELS—WHERE ALL THE DUTCHMEN COME FROM—THREE YEARS IN EUROPE—WARM PERSONAL FRIENDS—DOCTOR C. S. BREWSTER—HENRY SUMNER—GEORGE SAND—LORENZO DRAPER—GEORGE P. PUTNAM—OUR LAST PERFORMANCE IN DUBLIN—DANIEL O’CONNELL—END OF OUR TOUR—DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA—ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK.
THE WIZARD OF THE NORTH—A JUGGLER BEATEN AT HIS OWN TRICKS—SECOND VISIT TO THE UNITED STATES—REVEREND DOCTOR ROBERT BAIRD—CAPTAIN JUDKINS THREATENS TO PUT ME IN IRONS—VIEWS WITH REGARD TO SECTS—A WICKED WOMAN—THE SIMPSONS IN EUROPE—REMINISCENCES OF TRAVEL—SAUCE AND “SASS”—TEA TOO SWEET—A UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE—ROAST DUCK—SNOW IN AUGUST—TALES OF TRAVELLERS—SIMPSON NOT TO BE TAKEN IN—HOLLANDERS IN BRUSSELS—WHERE ALL THE DUTCHMEN COME FROM—THREE YEARS IN EUROPE—WARM PERSONAL FRIENDS—DOCTOR C. S. BREWSTER—HENRY SUMNER—GEORGE SAND—LORENZO DRAPER—GEORGE P. PUTNAM—OUR LAST PERFORMANCE IN DUBLIN—DANIEL O’CONNELL—END OF OUR TOUR—DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA—ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK.
WHILEI was at Aberdeen, in Scotland, I met Anderson, the “Wizard of the North.” I had known him for a long time, and we were on familiar terms. The General’s exhibitions were to close on Saturday night, and Anderson was to open in the same hall on Monday evening. He came to our exhibition, and at the close we went to the hotel together to get a little supper. After supper we were having some fun and jokes together, when it occurred to Anderson to introduce me to several persons who were sitting in the room, as the “Wizard of the North,” at the same time asking me about my tricks and my forthcoming exhibition. He kept this up so persistently that some of our friends who were present, declared that Anderson was “too much for me,” and, meanwhile, fresh introductions to strangers who came in, had made me pretty generallyknown in that circle as the “Wizard of the North,” who was to astonish the town in the following week. I accepted the situation at last, and said:
“Well, gentlemen, as I perform here for the first time, on Monday evening, I like to be liberal, and I should be very happy to give orders of admission to those of you who will attend my exhibition.”
The applications for orders were quite general, and I had written thirty or forty, when Anderson, who saw that I was in a fair way of filling his house with “dead-heads,” cried out—
“Hold on! I am the ‘Wizard of the North.’ I’ll stand the orders already given, but not another one.”
Our friends, including the “Wizard” himself, began to think that I had rather the best of the joke.
During our three years’ stay abroad, I made a second hasty visit to America, leaving the General in England in the hands of my agents. I took passage from Liverpool on board a Cunard steamer, commanded by Captain Judkins. One of my fellow passengers was the celebrated divine, Robert Baird. I had known him as the author of an octavo volume, “Religion in America”; and while that work had impressed me as exhibiting great ability and an outspoken honesty of purpose, it had also given me the notion that its author must be very rigid and intolerant as a sectarian. Still I was happy to make his acquaintance on board the steamship, and soon regarded with favor the venerable Presbyterian divine.
Dr. Baird had been for some time a missionary in Sweden. He was now paying a visit to his native land. I found him a shrewd, well-informed Christian gentleman, and I took much pleasure in hearing him converse.One night it was storming furiously. The waves, rolling high, afforded a sight of awful grandeur, to witness which I was tempted to put on a pea-jacket, go upon the deck, and lash myself to the side of the ship. After I had been there nearly an hour, wrapt in meditation and wonder, not unmixed with awe, Dr. Baird came up in the darkness, feeling his way cautiously along the deck. As he came where I was, I hailed him; and he asked what I was doing so long up there.
“Listening to the preaching, Doctor,” I replied; “and I think it beats even yours, although I have never had the pleasure of hearing you.”
“Ah!” he replied, “none of us can preach like this. How humble and insignificant we all feel in the presence of such a display of the Almighty power; and how grateful we should be to remember that infinite love guides this power.”
The Sunday following, divine service was held as usual in the large after cabin. Of course it was the Episcopal form of worship. The captain conducted the services, assisted by the clerk and the ship’s surgeon. A dozen or two of the sailors, shaved, washed, and neatly dressed, were marched into the cabin by the mate; most of the passengers were also present.
Those who have witnessed this service, as conducted by Captain Judkins, need not be reminded that he does it much as he performs his duties on deck. He speaks as one having authority; and a listener could hardly help feeling that there would be some danger of a “row” if the petitions (made as a sort of command) were not speedily answered.
After dinner I asked Dr. Baird if he would be willingto preach to the passengers in the forward cabin. He said he would cheerfully do so if it was desired. I mentioned it to the passengers, and there was a generally-expressed wish among them that he should preach. I went into the forward cabin, and requested the steward to arrange the chairs and tables properly for religious service. He replied that I must first get the captain’s consent. Of course, I thought this was a mere matter of form; so I went to the captain’s office, and said:
“Captain, the passengers desire to have Dr. Baird conduct a religious service in the forward cabin. I suppose there is no objection.”
“Decidedly there is,” replied the captain, gruffly; “and it will not be permitted.”
“Why not?” I asked, in astonishment.
“It is against the rules of the ship.”
“What! to have religious services on board?”
“There have been religious services once to-day, and that is enough. If the passengers do not think that is good enough, let them go without,” was the captain’s hasty and austere reply.
“Captain,” I replied, “do you pretend to say you will not allow a respectable and well-known clergyman to offer a prayer and hold religious services on board your ship at the request of your passengers?”
“That, sir, is exactly what I say. So, now, let me hear no more about it.”
By this time a dozen passengers were crowding around his door, and expressing their surprise at his conduct. I was indignant, and used sharp language.
“Well,” said I, “this is the most contemptible thing I ever heard of on the part of the owners of a public
PUT ME IN IRONS.PUT ME IN IRONS.
passenger ship. Their meanness ought to be published far and wide.”
“You had better ‘shut up,’ ” said Captain Judkins, with great sternness.
“I will not ‘shut up,’ ” I replied; “for this thing is perfectly outrageous. In that out-of-the-way forward cabin, you allow, on week days, gambling, swearing, smoking and singing, till late at night; and yet on Sunday you have the impudence to deny the privilege of a prayer-meeting, conducted by a gray-haired and respected minister of the gospel. It is simply infamous!”
Captain Judkins turned red in the face; and, no doubt feeling that he was “monarch of all he surveyed,” exclaimed, in a loud voice:
“If you repeat such language, I will put you in irons.”
“Do it, if you dare,” said I, feeling my indignation rising rapidly. “I dare and defy you to put your finger on me. I would like to sail into New York Harbor in handcuffs, on board a British ship, for the terrible crime of asking that religious worship may be permitted on board. So you may try it as soon as you please; and, when we get to New York, I’ll show you a touch of Yankee ideas of religious intolerance.”
The captain made no reply; and, at the request of friends, I walked to another part of the ship. I told the Doctor how the matter stood, and then, laughingly, said to him:
“Doctor, it may be dangerous for you to tell of this incident when you get on shore; for it would be a pretty strong draught upon the credulity of many of my countrymen if they were told that my zeal to hear an Orthodox minister preach was so great that it came near gettingme into solitary confinement. But I am not prejudiced, and I like fair play.”
The old Doctor replied: “Well, you have not lost much; and, if the rules of this ship are so stringent, I suppose we must submit.”
The captain and myself had no further intercourse for five or six days; not until a few hours before our arrival in New York. Being at dinner, he sent his champagne bottle to me, and asked to “drink my health,” at the same time stating that he hoped no ill-feeling would be carried ashore. I was not then, as I am now, a teetotaler; so I accepted the proffered truce, and I regret that I must add I “washed down” my wrath in a bottle of Heidsick—a poor example, which I hope never to repeat. We have frequently met since, and always with friendly greetings; but I have ever felt that his manners were unnecessarily coarse and offensive in carrying out an arbitrary and bigoted rule of the steamship company.
Though I have never lacked definite opinions, or hesitated to exhibit decided preferences in regard to the different religious creeds, I have never been so sectarian as to imagine that any one of the denominations is without any truth, or exists for no good purpose. On the contrary, I hold that every faith has somewhat of truth; and that each sect, in its way, does a work which perhaps no one of the other sects can do as well. I was strongly confirmed in this general belief by an impromptu utterance of Dr. Baird, during one of our conversations, which, under the circumstances, was not a little amusing, as it certainly evinced a good deal of insight into human nature. It is well known that the old Doctor was very rigid in his theological views, andin his career never spared either the Methodists or the people of the so-called liberal opinions. During our passage across the Atlantic, we very naturally had considerable tilting in regard to opinions which divided us, though in a thoroughly good-natured way. At last I recalled the case of a woman, somewhat noted among her neighbors for coarseness of speech, including profanity, making her altogether such a person as needed the refining influence of religious teaching. Describing the very unpromising condition of this woman, I said:
“Well, Doctor, if you can do anything with your creed to improve that woman, I should be glad to see you undertake the job.”
I was at once struck with the business air in which he considered the exigencies of what was undoubtedly a hard case. It was clear that he had dropped the character of the sectarian, and was taking a common-sense view of the problem. The problem was soon solved, and he replied:
“Mr. Barnum, it is of no use for you, with your opinions, to attempt to do anything for that sort of a person; and it is equally useless for me, with my views, to attempt it either. But, if you could contrive a way to set some fiery, rousing Methodist to work upon her, why, he is just the man to do it!”
There were a number of pretty wild young men among our passengers, and on several occasions they tried their wits upon Dr. Baird. But he was a man of sterling common sense, and with that, very quick at repartee; and they never made anything out of him. On one occasion, at dinner, they were in great glee, and, for a “lark,” they sent him their champagne bottle to drink a glass of wine with them. They, of course, supposedhe was a teetotaler, as, indeed, I believe he was; but when the waiter handed him the bottle, he quietly poured a spoonful or two into his glass, and, gracefully bowing to the young gentlemen, placed it to his lips, but not tasting it. Of course, they could say nothing.
Early one morning, several of these youths came upon deck, and, meeting the Doctor there, one of them exclaimed:
“It is cold as hell this morning, ain’t it, Doctor?”
“I am unable to state the exact height of the thermometer in that locality,” said he, gravely; “but I am afraid you will know all about it some time, if you are not careful.”
The laugh was decidedly against the young man; but one of his companions, who thought considerably of himself, seemed anxious to take up the cudgel, and he remarked:
“Dr. Baird, your brother clergymen are making a great ado in New York about the state of crime there; and they have got a smelling-committee, who go about and smell out all filthy places there, and report them to the public. Indeed, they do say that several of the clergy, and some laymen of the Arthur Tappan stripe, have got a book in which they have written down a list of all the bad houses in New York. I should like to see that book. Ha! ha! I wonder if they have really got one?”
“I don’t know how that is,” replied Doctor Baird; “but,” casting his eyes heavenward, “I can assure you there is a book in which all such places are recorded, as well as the names of those who occupy or visit them; and in due time it will be opened to public gaze.”
The young man looked cowed, and extending his hand to Doctor Baird, said:
“Sir, I confess I have made too light of a serious matter. I sincerely beg your pardon, if I have offended you.”
“You have not offended me,” said the Doctor, with a benignant smile; “but I am rejoiced to perceive that you have offended your own sense of propriety and morality. I trust you will not forget it.”
This was the last attempt on board that ship to try a lance with Doctor Baird.
Several years later, when I was engaged in the Jenny Lind enterprise, Doctor Baird called upon me. Having been so long a missionary in Sweden, the native land of the great songstress, he had a special desire to make her acquaintance and listen to her singing. I introduced him to her, and gave him theentréeto her concerts. He improved the opportunity, and he also made frequent calls upon her. She became much interested in him. Indeed, on several occasions she contributed liberally to the charitable institutions he had recommended to her favorable notice.
During my residence in London I made the acquaintance of an American, whom I will call Simpson, and his wife. They had originally been poor, and accustomed to pretty low society. Their opportunities for education had been limited, and they were what we should term vulgar, ignorant, common people. But by a turn of Fortune’s wheel they became suddenly rich, and like some other fools who know nothing of their own country, they must rush to make the tour of Europe.
Mr. Simpson was an ignorant, good-natured fellow, fond of sporting large amounts of jewelry; was very social with Englishmen; always bragging of our “gloriouscountry”; and was particularly given to boasting that he was once poor and now he was rich. Whenever he met Americans he was delighted, and insisted on the privilege of “standing treats” to all around, familiarly slapping on the back, and treating as an old chum, any American gentleman, however refined, whom he might come in contact with.
Mrs. Simpson was a coarse woman, yet always studying politeness, and particularly the proper pronunciation of words. She was ever trying to appear refined; and she prided herself upon understanding all the rules of etiquette and fashion. She was continually purchasing new dresses and fashionable articles of apparel. She loaded herself down with diamonds and tawdry jewelry, and would frequently appear in the streets with six or eight different dresses in a day. But, strange to say, with all her pride and vanity with regard to being considered the perfection of refinement, she had an awful habit of using profane language! She really seemed to think this an evidence of good breeding. Perhaps she thought it a luxury which rich people were entitled to enjoy. This peculiarity occasionally led to most ludicrous scenes.
The Simpsons were from New England; and in their conversation they had the nasal Yankee twang, and the peculiar pronunciation of the illiterate class of the New England people.
Those who have heard John E. Owens in “Solon Shingle,” are aware that preserved fruits are in New England called “sauce,” by the vulgar pronounced “sass.” But when Mrs. Simpson heard the word in England pronounced sauce, she was very anxious that John, her husband, should adopt the new pronunciation.He tried hard to learn, but would frequently forget himself and say “sass.” Mrs. Simpson would lose her patience on such occasions, and reprove her husband sharply. Indeed, if he escaped without receiving some profane epithet from the lips of his would-be fashionable wife, it was a wonder.
On one occasion I happened to meet them at dinner with an English family in London, to whom I had, in the way of business, introduced them a few weeks previously. We had scarcely taken our seats at the table before Simpson happened to discover a dish of sweetmeats at the further corner of the table. Turning to the servant he said:
“Please pass me that sass.”
Mrs. Simpson’s eyes flashed indignantly, and she angrily exclaimed, almost in a scream:
“Say sauce; don’t say ‘sass.’ I’d rather hear you say h—l a d—d sight!”
That our English hostess was amazed and shocked it is needless to say, although she preserved her equanimity better than could be expected. As for myself, I confess I could not refrain from laughing, which, of course, served only to increase the wrath of Mrs. Simpson.
Fourteen years subsequent to this event, I called on this English lady in company with an American friend. In the course of conversation, I happened to ask her if she remembered about Mrs. Simpson’s “sass.” She took from a drawer her memorandum book, and showed us the above expression verbatim, which, she said, she wrote down the same day it was uttered; and she added she had never been able to think of it since without laughing.
I met Simpson and his wife at a hotel in Marseilles, France, in the summer of 1845. Mrs. Simpson said she and Simpson had almost determined not to go to France at all when they “heard it was necessary to hire an interpreter to tell what folks said.” Said she, “I told Simpson I didn’t want to go among a set of folks who were such cussed fools they couldn’t speak English! But of course we must go to France just for the speech of the people when we get home, so here we are. For my part,” she continued, “I speak English to these Frenchmen anyhow, and if they can’t understand me they can go without understanding. The other morning, I told the waiter my tea was too sweet. I found afterwards that too sweet (toute de suite) was French for ‘very quick.’ ”
“ ‘Oui, madame,’ he replied, ‘oui, oui, que voulez vous?’ (what will you have?)”
“ ‘Too sweet, too sweet,’ I repeated, ‘too sweet, too sweet.’ Then I pointed to my tea, and said again, ‘Too sweet, d—n your stupid head, can’t you understand too sweet?’ The fool jumped around like a hen with her head cut off, and kept saying, ‘Oui, oui, madame, too sweet, qu’est ceque c’est? (What is it?)’ Finally an English gentleman asked me what was the matter, and when I told him, he explained by telling me thattoo sweet(toute de suite) in French meant quick, very quick, and that was what made the stupid waiter jump around so.”
“But d—n the French waiters,” she continued, “I have got quit of them finally, for I have found out a language we both understand.
“The same day my tea was too sweet, Simpson was out at dinner time; and I went to the table alone. Icalled for soup, and the sap-heads brought me some sort of preserves. I then called for fish, and the fools could not understand me. Then I said, ‘Bring me some chicken,’ and d—n ’em, they danced about in a quandary till I thought I should starve to death. But finally I thought of roast duck. I am dreadfully fond of duck, and I knew they always had stuffed ducks at dinner time. So I called to the waiter once more, and pointed to my plate and said, ‘quack,quack,quack, now do you understand?’ and the fool began to laugh, and said, ‘Oui, madame, oui, oui,’ and off he ran, and soon brought me the nicest piece of duck you ever saw. So now every day at dinner, I say ‘quack,quack,’ and I always get some first-rate duck.”
I congratulated her on having discovered a universal language.
The same day, I met a young Englishman in the hotel, who had been travelling in Spain. During our conversation we were summoned to dinner. At the table d’hote, Simpson happened to be seated exactly opposite us. As we continued our conversation, Simpson heard it, and his attention was particularly arrested—it being something of a novelty to meet a stranger in these parts, who spoke our native tongue. The English gentleman mentioned that he ascended the Pyrenees the week previous.
“I should like to have been with you,” I remarked, “but I am almost too fat and lazy to climb high mountains. I suppose you found it pretty hard work.”
“Yes, we had to rough it some; we encountered considerable snow,” he replied.
“Snow!” exclaimed Simpson, in astonishment.
The Englishman looked with surprise at this interruption;for he did not know Simpson, nor had he ever heard him speak before. However, he quietly replied, “Yes, sir, snow.”
“Not by a d—d sight, you didn’t,” replied Simpson, emphatically. “That wont go down. Snow in August wont do. I have seen snow myself in Connecticut, the last of September, but it wont do in August, by a thundering sight.”
The Englishman sprang to his feet, but I hit him a nudge, and said, “It is all right. Excuse me; let me introduce my friend, Mr. Simpson, from America. He has travelled some, and it is pretty hard to take him in with big stories.”
He comprehended the matter instantly and sat down.
“Yes, sir,” remarked Simpson, “I have heard travellers before, but August is a leetle too early for snow.”
“But suppose I should say it was not this year’s snow?” said the Englishman, who was ready now to carry on the joke.
“Worse and worse,” exclaimed Simpson, with a triumphant laugh; “if it would not melt in August, when in thunder would it melt! You might as well say it would lay all the year round.”
“I give it up,” said the Englishman, “you are too sharp for me.”
Simpson was delighted, and took special pains for several days to inform the interpreters in the neighboring hotels and billiard saloons, that he had “took down” an impudent John Bull, who had tried to stuff him with the idea that he had seen snow in August.
I met the Simpsons afterwards in Brussels, and the head of the family, who had heard nothing but French spoken, outside of his own circle, for a long time, calledme in great glee to the door, to see and hear some Dutchmen, who were conversing together in the street.
“There!” exclaimed Simpson, “those fellows are Dutchmen; I know by their talk.”
“Very well,” said I, “how far do you suppose those Dutchmen are from their native place?”
“Why,” replied Simpson, “I suppose they came from Western Pennsylvania; that’s where I have always seen ’em.”
With the exception of the brief time passed in making two short visits to America, I had now passed three years with General Tom Thumb in Great Britain and on the Continent. The entire period had been a season of unbroken pleasure and profit. I had immensely enlarged my business experiences and had made money and many friends. Among those to whom I am indebted for special courtesies while I was abroad are Dr. C. S. Brewster, whose prosperous professional career in Russia and France is well known, and Henry Sumner, Esq., who occupied a high position in the social and literary circles of Paris and who introduced me to George Sand and to many other distinguished persons. To both these gentlemen, as well as to Mr. John Nimmo, an English gentleman connected withGalignani’s Messenger, Mr. Lorenzo Draper, the American Consul, and Mr. Dion Boucicault, I was largely indebted for attention. In London, two gentlemen especially merit my warm acknowledgments for many valuable favors. I refer to the late Thomas Brettell, publisher, Haymarket; and Mr. R. Fillingham, Jr., Fenchurch Street. I was also indebted to Mr. G. P. Putnam, at that time a London publisher, for much useful information.
We had visited nearly every city and town in France and Belgium, all the principal places in England and Scotland, besides going to Belfast and Dublin, in Ireland. I had several times met Daniel O’Connell in private life and in the Irish capital I heard him make an eloquent and powerful public Repeal speech in Conciliation Hall. In Dublin, after exhibiting a week in Rotunda Hall, our receipts on the last day were £261, or $1,305, and the General also received £50, or $250, for playing the same evening at the Theatre Royal. Thus closing a truly triumphant tour, we set sail for New York, arriving in February 1847.