Long Island, Tuesday, June 3, 1856.Gentlemen,—I can hardly find words to express my gratitude for your very kind proposition. The popular sympathy is to me far more precious than gold, and that sympathy seems in my case to extend from my immediate neighbors, in Bridgeport, to all parts of our Union.Proffers of pecuniary assistance have reached me from every quarter, not only from friends, but from entire strangers. Mr. Wm. E. Burton, Miss Laura Keene and Mr. Wm. Niblo have in the kindest manner tendered me the receipts of theirtheatres for one evening. Mr. Gough volunteered the proceeds of one of his attractive lectures; Mr. James Phalon generously offered me the free use of the Academy of Music; many professional ladies and gentlemen have urged me to accept their gratuitous services. I have, on principle, respectfully declined them all, as I beg, with the most grateful acknowledgments (at least for the present), to decline yours—not because a benefit, in itself, is an objectionable thing, but because I have ever made it a point to ask nothing of the public on personal grounds, and should prefer, while I can possibly avoid that contingency, to accept nothing from it without the honest conviction that I had individually given it in return a full equivalent.While favored with health, I feel competent to earn an honest livelihood for myself and family. More than this I shall certainly never attempt with such a load of debt suspended in terrorem over me. While I earnestly, thank you, therefore, for your generous consideration, gentlemen, I trust you will appreciate my desire to live unhumiliated by a sense of dependence; and believe me, sincerely yours,P. T. Barnum.To Messrs.Freeman Hunt,E. K. Collins,and others.
Long Island, Tuesday, June 3, 1856.
Gentlemen,—I can hardly find words to express my gratitude for your very kind proposition. The popular sympathy is to me far more precious than gold, and that sympathy seems in my case to extend from my immediate neighbors, in Bridgeport, to all parts of our Union.
Proffers of pecuniary assistance have reached me from every quarter, not only from friends, but from entire strangers. Mr. Wm. E. Burton, Miss Laura Keene and Mr. Wm. Niblo have in the kindest manner tendered me the receipts of theirtheatres for one evening. Mr. Gough volunteered the proceeds of one of his attractive lectures; Mr. James Phalon generously offered me the free use of the Academy of Music; many professional ladies and gentlemen have urged me to accept their gratuitous services. I have, on principle, respectfully declined them all, as I beg, with the most grateful acknowledgments (at least for the present), to decline yours—not because a benefit, in itself, is an objectionable thing, but because I have ever made it a point to ask nothing of the public on personal grounds, and should prefer, while I can possibly avoid that contingency, to accept nothing from it without the honest conviction that I had individually given it in return a full equivalent.
While favored with health, I feel competent to earn an honest livelihood for myself and family. More than this I shall certainly never attempt with such a load of debt suspended in terrorem over me. While I earnestly, thank you, therefore, for your generous consideration, gentlemen, I trust you will appreciate my desire to live unhumiliated by a sense of dependence; and believe me, sincerely yours,P. T. Barnum.
To Messrs.Freeman Hunt,E. K. Collins,and others.
And with other offers of assistance from far and near, came the following from a little gentleman who did not forget his old friend and benefactor in the time of trial:
Jones’ Hotel,Philadelphia, May 12, 1856.My Dear Mr. Barnum,—I understand your friends, and that means “all creation,” intend to get up some benefits for your family. Now, my dear sir, just be good enough to remember that I belong to that mighty crowd, and I must have a finger (or at least a “thumb”) in that pie. I am bound to appear on all such occasions in some shape, from “Jack the Giant Killer,” up stairs, to the doorkeeper down, whichever may serve you best; and there are some feats that I can perform as well as any other man of my inches. I have just started out on my western tour, and have my carriage, ponies and assistants all here, but I am ready to go on to New York, bag and baggage, and remain at Mrs. Barnum’s service as long as I, in my small way, can be useful. Put me into any “heavy” work, if you like. Perhaps I cannot lift as much as some other folks, but just take your pencil in hand and you will see I can draw a tremendous load. I drew two hundred tons at a single pull to-day, embracing two thousand persons, whom I hauled up safely and satisfactorily to all parties, at one exhibition. Hoping that you will be able to fix up a lot of magnets that will attract all New York, and volunteering to sit on any part of the loadstone, I am, as ever, your little but sympathizing friend,Gen. Tom Thumb.
Jones’ Hotel,Philadelphia, May 12, 1856.
My Dear Mr. Barnum,—I understand your friends, and that means “all creation,” intend to get up some benefits for your family. Now, my dear sir, just be good enough to remember that I belong to that mighty crowd, and I must have a finger (or at least a “thumb”) in that pie. I am bound to appear on all such occasions in some shape, from “Jack the Giant Killer,” up stairs, to the doorkeeper down, whichever may serve you best; and there are some feats that I can perform as well as any other man of my inches. I have just started out on my western tour, and have my carriage, ponies and assistants all here, but I am ready to go on to New York, bag and baggage, and remain at Mrs. Barnum’s service as long as I, in my small way, can be useful. Put me into any “heavy” work, if you like. Perhaps I cannot lift as much as some other folks, but just take your pencil in hand and you will see I can draw a tremendous load. I drew two hundred tons at a single pull to-day, embracing two thousand persons, whom I hauled up safely and satisfactorily to all parties, at one exhibition. Hoping that you will be able to fix up a lot of magnets that will attract all New York, and volunteering to sit on any part of the loadstone, I am, as ever, your little but sympathizing friend,
Gen. Tom Thumb.
Even this generous offer from my little friend I felt compelled to refuse. But kind words were written and spoken which I could not prevent, nor did I desire to do so, and which were worth more to me than money. I should fail to find space, if I wished it, to copyone-tenth part of the cordial and kind articles and paragraphs that appeared about me in newspapers throughout the country. The following sentence from an editorial article in a prominent New York journal was the key-note to many similar kind notices in all parts of the Union: “It is a fact beyond dispute that Mr. Barnum’s financial difficulties have accumulated from the goodness of his nature; kind-hearted and generous to a fault, it has ever been his custom to lend a helping hand to the struggling; and honest industry and enterprise have found his friendship prompt and faithful.” TheBoston Journaldwelt especially upon the use I had made of my money in my days of prosperity in assisting deserving laboring men and in giving an impulse to business in the town where I resided. It seems only just that I should make this very brief allusion to these things, if only as an offset to the unbounded abuse of those who believed in kicking me merely because I was down; nor can I refrain from copying the following from theBoston Saturday Evening Gazette, of May 3, 1856:
BARNUM REDIVIVUS.
A WORD FOR BARNUM.
Barnum, your hand! Though you are “down,”And see full many a frigid shoulder,Be brave, my brick, and though they frown,Prove that misfortune makes you bolder.There’s many a man that sneers, my hero,And former praise converts to scorning,Would worship—when he fears—a Nero,And bend “where thrift may follow fawning.”You humbugged us—that we have seen,We got our money’s worth, old fellow,And though you thought ourmindsweregreen,We never thought yourheartwasyellow.We knew you liberal, generous, warm,Quick to assist a falling brother,And, with such virtues, what’s the harmAll memories of your faults to smother?We had not heard the peerless Lind,But for your spirit enterprising,You were the man to raise the wind,And make acoupconfessed surprising.You’re reckoned in your native townA friend in need, a friend in danger,You ever keep the latchstring down,And greet with open hand the stranger.Stiffen your upper lip. You knowWho are your friends and who your foes now;We pay for knowledge as we go;And though you get some sturdy blows now,You’ve a fair field,—no favors crave,—The storm once passed will find you braver,—In virtue’s cause long may you wave,And on the right side, never waver.
Barnum, your hand! Though you are “down,”And see full many a frigid shoulder,Be brave, my brick, and though they frown,Prove that misfortune makes you bolder.There’s many a man that sneers, my hero,And former praise converts to scorning,Would worship—when he fears—a Nero,And bend “where thrift may follow fawning.”You humbugged us—that we have seen,We got our money’s worth, old fellow,And though you thought ourmindsweregreen,We never thought yourheartwasyellow.We knew you liberal, generous, warm,Quick to assist a falling brother,And, with such virtues, what’s the harmAll memories of your faults to smother?We had not heard the peerless Lind,But for your spirit enterprising,You were the man to raise the wind,And make acoupconfessed surprising.You’re reckoned in your native townA friend in need, a friend in danger,You ever keep the latchstring down,And greet with open hand the stranger.Stiffen your upper lip. You knowWho are your friends and who your foes now;We pay for knowledge as we go;And though you get some sturdy blows now,You’ve a fair field,—no favors crave,—The storm once passed will find you braver,—In virtue’s cause long may you wave,And on the right side, never waver.
Barnum, your hand! Though you are “down,”And see full many a frigid shoulder,Be brave, my brick, and though they frown,Prove that misfortune makes you bolder.There’s many a man that sneers, my hero,And former praise converts to scorning,Would worship—when he fears—a Nero,And bend “where thrift may follow fawning.”
You humbugged us—that we have seen,We got our money’s worth, old fellow,And though you thought ourmindsweregreen,We never thought yourheartwasyellow.We knew you liberal, generous, warm,Quick to assist a falling brother,And, with such virtues, what’s the harmAll memories of your faults to smother?
We had not heard the peerless Lind,But for your spirit enterprising,You were the man to raise the wind,And make acoupconfessed surprising.You’re reckoned in your native townA friend in need, a friend in danger,You ever keep the latchstring down,And greet with open hand the stranger.
Stiffen your upper lip. You knowWho are your friends and who your foes now;We pay for knowledge as we go;And though you get some sturdy blows now,You’ve a fair field,—no favors crave,—The storm once passed will find you braver,—In virtue’s cause long may you wave,And on the right side, never waver.
Desirous of knowing who was the author of this kindly effusion, I wrote, while preparing this autobiography, to Mr. B. P. Shillaber, one of the editors of the journal, and well known to the public as “Mrs. Partington.” In reply, I received the following letter in which it will be seen that he makes sympathetic allusion to the burning of my last Museum, only a few weeks before the date of his letter:
Chelsea, April 25, 1868.My Dear Mr. Barnum:—The poem in question was written by A. Wallace Thaxter, associate editor with Mr. Clapp and myself, on theGazette—since deceased, a glorious fellow—who wrote the poem from a sincere feeling of admiration for yourself. Mr. Clapp, (Hon. W. W. Clapp,) published it with his full approbation. I heard of your new trouble, in my sick chamber, where I have been all winter, with regret, and wish you as ready a release from attending difficulty as your genius has hitherto achieved under like circumstances.Yours, very truly,B. P. Shillaber.
Chelsea, April 25, 1868.
My Dear Mr. Barnum:—The poem in question was written by A. Wallace Thaxter, associate editor with Mr. Clapp and myself, on theGazette—since deceased, a glorious fellow—who wrote the poem from a sincere feeling of admiration for yourself. Mr. Clapp, (Hon. W. W. Clapp,) published it with his full approbation. I heard of your new trouble, in my sick chamber, where I have been all winter, with regret, and wish you as ready a release from attending difficulty as your genius has hitherto achieved under like circumstances.
Yours, very truly,
B. P. Shillaber.
But the manifestations of sympathy which came to me from Bridgeport, where my home had been for more than ten years, were the most gratifying of all, because they showed unmistakably that my best friends, those who were most constant in their friendship and most emphatic in their esteem, were my neighbors and associateswho, of all people, knew me best. With such support I could easily endure the attacks of traducers elsewhere. TheNew York Times, April 25, 1856, under the head of “Sympathy for Barnum,” published a full report of the meeting of my fellow-citizens of Bridgeport, the previous evening, to take my case into consideration.
In response to a call headed by the mayor of the city, and signed by several hundred citizens, this meeting was held in Washington Hall “for the purpose of sympathizing with P. T. Barnum, Esq., in his recent pecuniary embarrassments, and of giving some public expression to their views in reference to his financial misfortunes.” It was the largest public meeting which, up to that time, had ever been held in Bridgeport. Several prominent citizens made addresses, and resolutions were adopted declaring “that respect and sympathy were due to P. T. Barnum in return for his many acts of liberality, philanthropy and public spirit,” expressing unshaken confidence in his integrity, admiration for the “fortitude and composure with which he has met reverses into which he has been dragged through no fault of his own except a too generous confidence in pretended friends,” and hoping that he would “yet return to that wealth which he has so nobly employed, and to the community he has so signally benefited.” During the evening the following letter was read:
New York, Thursday, April 24, 1856.Wm. H. Noble, Esq.,Dear Sir:—I have just received a slip containing a call for a public meeting of the citizens of Bridgeport to sympathize with me in my troubles. It is headed by His Honor the Mayor, and is signed by most of your prominent citizens, as well as by many men who by hard labor earn their daily bread, and who appreciate a calamity which at a single blow strips a man of his fortune, his dear home, and all the worldly comforts which years of diligent labor had acquired. It is due to truth to say that I knew nothing of this movement until your letter informed me of it.In misfortune the true sympathy of neighbors is more consoling and precious than anything which money can purchase. This voluntary offering of my fellow-citizens, though it thrills me with painful emotions and causes tears of gratitude, yet imparts to me renewed strength and fills my heart with thankfulness to Providence for raising up to my sight, above all this wreck, kind hearts which soar above the sordid atmosphere of “dirty dollars.” I can never forget this unexpected kindness from my old friends and neighbors.I trust I am not blind to my many faults and shortcomings. I, however, do feel great consolation in believing that I never used money or position to oppress the poor or wrong my fellow-men, and that I never turned empty away those whom I had the power to assist.My poor sick wife, who needs the bracing air which our own dear home (made beautiful by her willing hands) would now have afforded her, is driven by the orders of her physician to a secluded spot on Long Island where the sea-wind lends its healthful influence, and where I have also retired for the double purpose of consoling her and of recruiting my own constitution, which, through the excitements of the last few months, has most seriously failed me.In our quiet and humble retreat, that which I most sincerely pray for is tranquillity and contentment. I am sure that the remembrance of the kindness of my Bridgeport neighbors will aid me in securing these cherished blessings. No man who has not passed through similar scenes can fully comprehend the misery which has been crowded into the last few months of my life; but I have endeavored to preserve my integrity, and I humbly hope and believe that I am being taught humility and reliance upon Providence, which will yet afford a thousand times more peace and true happiness than can be acquired in the din, strife and turmoil, excitements and struggles of this money-worshipping age. The man who coins his brain and blood into gold, who wastes all of his time and thought upon the almighty dollar, who looks no higher than blocks of houses, and tracts of land, and whose iron chest is crammed with stocks and mortgages tied up with his own heart-strings, may console himself with the idea of safe investments, but he misses a pleasure which I firmly believe this lesson was intended to secure to me, and which it will secure if I can fully bring my mind to realize its wisdom. I think I hear you say—“When the devil was sick,The devil a saint would be.But when the devil got well,The devil a saint was he.”Granted, but, after all, the man who looks upon the loss of money as anything compared to the loss of honor, or health, or self-respect, or friends,—a man who can find no source of happiness except in riches,—is to be pitied for his blindness. I certainly feel that the loss of money, of home and my home comforts, is dreadful,—that to be driven again to find a resting-place away from those I love, and from where I had fondly supposed I was to end my days, and where I had lavished time, money, everything, to make my descent to the grave placid and pleasant,—is, indeed, a severe lesson; but, after all, I firmly believe it is for the best, and though my heart may break, I will not repine.I regret, beyond expression, that any man should be a loser for having trusted to my name; it would not have been so, if I had not myself been deceived. As it is, I am gratified in knowing that all my individual obligations will be met. It would have been much better if clock creditors had accepted the best offer that it was in my power to make them; but it was not so to be. It is now too late, and as I willingly give up all I possess, I can do no more.Wherever my future lot may be cast, I shall ever fondly cherish the kindness which I have always received from the citizens of Bridgeport.I am, my dear Sir, truly yours,P. T. BARNUM.
New York, Thursday, April 24, 1856.
Wm. H. Noble, Esq.,
Dear Sir:—I have just received a slip containing a call for a public meeting of the citizens of Bridgeport to sympathize with me in my troubles. It is headed by His Honor the Mayor, and is signed by most of your prominent citizens, as well as by many men who by hard labor earn their daily bread, and who appreciate a calamity which at a single blow strips a man of his fortune, his dear home, and all the worldly comforts which years of diligent labor had acquired. It is due to truth to say that I knew nothing of this movement until your letter informed me of it.
In misfortune the true sympathy of neighbors is more consoling and precious than anything which money can purchase. This voluntary offering of my fellow-citizens, though it thrills me with painful emotions and causes tears of gratitude, yet imparts to me renewed strength and fills my heart with thankfulness to Providence for raising up to my sight, above all this wreck, kind hearts which soar above the sordid atmosphere of “dirty dollars.” I can never forget this unexpected kindness from my old friends and neighbors.
I trust I am not blind to my many faults and shortcomings. I, however, do feel great consolation in believing that I never used money or position to oppress the poor or wrong my fellow-men, and that I never turned empty away those whom I had the power to assist.
My poor sick wife, who needs the bracing air which our own dear home (made beautiful by her willing hands) would now have afforded her, is driven by the orders of her physician to a secluded spot on Long Island where the sea-wind lends its healthful influence, and where I have also retired for the double purpose of consoling her and of recruiting my own constitution, which, through the excitements of the last few months, has most seriously failed me.
In our quiet and humble retreat, that which I most sincerely pray for is tranquillity and contentment. I am sure that the remembrance of the kindness of my Bridgeport neighbors will aid me in securing these cherished blessings. No man who has not passed through similar scenes can fully comprehend the misery which has been crowded into the last few months of my life; but I have endeavored to preserve my integrity, and I humbly hope and believe that I am being taught humility and reliance upon Providence, which will yet afford a thousand times more peace and true happiness than can be acquired in the din, strife and turmoil, excitements and struggles of this money-worshipping age. The man who coins his brain and blood into gold, who wastes all of his time and thought upon the almighty dollar, who looks no higher than blocks of houses, and tracts of land, and whose iron chest is crammed with stocks and mortgages tied up with his own heart-strings, may console himself with the idea of safe investments, but he misses a pleasure which I firmly believe this lesson was intended to secure to me, and which it will secure if I can fully bring my mind to realize its wisdom. I think I hear you say—
“When the devil was sick,The devil a saint would be.But when the devil got well,The devil a saint was he.”
“When the devil was sick,The devil a saint would be.But when the devil got well,The devil a saint was he.”
“When the devil was sick,The devil a saint would be.But when the devil got well,The devil a saint was he.”
Granted, but, after all, the man who looks upon the loss of money as anything compared to the loss of honor, or health, or self-respect, or friends,—a man who can find no source of happiness except in riches,—is to be pitied for his blindness. I certainly feel that the loss of money, of home and my home comforts, is dreadful,—that to be driven again to find a resting-place away from those I love, and from where I had fondly supposed I was to end my days, and where I had lavished time, money, everything, to make my descent to the grave placid and pleasant,—is, indeed, a severe lesson; but, after all, I firmly believe it is for the best, and though my heart may break, I will not repine.
I regret, beyond expression, that any man should be a loser for having trusted to my name; it would not have been so, if I had not myself been deceived. As it is, I am gratified in knowing that all my individual obligations will be met. It would have been much better if clock creditors had accepted the best offer that it was in my power to make them; but it was not so to be. It is now too late, and as I willingly give up all I possess, I can do no more.
Wherever my future lot may be cast, I shall ever fondly cherish the kindness which I have always received from the citizens of Bridgeport.
I am, my dear Sir, truly yours,
P. T. BARNUM.
Shortly after this sympathetic meeting, a number of gentlemen in Bridgeport offered me a loan of $50,000 if that sum would be instrumental in extricating me from my entanglement. I could not say that this amount would meet the exigency; I could only say, “wait, wait, and hope.”
Meanwhile, my eyes were fully opened to the entire magnitude of the deception that had been practised upon my too confiding nature. I not only discovered that my notes had been used to five times the amount I stipulated or expected, but that they had been applied, not to relieving the company from temporary embarrassment after my connection with it, but almost wholly to the redemption of old and rotten claims of years and months gone by. To show the extent to which the fresh victim was deliberately bled, it may be stated that I was induced to become surety to one of the New Haven banks in the sum of $30,000 to indemnify the bank against future losses it might incur from the Jerome company after my connection with it, and by some legerdemain this bond was made to cover past obligations which were older even than my knowledge of the existence of the company. In every way it seemed as if I had been cruelly swindled and deliberately defrauded.
As the clock company had gone to pieces and was paying but from twelve to fifteen per cent for its paper, I sent two of my friends to New Haven to ask for a meeting of the creditors and I instructed them to say in substance for me as follows:
“Gentlemen: This is a capital practical joke! Before I negotiated with your clock company at all, I was assured by several of you, and particularly by a representative of the bank which was the largest creditor of the concern, that the Jerome company was eminently responsible and that the head of the same was uncommonly pious. On the strength of such representations solely, I was induced to agree to indorse and accept paper for that company to the extent of $110,000—no more. That sum I am now willing to pay for my own verdancy, with an additional sum of $40,000 for your ‘cuteness, making a total of $150,000, which you can have if you cry ‘quits’ with the fleeced showman and let him off.”
Many of the old creditors favored this proposition; but it was found that the indebtedness was so scattered it would be impracticable to attempt a settlement by an unanimous compromise of the creditors. It was necessary to liquidation that my property should go into the hands of assignees; I therefore at once turned over my Bridgeport property to Connecticut assignees and I removed my family to New York, where I also made an assignment of all my real and personal estate, excepting what had already been transferred in Connecticut.
About this time I received a letter from Philadelphia proferring $500 in case my circumstances were such that I really stood in need of help. The very wording of the letter awakened the suspicion in my mind that it was a trick to ascertain whether I really had any property, for I knew that banks and brokers in that city held some of my Jerome paper which they refused to compound or compromise. So I at once wrote that I did need $500, and, as I expected, the money did notcome, nor was my letter answered; but, as a natural consequence, the Philadelphia bankers who were holding the Jerome paper for a higher percentage at once acceded to the terms which I had announced myself able and willing to pay.
Every dollar which I honestly owed on my own account I had already paid in full or had satisfactorily arranged. For the liabilities incurred by the deliberate deception which had involved me I offered such a percentage as I thought my estate, when sold, would eventually pay; and my wife, from her own property, advanced from time to time money to take up such notes as could be secured upon these terms. It was, however, a slow process. More than one creditor would hold on to his note, which possibly he had “shaved” at the rate of two or three per cent a month, and say:
“Oh! you can’t keep Barnum down; he will dig out after a while; I shall never sell my claim for less than par and interest.”
Of course, I knew very well that if all the creditors took this view I should never get out of the entanglement in which I had been involved by the old creditors of the Jerome Company, who had so ingeniously managed to make me take their place. All I could do was to take a thorough survey of the situation, and consider, now that I was down, how I could get up again.
“Every cloud,” says the proverb, “has a silver lining,” and so I did not despair. “This blow,” I thought “may be beneficial to my children, if not to me.” They had been brought up in luxury; accustomed to call on servants to attend to every want; and almost unlimited in the expenditure of money. My daughter Helen,especially, was naturally extravagant. She was a warm-hearted, generous girl, who knew literally nothing of the value of money and the difficulty of acquiring it. At this time she was fifteen years old, and was attending a French boarding school in the City of Washington. A few days after the news of my failure was published in the papers, my friend, the Rev. Dr. E. H. Chapin, of New York, was at my house. He had long been intimate with my family, and was well acquainted with the extravagant ideas and ways of my daughter Helen. One morning, I received a letter from her, filled with sympathy and sorrow for my misfortunes. She told me how much shocked she was at hearing of my financial disasters, and added: “Do send for me immediately, for I cannot think of remaining here at an expense which my parents cannot afford. I have learned to play the piano well enough to be able to take some little girls as pupils, and in this way I can be of some assistance in supporting the family.”
On reading this I was deeply affected; and, handing the letter to Dr. Chapin, I said: “There, sir, is a letter which is worth ten thousand dollars.”
“Twenty thousand, at the least!” was the exclamation of the Doctor when he had read it.
We were now living in a very frugal manner in a hired furnished house in Eighth Street, near Sixth Avenue, in New York, and our landlady and her family boarded with us. At the age of forty-six, after the acquisition and the loss of a handsome fortune, I was once more nearly at the bottom of the ladder, and was about to begin the world again. The situation was disheartening, but I had energy, experience, health and hope.
SALE OF THE MUSEUM COLLECTION—SUPPLEMENTARY PROCEEDINGS OF MY CREDITORS—EXAMINATIONS IN COURT—BARNUM AS A BAR TENDER—PERSECUTION—THE SUMMER SEASON ON LONG ISLAND—THE MUSEUM MAN ON SHOW—CHARLES HOWELL—A GREAT NATURAL CURIOSITY—VALUE OF A HONK—PROPOSING TO BUY IT—A BLACK WHALE PAYS MY SUMMER’S BOARD—A TURN IN THE TIDE—THE WHEELER AND WILSON SEWING MACHINE COMPANY—THEIR REMOVAL TO EAST BRIDGEPORT—THE TERRY AND BARNUM CLOCK FACTORY OCCUPIED—NEW CITY PROPERTY LOOKING UP—A LOAN OF $5,000—THE CAUSE OF MY RUIN PROMISES TO BE MY REDEMPTION—SETTING SAIL FOR ENGLAND—GENERAL TOM THUMB—LITTLE CORDELIA HOWARD.
SALE OF THE MUSEUM COLLECTION—SUPPLEMENTARY PROCEEDINGS OF MY CREDITORS—EXAMINATIONS IN COURT—BARNUM AS A BAR TENDER—PERSECUTION—THE SUMMER SEASON ON LONG ISLAND—THE MUSEUM MAN ON SHOW—CHARLES HOWELL—A GREAT NATURAL CURIOSITY—VALUE OF A HONK—PROPOSING TO BUY IT—A BLACK WHALE PAYS MY SUMMER’S BOARD—A TURN IN THE TIDE—THE WHEELER AND WILSON SEWING MACHINE COMPANY—THEIR REMOVAL TO EAST BRIDGEPORT—THE TERRY AND BARNUM CLOCK FACTORY OCCUPIED—NEW CITY PROPERTY LOOKING UP—A LOAN OF $5,000—THE CAUSE OF MY RUIN PROMISES TO BE MY REDEMPTION—SETTING SAIL FOR ENGLAND—GENERAL TOM THUMB—LITTLE CORDELIA HOWARD.
INthe summer of 1855, previous to my financial troubles, feeling that I was independent and could retire from active business, I sold the American Museum collection and good will to Messrs. John Greenwood, Junior, and Henry D. Butler. They paid me double the amount the collection had originally cost, giving me notes for nearly the entire amount secured by a chattel mortgage, and hired the premises from my wife, who owned the Museum property lease, and on which, by the agreement of Messrs. Greenwood and Butler, she realized a profit of $19,000 a year. The chattel mortgage of Messrs. Greenwood and Butler, was, of course, turned over to the New York assignee with the other property.
And now there came to me a new sensation which was at times terribly depressing and annoying. My wides-pread reputation for shrewdness as a showman hadinduced the general belief that my means were still ample, and certain outside creditors who had bought my clock notes at a tremendous discount and entirely on speculation, made up their minds that they must be paid at once without waiting for the slow process of the sale of my property by the assignees.
They therefore took what are termed “supplementary proceedings,” which enabled them to haul me any day before a judge for the purpose, as they phrased it, of “putting Barnum through a course of sprouts,” and which meant an examination of the debtor under oath, compelling him to disclose everything with regard to his property, his present means of living, and so on.
I repeatedly answered all questions on these points; and reports of the daily examinations were published. Still another and another, and yet another creditor would haul me up; and his attorney would ask me the same questions which had already been answered and published half a dozen times. This persistent and unnecessary annoyance created considerable sympathy for me, which was not only expressed by letters I received daily from various parts of the country, but the public press, with now and then an exception, took my part, and even the Judges, before whom I appeared, said to me on more than one occasion, that as men they sincerely pitied me, but as judges of course they must administer the law. After a while, however, the judges ruled that I need not answer any question propounded to me by an attorney, if I had already answered the same question to some other attorney in a previous examination in behalf of other creditors. In fact, one of the judges, on one occasion, said pretty sharply to an examining attorney:
“This, sir, has become simply a case of persecution. Mr. Barnum has many times answered every question that can properly be put to him to elicit the desired information; and I think it is time to stop these examinations. I advise him to not answer one interrogatory which he has replied to under any previous inquiries.”
These things gave me some heart, so that at last, I went up to the “sprouts” with less reluctance, and began to try to pay off my persecutors in their own coin.
On one occasion, a dwarfish little lawyer, who reminded me of “Quilp,” commenced his examination in behalf of a note-shaver who held a thousand dollar note, which it seemed he had bought for seven hundred dollars. After the oath had been administered the little “limb of the law” arranged his pen, ink and paper, and in a loud voice, and with a most peremptory and supercilious air, asked:
“What is your name, sir?”
I answered him, and his next question, given in a louder and more peremptory tone, was:
“What is your business?”
“Attending bar,” I meekly replied.
“Attending bar!” he echoed, with an appearance of much surprise; “Attending bar! Why, don’t you profess to be a temperance man—a teetotaler?”
“I do,” I replied.
“And yet, sir, do you have the audacity to assert that you peddle rum all day, and drink none yourself?”
“I doubt whether that is a relevant question,” I said in a low tone of voice.
“I will appeal to his honor the judge, if you don’t answer it instantly,” said Quilp in great glee.
“I attend bar, and yet never drink intoxicating liquors,” I replied.
“Where do you attend bar, and for whom?” was the next question.
“I attend the bar of this court, nearly every day, for the benefit of two-penny, would-be lawyers and their greedy clients,” I answered.
A loud tittering in the vicinity only added to the vexation which was already visible on the countenance of my interrogator, and he soon brought his examination to a close.
On another occasion, a young lawyer was pushing his inquiries to a great length, when, in a half laughing, apologetic tone, he said:
“You see, Mr. Barnum, I am searching after the small things; I am willing to take even the crumbs which fall from the rich man’s table!”
“Which are you, Lazarus, or one of the dogs?” I asked.
“I guess a blood-hound would not smell out much on this trail,” he said good-naturedly, adding that he had no more questions to ask.
I still continued to receive many offers of pecuniary assistance, which, whenever proposed in the form of a gift, I invariably refused. In a number of instances, personal friends tendered me their checks for $500, $1,000, and other sums, but I always responded in substance: “Oh, no, I thank you; I do not need it; my wife has considerable property, besides a large income from her Museum lease. I want for nothing; I do not owe a dollar for personal obligations that is not already secured, and when the clock creditors have fully investigated and thought over the matter, I think they will becontent to divide my property among themselves and let me up.”
Just after my failure, and on account of the ill-health of my wife, I spent a portion of the summer with my family in the farmhouse of Mr. Charles Howell, at Westhampton, on Long Island. The place is a mile west of Quogue, and was then called “Ketchebonneck.” The thrifty and intelligent farmers of the neighborhood were in the habit of taking summer boarders, and the place had become a favorite resort. Mr. Howell’s farm lay close upon the ocean and I found the residence a cool and delightful one. Surf bathing, fishing, shooting and fine roads for driving made the season pass pleasantly and the respite from active life and immediate annoyance from my financial troubles was a very great benefit to me.
Our landlord was an eccentric character, who took great pleasure in showing me to his friends and neighbors as “the Museum man,” and consequently, as a great curiosity; for in his estimation, the American Museum was chief among the institutions of New York. He was in a habit of gathering shells and such rarities as came within his reach, which he took to the city and disposed of at the Museum. He often spoke of certain phenomena in his neighborhood, which he thought would take well with the public, if they were properly brought out. One day he said:
“Mr. Barnum, I am going to Moriches this morning, and I want you to go along with me and see a great curiosity there is there.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“It is a man who has got a natural ‘honk’ ” replied Howell, “and it is worth fifty dollars a year to him.”
“A what?” I inquired.
“A honk! a honk! a perfectly natural honk! he makes fifty dollars a year out of it,” Howell reiterated.
I could not comprehend what a “honk” was, but concluded that if it was worth fifty dollars a year among the Long Island fishermen and farmers who could hardly be expected to pay much for mere sight-seeing, it would be much more valuable to exhibit in the Museum. So I remarked that as I was authorized by Messrs. Greenwood and Butler to purchase curiosities for them, I would go with him and buy the honk from its possessor if I could get it at a reasonable price.
“Buy it!” exclaimed Howell; “I guess you can’t buy it! You don’t seem to understand me; the man has got a natural honk, I tell you; that is, he honks exactly like a wild goose; when flocks are flying over he goes out and honks and the geese, supposing that some goose has settled and is honking for the rest of the flock to come down and feed, all fly towards the ground and he ‘lets into ’em’ with his gun, thus killing a great many, and in this way his honk is worth fifty dollars a year to him, and perhaps more.”
I decided not to attempt to buy the “honk,” but my eagerness to do so and my entire ignorance of the character of the curiosity furnished food for laughter to Howell and his neighbors for a long time.
One morning we discovered that the waves had thrown upon the beach a young black whale some twelve feet long. It was dead, but the fish was hard and fresh and I bought it for a few dollars from the men who had taken possession of it. I sent it at once to the Museum, where it was exhibited in a huge refrigerator for a few days, creating considerable excitement,the general public considering it “a big thing on ice,” and the managers gave me a share of the profits, which amounted to a sufficient sum to pay the entire board bill of my family for the season.
This incident both amused and amazed my Long Island landlord. “Well, I declare,” said he, “that beats all; you are the luckiest man I ever heard of. Here you come and board for four months with your family, and when your time is nearly up, and you are getting ready to leave, out rolls a black whale on our beach, a thing never heard of before in this vicinity, and you take that whale and pay your whole bill with it! I wonder if that ain’t ‘providential’? Why, that beats the ‘natural honk’ all to pieces!” This was followed by such a laugh as only Charles Howell could give, and like one of his peculiar sneezes, it resounded, echoed, and re-echoed through the whole neighborhood.
Soon after my return to New York, something occurred which I foresaw, I thought, at the time, was likely indirectly to lead me out of the wilderness into a clear field again, and, indeed, it eventually did so. Strange to say, my new city which had been my ruin was to be my redemption, and dear East Bridgeport which plunged me into the slough was to bring me out again. “Dear” as the place had literally proved to me, it was to be yet dearer, in another and better sense, hereafter.
The now gigantic Wheeler & Wilson Sewing Machine Company was then doing a comparatively small, yet rapidly growing business at Watertown, Connecticut. The Terry & Barnum clock factory was standing idle, almost worthless, in East Bridgeport, and Wheeler & Wilson saw in the empty building, the situation, the easeof communication with New York, and other advantages, precisely what they wanted, provided they could procure the premises at a rate which would compensate them for the expense and trouble of removing their establishment from Watertown. It is enough to say here, that the clock factory was sold for a trifle and the Wheeler & Wilson Company moved into it and speedily enlarged it. I felt then that this was providential; the fact that the empty building could be cheaply purchased was the main motive for the removal of this Watertown enterprise to East Bridgeport, and was one of the first indications that my failure might prove a “blessing in disguise.” It was a fresh impulse towards the building up of the new city and the consequent increase of the value of the land belonging to my estate. Many persons did not see these things in the same light in which they were presented to me, but I had so long pondered upon the various means which were to make the new city prosperous, that I was quick to catch any indication which promised benefit to East Bridgeport.
This important movement of the Wheeler and Wilson Company gave me the greatest hope, and moreover, Mr. Wheeler kindly offered me a loan of $5,000, without security, and as I was anxious to have it used in purchasing the East Bridgeport property, when sold at public auction by my assignees, and also in taking up such clock notes as could be bought at a reasonable percentage, I accepted the offer and borrowed the $5,000. This sum, with many thousand dollars more belonging to my wife, was devoted to these purposes.
It seemed as if I had now got hold of the thread which would eventually lead me out of the labyrinth of financial difficulty in which the Jerome entanglementhad involved me. Though the new plan promised relief, and actually did succeed, even beyond my most sanguine expectations, eventually putting more money into my pocket than the Jerome complication had taken out—yet I also foresaw that the process would necessarily be very slow. In fact, two years afterwards I had made very little progress. But I concluded to let the new venture work out itself and it would go on as well without my personal presence and attention, perhaps even better. Growing trees, money at interest, and rapidly rising real estate, work for their owners all night as well as all day, Sundays included, and when the proprietors are asleep or away, and with the design of coöperating in the new accumulation and of saving something to add to the amount, I made up my mind to go to Europe again. I was anxious for a change of scene and for active employment, and equally desirous of getting away from the immediate pressure of troubles which no effort on my part could then remove. While my affairs were working out themselves in their own way and in the speediest manner possible, I might be doing something for myself and for my family.
Accordingly, leaving all my business affairs at home in the hands of my friends, early in 1857 I set sail once more for England, taking with me General Tom Thumb, and also little Cordelia Howard and her parents. This young girl had attained an extended reputation for her artistic personation of “Little Eva,” in the play of “Uncle Tom,” and she displayed a precocious talent in her rendering of other juvenile characters. With these attractions, and with what else I might be able to do myself, I determined to make as much money as I could, intending to remit the same to my wife’s friends,for the purpose of repurchasing a portion of my estate, when it was offered at auction, and of redeeming such of the clock notes as could be obtained at reasonable rates.
OLD FRIENDS IN OLD ENGLAND—ALBERT SMITH AS A SHOWMAN—HIS ASCENT OF MONT BLANC—POPULARITY OF THE ENTERTAINMENT—THE GARRICK CLUB—“PHINEAS CUTECRAFT”—THE ELEVEN THOUSAND VIRGINS OF COLOGNE—UTILIZING INCIDENTS—SUBTERRANEAN TERRORS—A PANIC—EGYPTIAN DARKNESS IN EGYPTIAN HALL—WILLIAM M. THACKERAY—HIS TWO VISITS TO AMERICA—FRIENDLY RELATIONS WITH THE NOVELIST—I LOSE HIS SYMPATHY—HIS WARM REGARD FOR HIS AMERICAN FRIENDS—OTTO GOLDSCHMIDT AND JENNY LIND GOLDSCHMIDT—TENDER OF THEIR AID—THE FORGED LIND LETTER—BENEDICT AND BELLETTI—GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA—CHARLES KEAN—EDMUND YATES—HORACE MAYHEW—GEORGE PEABODY—MR. BUCKSTONE—MY EXHIBITIONS IN ENGLAND—S. M. PETTINGILL—MR. LUMLEY.
OLD FRIENDS IN OLD ENGLAND—ALBERT SMITH AS A SHOWMAN—HIS ASCENT OF MONT BLANC—POPULARITY OF THE ENTERTAINMENT—THE GARRICK CLUB—“PHINEAS CUTECRAFT”—THE ELEVEN THOUSAND VIRGINS OF COLOGNE—UTILIZING INCIDENTS—SUBTERRANEAN TERRORS—A PANIC—EGYPTIAN DARKNESS IN EGYPTIAN HALL—WILLIAM M. THACKERAY—HIS TWO VISITS TO AMERICA—FRIENDLY RELATIONS WITH THE NOVELIST—I LOSE HIS SYMPATHY—HIS WARM REGARD FOR HIS AMERICAN FRIENDS—OTTO GOLDSCHMIDT AND JENNY LIND GOLDSCHMIDT—TENDER OF THEIR AID—THE FORGED LIND LETTER—BENEDICT AND BELLETTI—GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA—CHARLES KEAN—EDMUND YATES—HORACE MAYHEW—GEORGE PEABODY—MR. BUCKSTONE—MY EXHIBITIONS IN ENGLAND—S. M. PETTINGILL—MR. LUMLEY.
ONarriving at Liverpool, I found that my old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Lynn, of the Waterloo Hotel, had changed very little during my ten years’ absence from England. Even the servants in the hotel were mainly those whom I left there when I last went away from Liverpool—which illustrates, in a small way, how much less changeable, and more “conservative” the English people are than we are. The old head-waiter, Thomas, was still head-waiter, as he had been for full twenty years. His hair was more silvered, his gait was slower, his shoulders had rounded, but he was as ready to receive, as I was to repeat, the first order I ever gave him, to wit: “Fried soles and shrimp sauce.”
And among my many friends in Liverpool and London, but one death had occurred, and with only two exceptions they all lived in the same buildings, and pursuedthe same vocations as when I left them in 1847. When I reached London, I found one of these exceptions to be Mr. Albert Smith, who, when I first knew him, was a dentist, a literary hack, a contributor toPunch, and a writer for the magazines,—and who was now transformed to a first-class showman in the full tide of success, in my own old exhibition quarters in Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly.
A year or two before, he had succeeded in reaching the top of Mont Blanc, and after publishing a most interesting account, which was re-published and translated into several languages, the whole world over, he concluded to make further use of his expedition by adapting it to a popular entertainment. He therefore illustrated his ascent by means of a finely painted and accurate panorama, and he accompanied the exhibition with a descriptive lecture full of amusing and interesting incidents, illustrative of his remarkable experiences in accomplishing the difficult ascent. He also gave a highly-colored and exciting narrative of his entire journey from London to Switzerland, and back again, including his trip up and down the Rhine, and introducing the many peculiar characters of both sexes, he claimed to have met at different points during his tour. These he imitated and presented in so life-like a manner, as to fairly captivate and convulse his audiences.
It was one of the most pleasing and popular entertainments ever presented in London, and was immensely remunerative to the projector,—resulting, indeed, in a very handsome fortune. The entertainments were patronized by the most cultivated classes, for information was blended with amusement, and in no exhibition then in London was there so much genuine fun. Twoor three times Albert Smith was commanded to appear before the Queen at Buckingham Palace, and at Windsor, and as he gave his entertainment with great success on these occasions, spite of the fact that he could not take his panorama with him, it can readily be imagined that the frame was quite as good as the picture, and that the lecture as compared with the panorama, admirable as both were, was by no means the least part of the “show.”
Calling upon Albert Smith, I found him the same kind, cordial friend as ever, and he at once put me on the free list at his entertainment, and insisted upon my dining frequently with him at his favorite club, the Garrick.
The first time I witnessed his exhibition he gave me a sly wink from the stage at the moment of his describing a scene in the golden chamber of St. Ursula’s church in Cologne, where the old sexton was narrating the story of the ashes and bones of the eleven thousand innocent virgins who, according to tradition, were sacrificed on a certain occasion. One of the characters whom he pretended to have met several times on his trip to Mont Blanc, was a Yankee, whom he named “Phineas Cutecraft.” The wink came at the time he introduced Phineas in the Cologne Church, and made him say at the end of the sexton’s story about the Virgins’ bones:
“Old fellow, what will you take for that hull lot of bones? I want them for my Museum in America!”
When the question had been interpreted to the old German, he exclaimed in horror, according to Albert Smith:
“Mine Gott! it is impossible! We will never sell the Virgins’ bones!”
“Never mind,” replied Phineas Cutecraft, “I’ll send another lot of bones to my Museum, swear mine are the real bones of the Virgins of Cologne, and burst up your show!”
This always excited the heartiest laughter; but Mr. Smith knew very well that I would at once recognize it as a paraphrase of the scene wherein he had figured with me in 1844 at the porter’s lodge of Warwick Castle. In the course of the entertainment, I found he had woven in numerous anecdotes I had told him at that time, and many incidents of our excursion were also travestied and made to contribute to the interest of his description of the ascent of Mont Blanc.
When we went to the Garrick club that day, Albert Smith introduced me to several of his acquaintances as his “teacher in the show business.” As we were quietly dining together, he remarked that I must have recognized several old acquaintances in the anecdotes at his entertainment. Upon my answering that I did, “indeed,” he remarked, “you are too old a showman not to know that in order to be popular, we must snap up and localize all the good things which we come across.” By thus engrafting his various experiences upon this Mont Blanc entertainment, Albert Smith succeeded in serving up a salmagundi feast, which was relished alike by royal and less distinguished palates.
At one of the Egyptian Hall matinees, Albert Smith, espying me in the audience, sent an usher to me with a note of invitation to dine with him and a number of friends immediately after the close of the entertainment. To this invitation he added the request that as soon as he concluded his lecture I should at once come to him through the small door under the stage at the end ofthe orchestra, and by thus getting ahead of the large crowd of ladies and gentlemen composing the audience we should save time and reach the club at an hour for an early dinner.
As soon as he uttered the last word of his lecture, I pushed for the little door, the highly distinguished audience, which on this occasion was mainly made up of ladies, meanwhile slowly progressing towards the exits, while the orchestra was “playing them out” with selections of popular music. Closing the stage door behind me, I instantly found myself enveloped in that Egyptian darkness which was peculiar, I suppose, if not appropriate, to that part of Egyptian Hall. I could hear Smith and his assistants walking on the stage over my head, but I dare not call out lest some nervous Duchess or Countess should faint under the apprehension that the hall was on fire, or that some other severe disaster threatened.
Groping my way blindly and hitting my head several times against sundry beams, at last, to my joy, I reached the knob of the door which led me into this hole, but to my dismay it had been locked from the outside! In feeling about, however, I discovered a couple of bell pulls, both of which I desperately jerked and heard a faint tinkling in two opposite directions. Next, I heard the heavy canvas drop-curtain roll down rapidly till it struck the stage with a thud. Then the music in the orchestra suddenly ceased, and I could readily understand by the shrieks of the women and the loud protestations of masculine voices that the gas had been turned off and the whole house left in darkness. This was followed by hurried and heavy footsteps on the stage, the imprecations of stage carpenters andgasmen, jargon of foreign musicians in the orchestra, and the earnest voice of my friend Smith excitedly exclaiming: “Who rung those bells? why are we all left in the dark? Light up here at once; bless my soul! what does all this mean?”
I was amazed, yet amused and half alarmed. What to do, I did not know, so I sat still on a box which I had stumbled over, as well as upon, afraid to move or put out my hand lest I might touch some machinery which would give the signal for thunder and lightning, or an earthquake, or more likely, a Mont Blanc avalanche. Restored tranquillity overhead assured me that the gas had been relighted. I knew Smith must be anxiously awaiting me, for he was not a man to be behind time when so important a matter as dinner was the motive of the appointment. Something desperate must be done; so I carefully groped my way to the stage door again and with a strong effort managed to wrench it open. Covered with dust and perspiration I followed behind the rear of the out-going audience and found Smith, to whom I narrated my under-ground experiences.
Brushes, water and towels soon put me once more in presentable condition and we went to the Garrick Club where we dined with several gentlemen of note. Smith could not refrain from relating my mishaps and their consequences in my search for him under difficulties, and worse yet, under his stage, and great was the merriment over the idea that an old manager like myself should so lose his reckoning in a place with which he might well be supposed to be perfectly familiar.
When the late William M. Thackeray made his first visit to the United States, I think in 1852, he called onme at the Museum with a letter of introduction from our mutual friend Albert Smith. He spent an hour with me, mainly for the purpose of asking my advice in regard to the management of the course of lectures on “The English Humorists of the Eighteenth Century,” which he proposed to deliver, as he did afterwards, with very great success, in the principal cities of the Union. I gave him the best advice I could as to management, and the cities he ought to visit, for which he was very grateful and he called on me whenever he was in New York. I also saw him repeatedly when he came to America the second time with his admirable lectures on “The Four Georges,” which, it will be remembered he delivered in the United States in the season of 1855-56, before he read these lectures to audiences in Great Britain. My relations with this great novelist, I am proud to say, were cordial and intimate; and now, when I called upon him, in 1857, at his own house he grasped me heartily by the hand and said:
“Mr. Barnum, I admire you more than ever. I have read the accounts in the papers of the examinations you underwent in the New York courts, and the positive pluck you exhibit under your pecuniary embarrassments is worthy of all praise. You would never have received credit for the philosophy you manifest, if these financial misfortunes had not overtaken you.”
I thanked him for his compliment, and he continued:
“But tell me, Barnum, are you really in need of present assistance? for if you are you must be helped.”
“Not in the least,” I replied, laughing; “I need more money in order to get out of bankruptcy and I intend to earn it; but so far as daily bread is concerned, I am quite at ease, for my wife is worth £30,000 or £40,000.”
“Is it possible?” he exclaimed, with evident delight; “well, now, you have lost all my sympathy; why, that is more than I ever expect to be worth; I shall be sorry for you no more.”
During my stay in London, I met Thackeray several times, and on one occasion I dined with him. He was a most genial, noble-hearted gentleman. In our conversations he spoke with the warmest appreciation of America, and of his numerous friends in this country, and he repeatedly expressed his obligations to me for the advice and assistance I had given him on the occasion of his first lecturing visit to the United States.
The late Charles Kean, then manager of the Princess’s Theatre, in London, was also exceedingly polite and friendly to me. He placed a box at my disposal at all times, and took me through his theatre to show me the stage, dressing rooms, and particularly the valuable “properties” he had collected. Among other things, he had twenty or more complete suits of real armor and other costumes and appointments essential to the production of historical plays, in the most complete and authentic manner. In the mere matter of stage-setting, Charles Kean has never been surpassed.
Otto Goldschmidt, the husband of Jenny Lind, also called on me in London. He and his wife were then living in Dresden, and he said the first thing his wife desired him to ask me was, whether I was in want. I assured him that I was not, although I was managing to live in an economical way and my family would soon come over to reside in London. He then advised me to take them to Dresden, saying that living was very cheap there; and, he added, “my wife will gladly look up a proper house for you to live in.” I thankfully declinedhis proffered kindness, as Dresden was too far away from my business. A year subsequent to this, a letter was generally published in the American papers, purporting to have been written to me by Jenny Lind, and proffering me a large sum of money. I immediately pronounced the letter a forgery, and I soon afterwards received a communication from a young reporter in Philadelphia acknowledging himself as the author, and saying that he wrote it from a good motive, hoping it would benefit me. On the contrary it annoyed me exceedingly.
My old friends Julius Benedict and Giovanni Belletti, called on me and we had some very pleasant dinners together, when we talked over incidents of their travels in America. Among the gentlemen whom I met in London, some of them quite frequently at dinners, were Mr. George Augustus Sala, Mr. Edmund Yates, Mr. Horace Mayhew, Mr. Alfred Bunn, Mr. Lumley, of Her Majesty’s Theatre, Mr. Buckstone, of the Haymarket, Mr. Charles Kean, our princely countrymen Mr. George Peabody, Mr. J. M. Morris, the manager, Mr. Bates, of Baring, Brothers & Co., Mr. Oxenford, dramatic critic of the LondonTimes, Dr. Ballard, the American dentist, and many other eminent persons.
I had numerous offers from professional friends on both sides of the Atlantic who supposed me to be in need of employment. Mr. Barney Williams, who had not then acted in England, proposed in the kindest manner to make me his agent for a tour through Great Britain, and to give me one-third of the profits which he and Mrs. Williams might make by their acting. Mr. S. M. Pettengill, of New York, the newspaper advertising agent, offered me the fine salary of $10,000 a year to transact business for him in Great Britain. Hewrote to me: “when you failed in consequence of the Jerome clock notes, I felt that your creditors were dealing hard with you; that they should have let you up and give you a chance, and they would have fared better and I wish I was a creditor so as to show what I would do.” These offers, both from Mr. Williams and Mr. Pettengill, I was obliged to decline.
Mr. Lumley, manager of Pier Majesty’s Theatre, used to send me an order for a private box for every opera night, and I frequently availed myself of his courtesy. I had an idea that much money might be made by transferring his entire opera company, which then included Piccolomini and Titjiens to New York for a short season. The plan included the charter of a special steamer for the company and the conveyance of the entire troup, including the orchestra, with their instruments, and the chorus, costumes, scores, and properties of the company. It was a gigantic scheme, which would no doubt have been pecuniarily successful, and Mr. Lumley and I went so far as to draw up the preliminaries of an arrangement, in which I was to share a due proportion of the profits for my assistance in the management; but after a while, and to the evident regret of Mr. Lumley, the scheme was given up.
Meanwhile, I was by no means idle. Cordelia Howard as “Little Eva,” with her mother as the inimitable “Topsy,” were highly successful in London and other large cities, while General Tom Thumb, returning after so long an absence, drew crowded houses wherever he went. These were strong spokes in the wheel that was moving slowly but surely in the effort to get me out of debt, and, if possible, to save some portion of my real estate. Of course, it was not generallyknown that I had any interest whatever in either of these exhibitions; if it had been, possibly some of the clock creditors would have annoyed me; but I busied myself in these and in other ways, working industriously and making much money, which I constantly remitted to my trusty agent at home.