Struggles amd Triumphs: or, Forty Years' Recollections of P.T. Barnum

“Young gentleman, please to restrain yourself till the conclusion of the lecture, when I shall take great delight in affording you, or any others of her posterity, all the information I possess concerning your deceased relative.”

This reply turned the laugh against the youthful and anxious inquirer and had the effect of keeping other students quiet for a half hour. Thereafter, questions of a similar character were occasionally propounded, but as each inquirer generally received a prompt Roland for his Oliver, there was far less interruption than I had anticipated. The proceeds of the evening were more than one hundred pounds sterling, an important addition to my treasury at that time. At the close of the lecture, several students invited me to a sumptuous supper where I met, among other undergraduates, a nephew of Lord Macaulay, the historian. This young gentleman insisted upon my breakfasting with him at his rooms next morning, but as I was anxious to take an early train for London, I only called to leave my card, and after his “gyp” had given me a strong cup of coffee, I hastened away, leaving the young Macaulay, whom I did not wish to disturb, fast asleep in bed.

At Oxford the large hall was filled half an hour before the time announced for the lecture to begin and the sale of tickets was stopped. I then stepped upon the platform, and said: “Ladies and Gentlemen: As every seat is occupied and the ticket-office is closed, I propose to proceed with my lecture now, and not keep you waiting till the advertised hour.”

“Good for you, old Barnum,” said one; “Time is money,” said another; “Nothing like economy,” came from a third, and other remarks and exclamations followed which excited much laughter in the audience. Holding up my hand as a signal that I was anxious to say something so soon as silence should be restored, I thus addressed my audience:

“Young gentlemen, I have a word or two to say, in order that we may have a thorough understanding between ourselves at the outset. I see symptoms of a pretty jolly time here this evening, and you have paid me liberally for the single hour of my time which is at your service. I am an old traveller and an old showman, and I like to please my patrons. Now, it is quite immaterial to me; you may furnish the entertainment for the hour, or I will endeavor to do so, or we will take portions of the time by turns – you supplying a part of the amusement, and I a part; – as we say sometimes in America, ‘you pays your money, and you takes your choice.’ ”

My auditors were in the best of humor from the beginning, and my frankness pleased them. “Good for you, old Barnum,” cried their leader; and I went on with my lecture for some fifteen minutes, when a voice called out:

“Come, old chap! you must be tired by this time; hold up now till we sing ‘Yankee Doodle,’ ” whereupon they all joined in that pleasing air with a vigor which showed that they had thoroughly prepared themselves for the occasion, and meanwhile I took a chair and sat down to show them that I was quite satisfied with their manner of passing the time. When the song was concluded, the leader of the party said: “Now, Mr. Barnum, you may go ahead again.”

I looked at my watch and quietly remarked, “Oh! there is time for lots of fun yet; we have nearly forty minutes of the hour remaining,” and I proceeded with my lecture, or rather a lecture, for I began to adapt my remarks to the audience and the occasion. At intervals of ten minutes, or so, came interruptions which I, as my audience saw, fully enjoyed as much as the house did. When this miscellaneous entertainment was concluded, and I stopped short at the end of the hour, crowds of the young men pressed forward to shake hands with me, declaring that they had had a “jolly good time,” while the leader said: “Stay with us a week, Barnum, and we will dine you, wine you, and give you full houses every night.” But I was announced to lecture in London the next evening and I could not accept the pressing invitation, though I would gladly have stayed through the week. They asked me all sorts of questions about America, the Museum, my various shows and successes, and expressed the hope that I would come out of my clock troubles all right.

At least a score of them pressed me to breakfast with them next morning, but I declined, till one young gentleman put it on this purely personal ground: “My dear sir, you must breakfast with me; I have almost split my throat in screaming here to-night and it is only fair that you should repay me by coming to see me in the morning.” This appeal was irresistible, and at the appointed time I met him and half a dozen of his friends at his table and we spent a very pleasant hour together. They complimented me on the tact and equanimity I had exhibited the previous evening, but I replied: “Oh! I was quite inclined to have you enjoy your fun, and came fully prepared for it.”

But they liked better, they said, to get the party angry. A fortnight before, they told me, my friend Howard Paul had left them in disgust, because they insisted upon smoking while his wife was on the stage, adding that the entertainment was excellent and that Howard Paul could have made a thousand pounds if he had not let his anger drive him away. My new-found friends parted with me at the railway station, heartily urging me to come again, and my ticket seller returned £169 as the immediate result of an evening’s good-natured fun with the Oxford boys.

After delivering my lecture many times in different places, a prominent publishing house in London, offered me £1,200 ($6,000,) for the copyright. This offer I declined, not that I thought the lecture worth more money, but because I had engaged to deliver it in several towns and cities, and I thought the publication would be detrimental to the public delivery of my lecture. It was a source of very considerable emolument to me, bringing in much money, which went towards the redemption of my pecuniary obligations, so that the lecture itself was an admirable illustration of “The Art of Money Getting.”

CHAPTER XXXII

AN ENTERPRISING ENGLISHMAN

AN ENGLISH YANKEE – MY FIRST INTERVIEW WITH HIM – HIS PLANS BASED ON BARNUM’S BOOK – ADVERTISING FOR PARTNERS – HOW MY RULES MADE HIM RICH – METHOD IN MADNESS – THE “BARNUM” OF BURY – DINNER TO TOM THUMB AND COMMODORE NUTT – MY AGENT IN PARIS – MEASURING A MONSTER – HOW GIANTS AND DWARFS STRETCH AND CONTRACT – AN UNWILLING FRENCHMAN – A PERSISTENT MEASURER – A GIGANTIC HUMBUG – THE STEAM-ENGINES “BARNUM” AND “CHARITY” – WHAT “CHARITY” DID FOR “BARNUM” – SELLING THE SAME GOODS A THOUSAND TIMES – THE GREAT CAKES – SIMNEL SUNDAY – THE SANITARY COMMISSION FAIR.

WHILE visiting Manchester, in 1858, I was invited by Mr. Peacock, the lessee, to deliver a lecture in “Free Trade Hall.” I gave a lecture, the title of which I now forget; but I well remember it contained numerous personal reminiscences. The next day a gentleman sent his card to my room at the hotel where I was stopping. I requested the servant to show the gentleman up at once, and he soon appeared and introduced himself. At first he seemed somewhat embarrassed, but gradually broke the ice by saying he had been pleased in listening to my lecture the previous evening, and added that he knew my history pretty well, as he had read my autobiography. As his embarrassment at first meeting with a stranger wore away, he informed me that he was joint proprietor with another gentleman in a “cotton-mill” in Bury, near Manchester, “although,” he modestly added, “only a few years ago I was working as a journeyman, and probably should have been at this time, had it not been for your book.” Observing my surprise at this announcement, he continued:

“The fact is, Mr. Barnum, upon reading your autobiography, I thought I perceived you tried to make yourself out something worse than you really were; for I discovered a pleasant spirit and a good heart under the rougher exterior in which you chose to present yourself to the public; but,” he added, “after reading your life I found myself in possession of renewed strength, and awakened energies and aspirations, and I said to myself, ‘Why can’t I go ahead and make money as Barnum did? He commenced without money and succeeded; why may not I?’ In this train of thought,” he continued, “I went to a newspaper office and advertised for a partner with money to join me in establishing a cotton-mill. I had no applications, and, remembering your experiences when you had money and wanted a partner, I spent half a crown in a similar experiment. I advertised for a partner to join a man who had plenty of capital. Then I had lots of applicants ready to introduce me into all sorts of occupations, from that of a banker to that of a horse-jockey or gambler, if I would only furnish the money to start with. After a while, I advertised again for a partner, and obtained one with money. We have a good mill. I devote myself closely to business, and have been very successful. I know every line in your book; so, indeed, do several members of my family; and I have conducted my business on the principles laid down in your published ‘Rules for Money-making.’ I find them correct principles; and, sir, I have sought this interview in order to thank you for publishing your autobiography, and to tell you that to that act of yours I attribute my present position in life.”

Of course, I was pleased and surprised at this revelation, and, feeling that my new friend, whom I will call Mr. Wilson,[2 - By his consent I state that his name is John Fish.] had somewhat exaggerated the results of my labors as influencing his own, I said:

“Your statement is certainly very flattering, and I am glad if I have been able in any manner, through my experiences, to aid you in starting in life; but I presume your genius would have found vent in good time if I had never written a book.”

“No, indeed it would not,” he replied, in an earnest tone; “I am sure I should have worked as a mill-hand all my life if it had not been for you. Oh, I have made no secret of it,” he continued; “the commercial men with whom I deal know all about it: indeed, they call me ‘Barnum’ on ‘change here in Manchester.”

This singular yet gratifying interview led to several others, and from that time a warm personal friendship sprung up between us. In our conversations, my enthusiastic friend would often quote entire pages from my autobiography, which I had almost forgotten; and, after he had frequently visited me by appointment where I happened to be stopping in different parts of Great Britain, he would write me letters, often quoting scraps of my conversation, and extolling what he called the “wisdom” of these careless remarks. I laughed at him, and told him he was about half Barnum-crazy. “Well,” he replied, “then there is method in my madness, for whenever I follow the Barnum rules I am always successful.”

On one occasion, when General Tom Thumb exhibited in Bury, Mr. Wilson closed his mill, and gave each of his employés a ticket to the exhibition; out of respect, as he said, to Barnum. On a subsequent occasion, when the little General visited England the last time, Mr. Wilson invited him, his wife, Commodore Nutt, Minnie Warren, and the managers of “the show,” to a splendid and sumptuous dinner at his house, which the distinguished little party enjoyed exceedingly; and several interesting incidents occurred on that pleasant occasion, which the miniature guests will never cease to remember with gratitude. When I was about to leave England for home, in 1859, my friend Wilson made an appointment to come to Liverpool to see me off. He came the day before I sailed, and brought his little daughter, some twelve years old, with him. We had a remarkably pleasant and social time, and I did not part with them until the tug was almost dropping off from the steamer in the river Mersey. It was a very reluctant parting. We waved our handkerchiefs until we could no longer distinguish each other; and up to the present writing we have never again met. To my numerous invitations to him and his family, to visit me in America, he sends but one response, – that, as yet, his business will not permit him to leave home. I hope ere long to receive a different answer. Our correspondence has been regularly kept up ever since we parted.

My friend Wilson expressed himself extremely anxious to do any service for me which might at any time be in his power. Soon after I arrived in America, I read an account of a French giant, then exhibiting in Paris, and said to be over eight feet in height. As this was a considerably greater altitude than any specimen of the genus homo within my knowledge had attained, I wrote to my friend to take a trip to Paris for me, secure an interview with this modern Anak, and by actual measurement obtain for me his exact height. I enclosed an offer for this giant’s services, arranging the price on a sliding scale, according to what his height should actually prove to be, – commencing at eight feet, and descending to seven feet two inches; and if he was not taller than the latter figure, I did not want him at all.

Mr. Wilson, placing an English two-foot rule in his pocket, started for Paris; and, after much difficulty and several days’ delay in trying to speak with the giant, who was closely watched by his exhibitor, Mr. Wilson succeeded, by the aid of an interpreter, in exchanging a few words with him, and appointing an interview at his own (the giant’s) lodgings. And now came a trouble which required all the patience and diplomacy which my agent could command. Mr. Wilson, arriving at the place of rendezvous, told the giant who he was, and the object of his visit. In fact, he showed him my letter, and read the tempting offers which I made for his services, provided he measured eight feet, or even came within six inches of that height.

“Oh, I measure over eight feet in height,” said the giant. “Very likely,” replied my faithful agent, “but you see my orders are to measure you.” “There’s no need of that, you can see for yourself,” stretching himself up a few inches, by aid of that peculiar muscular knack which giants and dwarfs exercise when they desire to extend or diminish their apparent stature. “No doubt you are right,” persisted the agent; “but you see that is not according to orders.” “Well, stand alongside of me; see, the top of your hat don’t come to my shoulder,” said the giant, as he swung his arm completely over Mr. Wilson’s head, hat and all.

But my wary agent happened just then to be watching the giant’s feet and knees, and he thought he saw a movement around the “understandings” that materially helped the elevation of the “upperworks.” “It is all very well,” said Mr. Wilson; “but I tell you I have brought a two-foot rule from England, and, if I am not permitted to measure your height with that, I shall not engage you.” My offer had been very liberal; in fact, provided he was eight feet high, it was more than four times the amount the giant was then receiving; it was evidently a great temptation to his “highness,” and quite as evidently he did not want to be fairly measured. “Well,” said the giant, “if you can’t take my word for it, look at that door; you see my head is more than two feet above the top:” (giving his neck and every muscle in his body a severe stretch:) “just measure the height of that door.” My English friend plainly saw that the giant felt that he could not come up to the mark, and he laughed at this last ruse. “Oh, I don’t want to measure the door; I prefer to measure you,” said Mr. Wilson, coolly. The giant was now desperate, and, stretching himself up to the highest point, he exclaimed: “Well, be quick! put your rule down to my feet and measure me; no delay, if you please.”

The giant knew he could not hold himself up many seconds to the few extra inches he had imparted to his extended muscles; but his remark had drawn Mr. Wilson’s attention to his feet, and from the feet to the boots, and he began to open his eyes. “Look here, Monsieur,” he exclaimed with much earnestness, “this sort of thing wont do, you know. I don’t understand this contrivance around the soles of your boots, but it seems to me you have got a set of springs in there which materially aids your altitude a few inches when you desire it. Now, I shall stand no more nonsense. If I engage you at all, you must first take off your boots, and lie flat upon your back in the middle of the floor; there you will have no purchase, and you may stretch as much as you like; and for every inch you fairly measure above seven feet two inches you know what I am authorized to give you.” The giant grumbled and talked about his word being doubted and his honor assailed, but Mr. Wilson calmly persisted, until at length he slowly took off his coat and gradually got down on the floor. Stretched upon his back, he made several vain efforts to extend his natural height. Mr. Wilson carefully applied his English two-foot rule, the result of the measurement causing him much astonishment and the giant more indignation, the giant measuring exactly seven feet one and one half inches. So he was not engaged, and my agent returned to England and wrote me a most amusing letter, giving the particulars of the gigantic interview.

On the occasion of the erection of a new engine in his mill, Mr. Wilson proposed naming it after his daughter, but she insisted it should be christened “Barnum,” and it was so done, with considerable ceremony. Subsequently he introduced a second engine into his enlarged mill, and named this, after my wife, “Charity.”

A short time since, I wrote informing him that I desired to give some of the foregoing facts in my book, and asked him to give me his consent, and also to furnish me some particulars in regard to the engines, and the capacity of his mill. He wrote in return a modest letter, which is so characteristic of my whole-souled friend that I cannot forbear making the following extracts from it:

Had I made a fortune of £100,000 I should have been proud of such a place in your book as Albert Smith has in your Autobiography; but, as I have only been able to make (here he named a sum which in this country would be considered almost a fortune), I feel I should be out of place in your pages; at all events, if you mention me at all, draw it mildly, if you please.

The American war has made sad havoc in our trade, and it is only by close attention to business that I have lately been at all successful. I have built a place for one thousand looms, and have, as you know, put in a pair of engines, which I have named “Barnum” and “Charity.” Each engine has its name engraved on two large brass plates at either end of the cylinder, which has often caused much mirth when I have explained the circumstances to visitors. I started and christened “Charity” on the 14th of January last, and she has saved me £12 per month in coals ever since. The steam from the boiler goes first to “Charity” (she is high pressure), and “Barnum” only gets the steam after she has done with it. He has to work at low pressure (a condensing engine), and the result is a saving. Barnum was extravagant when he took steam direct, but, since I fixed Charity betwixt him and the boiler, he can only get what she gives him. This reminds me that you state in your “Life” you could always make money, but formerly did not save it. Perhaps you never took care of it till Charity became Chancellor of Exchequer. When I visited you at the Bull Hotel, in Blackburn, you pointed to General Tom Thumb, and said: “That is my piece of goods; I have sold it hundreds of thousands of times, and have never yet delivered it!” That was ten years ago, in 1858. If I had been doing the same with my pieces of calico, I must have been wealthy by this time: but I have been hammering at one (cotton) nail several months, and, as it did not offer to clinch, I was almost tempted to doubt one of your “rules,” and thought I would drive at some other nail; but, on reflection, I knew I understood cotton better than anything else, and so I back up your rule and stick to cotton, not doubting it will be all right and successful.

Mr. Wilson was one of the large class of English manufacturers who suffered seriously from the effects of the rebellion in the United States. As an Englishman he could not have a patriot’s interest in the progress of that terrible struggle; but he made a practical exhibition of sympathy for the suffering soldiers, in a pleasant and characteristic manner.

The great fair of the Sanitary Commission, held in New York during the war, affords one of the most interesting chapters in American history. It meant cordial for the sick and suffering in the hospitals, and balm and relief for the wounded in the field. None of those who visited the Fair will forget, in the multiplicity of offerings to put money into the treasury of the Commission, two monster cakes, which were as strange in shape and ornament as they were fairly mammoth in their proportions. One of these great cakes was covered with miniature forts, ships of war, cannon, armies, arms of the whole “panoply of war,” and it excited the attention of all visitors. This strange cake was what is called in Bury, England, where name, cake and custom originated, a “Simnel cake,” and an interesting history pertains to it.

There is an anniversary in Bury, and I believe only in that place in England, called “Simnel Sunday.” Like many old observances, its origin is lost in antiquity; but on the fourth Sunday in Lent, which is Simnel Sunday, everybody in Bury eats Simnel cake. It is a high day for the inhabitants, and the streets are thronged with people. During the preceding week, the shop windows of the confectioners exhibit a plethora of large, flat cakes, of a peculiar pattern and of toothsome composition. Every confectioner aims to outdo his rivals in the bigness of the one show-cake which nearly fills his window, and in the moulding and ornamental accessories. A local description, giving the requisite characteristics, says: “The great Simnel must be rich, must be big, and must be novel in ornamentation.” Such is the Simnel cake, the specialty of Simnel Sunday, in the town of Bury, in Old England.

And such was the monster cake, with its warlike emblems, which attracted so much attention at the Fair, and added considerably to the receipts for the Sanitary Commission. It was sent to me expressly for this Fair, by my friend Wilson, and, while it was in itself a generous gift, it was doubly so as coming from an English manufacturer who had suffered by the war. The second great Simnel cake which stood beside it in the Fair was sent to me personally by Mr. Wilson; but with his permission I took much pleasure in contributing it, with his own offering, for the benefit of our suffering soldiers.

It may thus be seen that my friend Wilson is not only “an enterprising Englishman,” but that he is also a generous, noble-hearted man, – one who in a great struggle like the late civil war in America, could sincerely sympathize with suffering humanity, notwithstanding, as he expressed it, “the American war has made sad havoc in our trade.” His soul soars above “pounds, shillings and pence”; and I take great pleasure in expressing admiration for a gentleman of such marked enterprise, philanthropy and integrity.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

RICHARD’S HIMSELF AGAIN

AT HOME – EXTINGUISHMENT OF THE CLOCK DEBTS – A RASCALLY PROPOSITION – BARNUM ON HIS FEET AGAIN – RE-PURCHASE OF THE MUSEUM – A GALA DAY – MY RECEPTION BY MY FRIENDS – THE STORY OF MY TROUBLES – HOW I WADED ASHORE – PROMISES TO THE PUBLIC – THE PUBLIC RESPONSE – MUSEUM VISITORS – THE RECEIPTS DOUBLED – HOW THE PRESS RECEIVED THE NEWS OF RESTORATION – THE SYCOPHANTS – OLD AND FAST FRIENDS – ROBERT BONNER – CONSIDERATION AND COURTESY OF CREDITORS – THE BOSTON SATURDAY EVENING GAZETTE AGAIN – ANOTHER WORD FOR BARNUM.

IN 1859 I returned to the United States. During my last visit abroad I had secured many novelties for the Museum, including the Albino Family, which I engaged at Amsterdam, and Thiodon’s mechanical theatre, which I found at Southampton, beside purchasing many curiosities. These things all afforded me a liberal commission, and thus, by constant and earnest effort, I made much money, besides what I derived from the Tom Thumb exhibitions, my lectures, and other enterprises. All of this money, as well as my wife’s income and a considerable sum raised by selling a portion of her property, was faithfully devoted to the one great object of my life at that period – my extrication from those crushing clock debts. I worked and I saved. When my wife and youngest daughter were not boarding in Bridgeport, they lived frugally in the suburbs, in a small one-story house which was hired at the rate of $150 a year. I had now been struggling about four years with the difficulties of my one great financial mistake, and the end still seemed to be far off. I felt that the land, purchased by my wife in East Bridgeport at the assignees’ sale, would, after a while, increase rapidly in value; and on the strength of this expectation more money was borrowed for the sake of taking up the clock notes, and some of the East Bridgeport property was sold in single lots, the proceeds going to the same object.

At last, in March 1860, all the clock indebtedness was satisfactorily extinguished, excepting some $20,000 which I had bound myself to take up within a certain number of months, my friend, James D. Johnson, guaranteeing my bond to that effect. Mr. Johnson was by far my most effective agent in working me through these clock troubles, and in aiding to bring them to a successful conclusion. Another man, however, who pretended to be my friend, and whom I liberally paid to assist in bringing me out of my difficulties, gained my confidence, possessed himself of a complete knowledge of the situation of my affairs, and then coolly proposed to Mr. Johnson to counteract all my efforts to get out of debt, and to divide between them what could be got out of my estate. Failing in this, the scoundrel, taking advantage of the confidence reposed in him, slyly arranged with the owners of clock notes to hold on to them, and share with him whatever they might gain by adopting his advice, he assuming that he knew all my secrets and that I would soon come out all right again. Thus I had to contend with foes from within as well as without; but the “spotting” of this traitor was worth something, for it opened my eyes in relation to former transactions in which I had intrusted large sums of money to his hands, and it put me on guard for the future. But I bear no malice towards him; I only pity him, as I do any man who knows so little of the true road to contentment and happiness as to think that it lies in the direction of dishonesty.

I need not dwell upon the details of what I suffered from the doings of those heartless, unscrupulous men who fatten upon the misfortunes of others. It is enough to say that I triumphed over them and all my troubles. I was once more a free man. At last I was able to make proclamation that “Richard’s himself again”; that Barnum was once more on his feet. The Museum had not flourished greatly in the hands of Messrs. Greenwood & Butler, and so, when I was free, I was quite willing to take back the property upon terms that were entirely satisfactory to them. I had once retired from the establishment a man of independent fortune; I was now ready to return, to make, if possible, another fortune.

On the 17th of March, 1860, Messrs. Butler & Greenwood signed an agreement to sell and deliver to me on the following Saturday, March 24th, their good will and entire interest in the Museum collection. This fact was thoroughly circulated and it was everywhere announced in blazing posters, placards and advertisements which were headed, “Barnum on his feet again.” It was furthermore stated that the Museum would be closed, March 24th, for one week for repairs and general renovation, to be re-opened, March 31st, under the management and proprietorship of its original owner. It was also announced that on the night of closing I would address the audience from the stage.

The American Museum, decorated on that occasion, as on holidays, with a brilliant display of flags and banners, was filled to its utmost capacity, and I experienced profound delight at seeing hundreds of old friends of both sexes in the audience. I lacked but four months of being fifty years of age; but I felt all the vigor and ambition that fired me when I first took possession of the premises twenty years before; and I was confident that the various experiences of that score of years would be valuable to me in my second effort to secure an independence.

At the rising of the curtain and before the play commenced, I stepped on the stage and was received by the large and brilliant audience with an enthusiasm far surpassing anything of the kind I had ever experienced or witnessed in a public career of a quarter of a century. Indeed, this tremendous demonstration nearly broke me down, and my voice faltered and tears came to my eyes as I thought of this magnificent conclusion to the trials and struggles of the past four years. Recovering myself, however, I bowed my grateful acknowledgments for the reception, and addressed the audience as follows:

“Ladies and Gentlemen: I should be more or less than human, if I could meet this unexpected and overwhelming testimonial at your hands, without the deepest emotion. My own personal connection with the Museum is now resumed, and I avail myself of the circumstance to say why it is so. Never did I feel stronger in my worldly prosperity than in September, 1855. Three months later, I was so deeply embarrassed that I felt certain of nothing, except the uncertainty of everything. A combination of singular efforts and circumstances tempted me to put faith in a certain clock manufacturing company, and I placed my signature to papers which ultimately broke me down. After nearly five years of hard struggle to keep my head above water, I have touched bottom at last, and here, to-night, I am happy to announce that I have waded ashore. Every clock debt of which I have any knowledge has been provided for. Perhaps, after the troubles and turmoils I have experienced, I should feel no desire to re-engage in the excitements of business, but a man like myself, less than fifty years of age, and enjoying robust health, is scarcely old enough to be embalmed and put in a glass case in the Museum as one of its million of curiosities. ‘It is better to wear out than rust out.’ Besides, if a man of active temperament is not busy, he is apt to get into mischief. To avoid evil, therefore, and since business activity is a necessity of my nature, here I am, once more, in the Museum, and among those with whom I have been so long and so pleasantly identified. I am confident of a cordial welcome, and hence feel some claim to your indulgence while I briefly allude to the means of my present deliverance from utter financial ruin. Need I say, in the first place, that I am somewhat indebted to the forbearance of generous creditors. In the next place, permit me to speak of sympathizing friends, whose volunteered loans and exertions vastly aided my rescue. When my day of sorrow came, I first paid or secured every debt I owed of a personal nature. This done, I felt bound in honor to give up all of my property that remained towards liquidating my “clock debts.” I placed it in the hands of trustees and receivers for the benefit of all the “clock” creditors. But, at the forced sale of my Connecticut real estate, there was a purchaser behind the screen, of whom the world had little knowledge. In the day of my prosperity I made over to my wife much valuable property, including the lease of this Museum building, – a lease then having about twenty-two years to run, and enhanced in value to more than double its original worth. I sold the Museum collection to Messrs. Greenwood and Butler, subject to my wife’s separate interest in the lease, and she has received more than eighty thousand dollars over and above the sums paid to the owners of the building. Instead of selfishly applying this amount to private purposes, my family lived with a due regard to economy, and the savings (strictly belonging to my wife) were devoted to buying in portions of my estate at the assignees’ sales, and to purchasing “clock notes” bearing my indorsements. The Christian name of my wife is Charity. I may well acknowledge, therefore, that I am not only a proper ‘subject of charity,’ but that ‘without Charity, I am nothing.’

“But, ladies and gentlemen, while Charity thus labored in my behalf, Faith and Hope were not idle. I have been anything but indolent during the last four years. Driven from pillar to post, and annoyed beyond description by all sorts of legal claims and writs, I was perusing protests and summonses by day, and dreaming of clocks run down by night. My head was ever whizzing with dislocated cog-wheels and broken main-springs; my whole mind (and my credit) was running upon tick, and everything pressing on me like a dead weight.

“In this state of affairs I felt that I was of no use on this side of the Atlantic; so, giving the pendulum a swing, and seizing time by the forelock, I went to Europe. There I furtively pulled the wires of several exhibitions, among which that of Tom Thumb may be mentioned for example. I managed a variety of musical and commercial speculations in Great Britain, Germany, and Holland. These enterprises, together with the net profits of my public lectures, enabled me to remit large sums to confidential agents for the purchase of my obligations. In this manner, I quietly extinguished, little by little, every dollar of my clock liabilities. I could not have achieved this difficult feat, however, without the able assistance of enthusiastic friends, – and among the chief of them let me gratefully acknowledge the invaluable services of Mr. James D. Johnson, a gentleman of wealth, in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Other gentlemen have been generous with me. Some have loaned me large sums, without security, and have placed me under obligations which must ever command my honest gratitude; but Mr. Johnson has been a ‘friend indeed,’ for he has been truly a ‘friend in need.’

“You must not infer, from what I have said, that I have completely recovered from the stunning blow to which I was subjected four years ago. I have lost more in the way of tens of thousands, yes, hundreds of thousands, than I care to remember. A valuable portion of my real estate in Connecticut, however, has been preserved, and as I feel all the ardor of twenty years ago, and the prospect here is so flattering, my heart is animated with the hope of ultimately, by enterprise and activity, obliterating unpleasant reminiscences, and retrieving the losses of the past. Experience, too, has taught me not only that even in the matter of money, ‘enough is as good as a feast,’ but that there are, in this world, some things vastly better than the Almighty Dollar! Possibly I may contemplate, at times, the painful day when I said: ‘Othello’s occupation’s gone;’ but I shall more frequently cherish the memory of this moment, when I am permitted to announce that ‘Richard’s himself again.’

“Many people have wondered that a man considered so acute as myself should have been deluded into embarrassments like mine, and not a few have declared, in short metre, that ‘Barnum was a fool.’ I can only reply that I never made pretensions to the sharpness of a pawn-broker, and I hope I shall never so entirely lose confidence in human nature as to consider every man a scamp by instinct, or a rogue by necessity. ‘It is better to be deceived sometimes, than to distrust always,’ says Lord Bacon, and I agree with him.

“Experience is said to be a hard schoolmaster, but I should be sorry to feel that this great lesson in adversity has not brought forth fruits of some value. I needed the discipline this tribulation has given me, and I really feel, after all, that this, like many other apparent evils, was only a blessing in disguise. Indeed, I may mention that the very clock factory which I built in Bridgeport, for the purpose of bringing hundreds of workmen to that city, has been purchased and quadrupled in size by the Wheeler and Wilson Sewing Machine Company, and is now filled with intelligent New England mechanics, whose families add two thousand to the population, and who are doing a great work in building up and beautifying that flourishing city. So that the same concern which prostrated me seems destined as a most important agent towards my recuperation. I am certain that the popular sympathy has been with me from the beginning; and this, together with a consciousness of rectitude, is more than an offset to all the vicissitudes to which I have been subjected.