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

“You must ask the Emperor,” said Mr. Hudson, meaning of course Bennett.

“When will the ‘Emperor’ be in?” I inquired; “next Monday,” was the answer.

“Well, I shall not see him,” I replied; “but I wish to have this thing settled at once. Mr. Hudson, I now tender you the money for the insertion of my Museum advertisement on the same terms as are paid by other places of amusement, will you publish it?”

“I will not,” Mr. Hudson peremptorily replied.

“That is all,” I said. Mr. Hudson then smilingly and blandly remarked, “I have formally answered your formal demand, because I suppose you require it; but you know, Mr. Barnum, I can only obey orders.” I assured him that I understood the matter perfectly, and attached no blame to him in the premises. I then proceeded to notify the Secretary of the “Managers’ Association” to call the managers together at twelve o’clock the following day; and there was a full meeting at the appointed time. I stated the facts in the case in the Herald affair, and simply remarked, that if we did not make common cause against any newspaper publisher who excluded an advertisement from his columns simply to gratify a private pique, it was evident that either and all of us were liable to imposition at any time.

One of the managers immediately made a motion that the entire association should stop their advertising and bill printing at the Herald office, and have no further connection with that establishment. Mr. Lester Wallack advised that this motion should not be adopted until a committee had waited upon Bennett, and had reported the result of the interview to the Association. Accordingly, Messrs. Wallack, Wheatley and Stuart were delegated to go down to the Herald office to call on Mr. Bennett.

The moment Bennett saw them, he evidently suspected the object of their mission, for he at once commenced to speak to Mr. Wallack in a patronizing manner; told him how long he had known, and how much he respected his late father, who was “a true English gentleman of the old school,” with much more in the same strain. Mr. Wallack replied to Bennett that the three managers were appointed a committee to wait upon him to ascertain if he insisted upon excluding from his columns the Museum advertisements, – not on account of any objection to the contents of the advertisements, or to the Museum itself, but simply because he had a private business disagreement with the proprietor? – intimating that such a proceeding, for such a reason, and no other, might lead to a rupture of business relations with other managers. In reply, Mr. Bennett had something to say about the fox that had suffered tailwise from a trap, and thereupon advised all other foxes to cut their tails off; and he pointed the fable by setting forth the impolicy of drawing down upon the Association the vengeance of the Herald. The committee, however, coolly insisted upon a direct answer to their question.

Bennett then answered: “I will not publish Barnum’s advertisement; I do my business as I please, and in my own way.”

“So do we,” replied one of the managers, and the committee withdrew.

The next day the Managers’ Association met, heard the report, and unanimously resolved to withdraw their advertisements from the Herald, and their patronage from the Herald job establishment, and it was done. Nevertheless, the Herald for several days continued to print gratuitously the advertisements of Wallack’s Theatre and Niblo’s Garden, and inordinately puffed these establishments, evidently in order to ease the fall, and to convey the idea that some of the theatres patronized the Herald, and perhaps hoping by praising these managers to draw them back again, and so to nullify the agreement of the Association in regard to the Herald. Thereupon, the managers headed their advertisements in all the other New York papers with the line, “This Establishment does not advertise in the New York Herald,” and for many months this announcement was kept at the top of every theatrical advertisement and on the posters and playbills.

The Herald then began to abuse and vilify the theatrical and opera managers, their artists and their performances, and by way of contrast profusely praised Tony Pastor’s Bowery show, and Sundry entertainments of a similar character, thereby speedily bringing some of these side-shows to grief and shutting up their shops. Meanwhile, the first-class theatres prospered amazingly under the abuse of Bennett. Their receipts were never larger, and their houses, never more thronged. The public took sides in the matter with the managers and against the Herald, and thousands of people went to the theatres merely to show their willingness to support the managers and to spite “Old Bennett.” The editor was fairly caught in his own trap; other journals began to estimate the loss the Herald sustained by the action of the managers, and it was generally believed that this loss in advertising and job printing was not less than from $75,000 to $100,000 a year. The Herald’s circulation also suffered terribly, since hundreds of people, at the hotels and elsewhere, who were accustomed to buy the paper solely for the sake of seeing what amusements were announced for the evening, now bought other papers. This was the hardest blow of all, and it fully accounted for the abuse which the Herald daily poured out upon the theatres.

But the more Bennett raved the more the people laughed, and the more determined did they seem to patronize the managers. Many people came to the Museum, who said they came expressly to show us that the public were with us and against the Herald. The other managers stated their experience to be the same in this respect. In fact, it was a subject of general remark, that, without exception, the associated managers never had done such a thriving business as during the two years in which they gave the Herald the cold shoulder.

Bennett evidently felt ashamed of the whole transaction; he would never publish the facts in his columns, though he once stated in an editorial that it had been reported that he had been cheated in purchasing the Broadway property; that the case had gone to court, and the public would soon know all the particulars. Some persons supposed by this that Bennett had sued me; but this was far from being the case. The owner of the lots sued Bennett, to compel him to take the title and pay for the property as per agreement; and that was all the “law” there was about it. He held James Gordon Bennett’s bond, that he would pay him half a million of dollars for the land, as follows: $100,000 cash, and a bond and mortgage upon the premises for the remaining $400,000. The day before the suit was to come to trial, Bennett came forward, took the deed, and paid $100,000 cash and gave a bond and mortgage of the entire premises for $400,000. That lien still exists against the Herald property.

Had I really taken back the lease as Bennett desired, he would have been in a worse scrape than ever; for having been compelled to take the property, he would have been obliged, as my landlord, to go on and assist in building a Museum for me according to the terms of my lease, and a Museum I should certainly have built on Bennett’s property, even if I had owned a dozen Museums up town. As it was, Bennett was badly beaten on every side, and especially by the managers, who forever established the fact that the Herald’s abuse was profitable, and its patronage fatal to any enterprise; and who taught Mr. Bennett personally the lesson of his own insignificance, as he had not learned it since the days when gentlemen used to kick and cowhide him up and down the whole length of Nassau Street. In the autumn of 1868, the associated managers came to the conclusion that the punishment of Bennett for two years was sufficient, and they consented to restore their advertisements to the Herald. I was then associated with the Van Amburgh Company in my new Museum, and we concluded that the cost of advertising in the Herald was more than it was worth, and so we did not enter into the new arrangement made by the Managers’ Association.

CHAPTER XLII.

PUBLIC LECTURING

MY TOUR AT THE WEST – THE CURIOSITY EXHIBITOR HIMSELF A CURIOSITY – BUYING A FARM IN WISCONSIN – HELPING THOSE WHO HELP THEMSELVES – A RIDE ON A LOCOMOTIVE – PUNCTUALITY IN MY ENGAGEMENTS – TRICKS TO SECURE SEATS IN THE LADIES’ CAR – I SUDDENLY BECAME FATHER TO A YOUNG MARRIED COUPLE – MY IDENTITY DENIED – PITY AND CHARITY – REVEREND DOCTOR CHAPIN PULLS THE BELL – TEMPERANCE – HOW I BECAME A TEETOTALER – MODERATE DRINKING AND ITS DANGERS – DOCTOR CHAPIN’S LECTURE IN BRIDGEPORT – MY OWN EFFORTS IN THE TEMPERANCE CAUSE – LECTURING THROUGHOUT THE COUNTRY – NEWSPAPER ARTICLES – THE STORY OF VINELAND, IN NEW JERSEY.

DURING the summer of 1866, Mr. Edwin L. Brown, Corresponding Secretary of the “Associated Western Literary Societies,” opened a correspondence with me relative to delivering, in the ensuing season, my lecture on “Success in Life,” before some sixty lyceums, Young Men’s Christian Associations, and Literary Societies belonging to the union which Mr. Brown represented. The scheme embraced an extended tour through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Missouri and Iowa, and I was to receive one hundred dollars for every repetition of my lecture, with all my travelling expenses on the route. Agreeing to these terms, I commenced the engagement at the appointed time, and, averaging five lectures a week, I finished the prescribed round just before New Year’s. Before beginning this engagement, however, I gave the lecture for other associations at Wheeling, Virginia, Cincinnati, Ohio, and Louisville, Kentucky. I also delivered the lecture in Chicago, for Professor Eastman, who at that time had one of his Business Colleges in that city. He engaged the celebrated Crosby Opera House for the occasion, and I think, with, perhaps, two exceptions, I never spoke before so large and intelligent an audience as was there assembled. It was estimated that from five to six thousand ladies and gentlemen were gathered in that capacious building; and nearly as many more went away unable to obtain admission. I was glad to observe by the action of the audience, and by the journals of the following day, that my efforts on that occasion were satisfactory. Indeed, though it is necessarily egotistical, I may truly say that with this lecture I always succeeded in pleasing my hearers. I may add, that I have invariably, as a rule, devoted to charitable purposes every penny I ever received for lecturing, except while I was under the great Jerome Clock cloud in England, when I needed all I could earn.

My western tour was delightful; indeed it was almost an ovation. I found, in fact, that when I had strayed so far from home, the curiosity exhibitor himself became quite a curiosity. On several occasions, in Iowa, I was introduced to ladies and gentlemen who had driven thirty miles in carriages to hear me. I insisted, however, that it was more to see than to hear; and I asked them if that was not really the case. In several instances they answered in the affirmative. In fact, one quaint old lady said: “Why, to tell you the truth, Mr. Barnum, we have read so much about you, and your Museum and your queer carryings-on, that we were not quite sure but you had horns and cloven feet, and so we came to satisfy our curiosity; but, la, me! I don’t see but what you look a good deal like other folks, after all.”

While at the West, I visited my sister, Mrs. Minerva Drew, and her family, at Bristol, Wisconsin, where they reside on a farm which I presented to her about twenty years ago. Her children having grown up and married, all except her son, Fairchild B. Drew, who had just attained his majority, his father (Ezekiel Drew) wished to retain his services on the farm. Fairchild, however, felt that the farm was not quite large enough for his aspirations. I found also that he coveted a neighboring farm, which, with its stock, was for sale for less than five thousand dollars. I bought it for him, on condition that he should continue the care of the old farm, and that the two should be worked together. I trust that the arrangement will prove beneficial to all concerned; for there is great pleasure in helping others who try to help themselves; without such effort on their part, all good offices in their favor are thrown away, – it is simply attempting to make a sieve hold water.

On my tour, in attempting to make the connection from Cleveland, Ohio, to Fort Wayne, Indiana, via Toledo, I arrived at the latter city at one o’clock, P.M., which was about two hours too late to catch the train in time for the hour announced for my lecture that evening. I went to Mr. Andrews, the superintendent of the Toledo, Wabash and Western Railway, and told him I wanted to hire a locomotive and car to run to Fort Wayne, as I must be there at eight o’clock at night.

“It is an impossibility,” said Mr. Andrews; “the distance is ninety-four miles, and no train leaves here till morning. The road is much occupied by freight trains, and we never run extra trains in this part of the country, unless the necessity is imperative.”

I suppose I looked astonished, as well as chagrined. I knew that if I missed lecturing in Fort Wayne that evening, I could not appoint another time for that purpose, for every night was engaged during the next two months. I also felt that a large number of persons in Fort Wayne would be disappointed, and I grew desperate. Drawing my wallet from my pocket, I said:

“I will give two hundred dollars, and even more, if you say so, to be put into Fort Wayne before eight o’clock to-night; and, really, I hope you will accommodate me.”

The superintendent looked me thoroughly over in half a minute, and I fancied he had come to the conclusion that I was a burglar, a counterfeiter, or something worse, fleeing from justice. My surmise was confirmed, when he slowly remarked:

“Your business must be very pressing, sir.”

“It is indeed,” I replied; “I am Barnum, the museum man, and am engaged to speak in Fort Wayne to-night.”

He evidently did not catch the whole of my response, for he immediately said:

“Oh, it is a show, eh? Where is old Barnum himself?”

“I am Barnum,” I replied, “and it is a lecture which I am advertised to give to-night; and I would not disappoint the people for anything.”

“Is this P. T. Barnum?” said the superintendent, starting to his feet.

“I am sorry to say it is,” I replied.

“Well, Mr. Barnum,” said he, earnestly, “if you can stand it to ride to Fort Wayne in the caboose of a freight train, your well-established reputation for punctuality in keeping your engagements shall not suffer on account of the Toledo, Wabash and Western Railroad.”

“Caboose!” said I, with a laugh, “I would ride to Fort Wayne astride of the engine, or boxed up and stowed away in a freight car, if necessary, in order to meet my engagement.”

A freight train was on the point of starting for Fort Wayne; all the cars were at once ordered to be switched off, except two, which the superintendent said were necessary to balance the train; the freight trains on the road were telegraphed to clear the track, and the polite superintendent pointing to the caboose, invited me to step in. I drew out my pocket-book to pay, but he smilingly shook his head, and said: “You have a through ticket from Cleveland to Fort Wayne; hand it to the freight agent on your arrival, and all will be right.” I was much moved by this unexpected mark of kindness, and expressing myself to that effect, I stepped into the caboose, and we started.

The excited state of mind which I had suffered while under the impression that the audience in Fort Wayne must be disappointed now changed, and I felt as happy as a king. In fact, I enjoyed a new sensation of imperial superiority, in that I was “monarch of all I surveyed,” emperor of my own train, switching all other trains from the main track, and making conductors all along the line wonder what grand mogul had thus taken complete possession and control of the road. Indeed, as we sped past each train, which stood quietly on a side track waiting for us to pass, I could not help smiling at the glances of excited curiosity which were thrown into our car by the agent and brakemen of the train which had been so peremptorily ordered to clear the track; and always stepping at the caboose door, I raised my hat, receiving in return an almost reverent salute, which the occupants of the waiting train thought due, no doubt, to the distinguished person for whom they were ordered by special telegram to make way.

I now began to reflect that the Fort Wayne lecture committee, upon discovering that I did not arrive by the regular passenger train, would not expect me at all, and that probably they might issue small bills announcing my failure to arrive. I therefore prepared the following telegram which I despatched to them on our arrival at Napoleon, the first station at which we stopped:

Lecture Committee, Fort Wayne: – Rest perfectly tranquil. I am to be delivered at Fort Wayne by contract by half-past seven o’clock – special train.

At the same station I received a telegram from Mr. Andrews, the superintendent, asking me how I liked the caboose. I replied:

The springs of the caboose are softer than down; I am as happy as a clam at high water; I am being carried towards Fort Wayne in a style never surpassed by Cæsar’s triumphal march into Rome. Hurrah for the Toledo and Wabash Railroad!

At the invitation of the engineer, I took a ride of twenty miles upon the locomotive. It fairly made my head swim. I could not reconcile my mind to the idea that there was no danger; and intimating to the engineer that it would be a relief to get where I could not see ahead, I was permitted to crawl back again to the caboose.

I reached Fort Wayne in ample time for the lecture; and as the committee had discreetly kept to themselves the fact of my non-arrival by the regular train, probably not a dozen persons were aware of the trouble I had taken to fulfil my engagement, till in the course of my lecture, under the head of “perseverance,” I recounted my day’s adventures, as an illustration of exercising that quality when real necessity demanded. The Fort Wayne papers of the next day published accounts of “Barnum on a Locomotive,” and “A Journey in a Caboose”; and as I always had an eye to advertising, these articles were sent marked to newspapers in towns and cities where I was to lecture, and of course were copied, – thus producing the desired effects, first, of informing the public that the “showman” was coming, and next, assuring the lecture committee that Barnum would be punctually on hand as advertised, unless prevented by “circumstances over which he had no control.”

The managers of railroads running west from Chicago pretty rigidly enforce a rule excluding from certain reserved cars all gentlemen travelling without ladies. As I do not smoke, I avoided the smoking cars; and as the ladies’ car was sometimes more select and always more comfortable than the other cars, I tried various expedients to smuggle myself in. If I saw a lady about to enter the car alone, I followed closely, hoping thus to elude the vigilance of the brakeman, who generally acted as door-keeper. But the car Cerberus is pretty well up to all such dodges, and I did not always succeed. On one occasion, seeing a young couple, evidently just married, and starting on a bridal tour, about to enter the car, I followed closely, but was stopped by the door-keeper, who called out:

“How many gentlemen are with this lady.”

I have always noticed that young newly-married people are very fond of saying “my husband” and “my wife;” they are new terms which sound pleasantly to the ears of those who utter them; so in answer to the peremptory inquiry of the door-keeper, the bridegroom promptly responded:

“I am this lady’s husband.”

“And I guess you can see by the resemblance between the lady and myself,” said I to Cerberus, “that I am her father.”

The astounded husband and the blushing bride were too much “taken aback” to deny their newly-discovered parent, but the brakeman said, as he permitted the young couple to pass into the car:

“We can’t pass all creation with one lady.”

“I hope you will not deprive me of the company of my child during the little time we can remain together,” I said with a demure countenance. The brakeman evidently sympathized with the fond “parient” whose feelings were sufficiently lacerated at losing his daughter through her finding a husband, and I was permitted to pass. I immediately apologized to the young bride and her husband, and told them who I was, and my reasons for the assumed paternity, and they enjoyed the joke so heartily that they called me “father” during our entire journey together. Indeed, the husband privately and slyly hinted to me that the first boy should be christened “P. T.” My friend the Rev. Dr. Chapin, by the by an inveterate punster, is never tired of ringing the changes on the names in my family; he says that my wife and I are the most sympathetic couple he ever saw, since she is “Charity” and I am “Pity” (P. T.) On one occasion, at my house in New York, he called my attention to the monogram, P. T. B., on the door and said, “I did it,” “Did what,” I asked: “Why that,” replied the doctor, “P. T. B., – Pull The Bell, of course,” thus literally ringing a new change on my initials.