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

“Do you really suppose there is any truth in the old superstition on that subject?” I asked.

“Truth!” solemnly replied an old lady. “Truth! Why I myself have known three instances, and have heard of scores of others, where thirteen persons have eaten at the same table, and in every case one of the number died before the year was out!”

This assertion, made with so much earnestness, evidently affected several of the guests, whose nerves were easily excited. I can truthfully state, however, that I dined at the Palace again the following Christmas, and although there were seventeen persons present, every one of the original thirteen who dined there the preceding Christmas, was among this number, and all in good health; although, of course, it would have been nothing very remarkable if one had happened to have died during the last twelve months.

While I was on my Western lecturing tour in 1866, long before I got out of Illinois, I began to observe that at the various hotels where I stopped my room very frequently was No. 13. Indeed, it seemed as if this number turned up to me as often as four times per week, and so before many days I almost expected to have that number set down to my name wherever I signed it upon the register of the hotel. Still, I laughed to myself, at what I was convinced was simply a coincidence. On one occasion I was travelling from Clinton to Mount Vernon, Iowa, and was to lecture in the college of the latter place that evening. Ordinarily, I should have arrived at two o’clock P. M.; but owing to an accident which had occurred to the train from the West, the conductor informed me that our arrival in Mount Vernon would probably be delayed until after seven o’clock. I telegraphed that fact to the committee who were expecting me, and told them to be patient.

When we had arrived within ten miles of that town it was dark. I sat rather moodily in the car, wishing the train would “hurry up”; and happening for some cause to look back over my left shoulder, I discovered the new moon through the window. This omen struck me as a coincident addition to my ill-luck, and with a pleasant chuckle I muttered to myself, “Well, I hope I wont get room number thirteen to-night, for that will be adding insult to injury.”

I reached Mount Vernon a few minutes before eight, and was met at the depot by the committee, who took me in a carriage and hurried to the Ballard House. The committee told me the hall in the college was already crowded, and they hoped I would defer taking tea until after the lecture. I informed them that I would gladly do so, but simply wished to run to my room a moment for a wash. While wiping my face I happened to think about the new room, and at once stepped outside of my bed-room door to look at the number. It was “number thirteen.”

After the lecture I took tea, and I confess that I began to think “number thirteen” looked a little ominous. There I was, many hundreds of miles from my family; I left my wife sick, and I began to ask myself does “number thirteen” portend anything in particular? Without feeling willing even now to acknowledge that I felt much apprehension on the subject, I must say I began to take a serious view of things in general.

I mentioned the coincidence of my luck in so often having “number thirteen” assigned to me to Mr. Ballard, the proprietor of the hotel, giving him all the particulars to date.

“I will give you another room if you prefer it,” said Mr. Ballard.

“No, I thank you,” I replied with a semi-serious smile; “If it is fate, I will take it as it comes; and if it means anything I shall probably find it out in time.” That same night before retiring to rest I wrote a letter to a clerical friend, then residing in Bridgeport, telling him all my experiences in regard to “number thirteen.” I said to him in closing: “Don’t laugh at me for being superstitious, for I hardly feel so; I think it is simply a series of ‘coincidences’ which appear the more strange because I am sure to notice every one that occurs.” Ten days afterwards I received an answer from my reverend friend, in which he cheerfully said: “It’s all right; go ahead and get ‘number thirteen’ as often as you can. It is a lucky number,” and he added:

“Unbelieving and ungrateful man! What is thirteen but the traditional ‘baker’s dozen,’ indicating ‘good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over,’ as illustrated in your triumphal lecturing tour? By all means insist upon having room No. 13 at every hotel; and if the guests at any meal be less than that charmed complement, send out and compel somebody to come in.

“What do you say respecting the Thirteen Colonies? Any ill luck in the number? Was the patriarch Jacob afraid of it when he adopted Ephraim and Manasseh, the two sons of Joseph, so as to complete the magic circle of thirteen?

“Do you not know that chapter thirteen of First Corinthians is the grandest in the Bible, with verse thirteen as the culmination of all religious thought? And can you read verse thirteen of the Fifth chapter of Revelation without the highest rapture?”

But my clerical friend had not heard of a certain curious circumstance which occurred to me after I had mailed my letter to him and before I received his answer.

On leaving Mount Vernon for Cedar Rapids the next morning, the landlord, Mr. Ballard, drove me to the railroad depot. As I was stepping upon the cars, Mr. Ballard shook my hand, and with a laugh exclaimed: “Good-by, friend Barnum, I hope you wont get room number thirteen at Cedar Rapids to-day.” “I hope not!” I replied earnestly, and yet with a smile. I reached Cedar Rapids in an hour. The lecture committee met and took me to the hotel. I entered my name, and the landlord immediately called out to the porter:

“Here John, take Mr. Barnum’s baggage, and show him to ‘number thirteen!’ ”

I confess that when I heard this I was startled. I remarked to the landlord that it was certainly very singular, but was nevertheless true, that “number thirteen” seemed to be about the only room that I could get in a hotel.

“We have a large meeting of Railroad directors here at present,” he replied, “and ‘number thirteen’ is the only room unoccupied in my house.”

I proceeded to the room, and immediately wrote to Mr. Ballard at Mount Vernon, assuring him that my letter was written in “number thirteen,” and that this was the only room I could get in the hotel. During the remainder of my journey, I was put into “number thirteen” so often in the various hotels at which I stopped that it came to be quite a matter of course, though occasionally I was fortunate enough to secure some other number. Upon returning to New York, I related the foregoing adventures to my family, and told them I was really half afraid of “number thirteen.” Soon afterwards, I telegraphed to my daughter who was boarding at the Atlantic House in Bridgeport, asking her to engage a room for me to lodge there the next night, on my way to Boston. “Mr. Hale,” said she to the landlord, “father is coming up to-day; will you please reserve him a comfortable room?” “Certainly,” replied Mr. Hale, and he instantly ordered a fire in “room thirteen!” I went to Boston and proceeded to Lewiston, Maine, and thence to Lawrence, Massachusetts, and the hotel register there has my name booked for “number thirteen.”

My experience with this number has by no means been confined to apartments. In 1867 a church in Bridgeport wanted to raise several thousand dollars in order to get freed from debt. I subscribed one thousand dollars, by aid of which they assured me they would certainly raise enough to pay off the debt. A few weeks subsequently, however, one of the “brethren” wrote me that they were still six hundred dollars short, with but little prospect of getting it. I replied that I would pay one-half of the sum required. The brother soon afterwards wrote me that he had obtained the other half, and I might forward him my subscription of “thirteen” hundred dollars. During the same season I attended a fair in Franklin Hall, Bridgeport, given by a temperance organization. Two of my little granddaughters accompanied me, and telling them to select what articles they desired, I paid the bill, twelve dollars and fifty cents. Whereupon I said to the children, “I am glad you did not make it thirteen dollars, and I will expend no more here to-night.” We sat awhile listening to the music, and finally started for home, and as we were going, a lady at one of the stands near the door, called out: “Mr. Barnum, you have not patronized me. Please take a chance in my lottery.” “Certainly,” I replied; “give me a ticket.” I paid her the price (fifty cents), and after I arrived home, I discovered that in spite of my expressed determination to the contrary, I had expended exactly “thirteen” dollars!

I invited a few friends to a “clam-bake” in the summer of 1868, and being determined the party should not be thirteen, I invited fifteen, and they all agreed to go. Of course, one man and his wife were “disappointed,” and could not go – and my party numbered thirteen. At Christmas, in the same year, my children and grandchildren dined with me, and finding on “counting noses,” that they would number the inevitable thirteen, I expressly arranged to have a high chair placed at the table, and my youngest grandchild, seventeen months old, was placed in it, so that we should number fourteen. After the dinner was over, we discovered that my son-in-law, Thompson, had been detained down town, and the number at dinner table, notwithstanding my extra precautions, was exactly thirteen.

Thirteen was certainly an ominous number to me in 1865, for on the thirteenth day of July, the American Museum was burned to the ground, while the thirteenth day of November saw the opening of “Barnum’s New American Museum,” which was also subsequently destroyed by fire.

Having concluded this veritable history of superstitious coincidences in regard to thirteen, I read it to a clerical friend, who happened to be present; and after reading the manuscript, I paged it, when my friend and I were a little startled to find that the pages numbered exactly thirteen.

CHAPTER XLV.

A STORY-CHAPTER

“EVERY MAN TO HIS VOCATION” AND “NATURE WILL ASSERT HERSELF” – REST BY THE WAYSIDE – A HALF-SHAVED PARTY – CONSTERNATION OF A CLERGYMAN – NATIVES IN NEW YORK – DOCTORING A CORN-DOCTOR – RELIGIOUS RAILWAYS – THE BRIGHTON BUGLE BUSINESS – CASH AND CONSCIENCE – CASTLES IN THE AIR – A DELUDED ANTIQUARIAN – GAMBLING AND POLITICS – IRISH WIT – ABOUT CONDUCTORS – DR. CHAPIN AS A PUNSTER – FOWL ATTEMPTS – A PAIR O’ DUCKS – CUTTING A SICK FRIEND – REV. RICHARD VARICK DEY – HIS CRIME AND ITS CONSEQUENCES – FORE-ORDINATION – PRACTICAL JOKING BY MY FATHER – A VALUABLE RACE-HORSE – HOW HE WAS LET AND THEN KILLED – AGONY OF THE HORSE-KILLER – THE FINAL “SELL” – FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC FRENCH – COCKNEYISM – WICKED WORDS IN EXETER HALL.

AND now as a traveller, when almost home, sits down by the wayside to rest, and meanwhile discourses to his companion about minor matters relating to the journey, or revives reminiscenses of home and foreign lands, so I stop to sum up in this chapter some of the incidents and anecdotes which seem pertinent to my story.

The old adages, “Every man to his vocation,” and “Nature will assert herself” are oftentimes amusingly illustrated. Every one knows the fable of the man who prayed to Jupiter to convert his cat into a woman, and Jupiter kindly gratified him and the man married the woman. This was well enough, till one night the feline female heard a mouse scratching at the door, when she jumped out of bed and began a vigorous hunt, to the consternation of her husband, if not of the mouse. Something almost as absurd and quite as illustrative of “instinct,” or “nature” occurred during my management of the Museum.

I had brought out a play entitled “The Patriot Fathers,” or something of the sort; it was patriotic at any rate, and required a great many people, who had very little to do excepting to dress, group themselves, and go on and off the stage at the proper times demanded by the incidents or situations of the play. One night I suddenly found myself short of supernumeraries to do these subordinate parts, so I sent up to Centre Market for a supply of young men who were willing to be soldiers, Indians, or anything else which the exigencies of Revolutionary times not less than my own immediate necessities demanded.

Now, it fortunately happened that an engine company near by, the famous “Forty” of by-gone days, had just returned from a fire, and my messenger proposed to these men to come down and help me out of my difficulty. The boys wanted no better fun. At least thirty of them came headed by their foreman, Mr. William Racey. They were soon dressed, one as a woman, a mother of the Revolution; others as Indians, British soldiers, Hessian grenadiers, and Continentals. A very little drilling sufficed to put these new recruits in order for presentation on the stage, for they had little to do but to follow directions as to where they must stand, and when they must go on and off. Numbers, not talent, were needed. They were apt pupils, and did excellently well from the start.

But in the very midst of one of those convulsions which threatened the fate of the struggle for Independence, the City Hall bell sounded out the alarm for fire. That was enough. Racey shouted out on the stage:

“Boys, there’s a fire in the Seventh! Put for ‘Forty’ ”; and the thirty incontinently fled in post haste for “Forty,” and soon after appeared in the street, followed by a jeering, cheering crew, the most motley company that ever dragged a fire engine through the streets of New York. They were in full costume as they left the Museum. The red-coated British troops, the Hessians in their tall bear-skin caps, the Indians in their paint and feathers, and even the “woman” helped to drag the machine, and at the fire these strange people, including the woman, helped to “man” the brakes. It is unnecessary to say that they succeeded in creating in the street, what I hoped they would have done on the stage, a positive sensation.

I confess that I am fond of story-telling as well as fun, and I inherit this I think from my maternal grandfather, whom I have already chronicled in these pages as a “practical joker of the old school.” One of the best illustrations of his peculiar fondness for this amusement appears in the following:

Danbury and Bethel were and still are manufacturing villages. Hats and combs were the principal articles of manufacture. The hatters and comb makers had occasion to go to New York every spring and fall, and they generally managed to go in parties, frequently taking in a few “outsiders,” who merely wished to visit the city for the fun of the thing. They usually took passage on board a sloop at Norwalk, and the length of their passage depended entirely upon the state of the wind. Sometimes the run would be made in eight hours, and at other times nearly as many days were required. It, however, made little difference with the passengers. They went in for a “spree,” and were sure to have a jolly time whether on land or water. They were all fond of practical jokes, and before starting they usually entered into a solemn compact, that any man who got angry at a practical joke should forfeit and pay the sum of twenty dollars. This agreement frequently saved much trouble; for occasionally an unexpected and rather severe trick would be played off, and sadly chafe the temper of the victim.

Upon one of these occasions a party of fourteen men started from Bethel on a Monday morning for New York. Among the number were my grandfather, Capt. Noah Ferry, Benjamin Hoyt, Esq., Uncle Samuel Taylor, (as he was called by everybody,) Eleazer Taylor, and Charles Dart. Most of these were proverbial jokers, and it was doubly necessary to adopt the stipulation in regard to the control of temper. It was therefore done in writing, duly signed.

They arrived at Norwalk Monday afternoon. The sloop set sail the same evening, with a fair prospect of reaching New York early the next morning. Several strangers took passage at Norwalk, among the rest a clergyman. He soon found himself in jolly company, and attempted to keep aloof. But they informed him it was of no use, they expected to reach New York the next morning, and were determined to “make a night of it,” so he might as well render himself agreeable, for sleep was out of the question. His “reverence” remonstrated at first, and talked about “his rights”; but he soon learned that he was in a company where the rights of “the majority” were in the ascendant; so he put a smooth face upon affairs, and making up his mind not to retire that night, he soon engaged in conversation with several of his fellow-passengers.

The clergyman was a slim, spare man, standing over six feet high in his stockings; of light complexion, sandy hair, and wearing a huge pair of reddish-brown whiskers. Some of the passengers joked him upon the superfluity of hair upon his face, but he replied that nature had placed it there, and although he thought proper, in accordance with modern custom, to shave off a portion of his beard, he considered it neither unmanly nor unclerical to wear whiskers. It seemed to be conceded that the clergyman had the best of the argument, and the subject was changed.

Expectation of a speedy run to New York was most sadly disappointed. The vessel appeared scarcely to move, and through long weary hours of day and night, there was not a ripple on the surface of the water. Nevertheless there was merriment on board the sloop, each voyager contributing good humor to beguile the tediousness of time.

Friday morning came, but the calm continued. Five days from home, and no prospect of reaching New York! We may judge the appearance of the beards of the passengers. There was but one razor in the company; it was owned by my grandfather, and he refused to use it, or to suffer it to be used. “We shall all be shaved in New York,” said he.

On Saturday morning “all hands” appeared upon deck, and the sloop was becalmed opposite Sawpits (now Port Chester)!

This tried the patience of the passengers sadly.

“I expected to start for home to-day,” said one.

“I supposed all my combs would have been sold at auction on Wednesday, and yet here they are on board,” said another.

“I intended to have sold my hats surely this week, for I have a note to pay in New-Haven on Monday,” added a third.

“I have an appointment to preach in New York this evening and to-morrow,” said the clergyman, whose huge sandy whiskers overshadowed a face now completely covered with a bright red beard a quarter of an inch long.

“Well, there is no use crying, gentlemen,” replied the captain; “it is lucky for us that we have chickens and eggs on freight, or we might have to be put upon allowance.”

After breakfast the passengers, who now began to look like barbarians, again solicited the loan of my grandfather’s razor.

“No, gentlemen,” he replied; “I insist that shaving is unhealthy and contrary to nature, and I am determined neither to shave myself nor loan my razor until we reach New York.”

Night came, and yet no wind. Sunday morning found them in the same position. Their patience was well nigh exhausted, but after breakfast a slight ripple appeared. It gradually increased, and the passengers were soon delighted in seeing the anchor weighed and the sails again set. The sloop glided finely through the water, and smiles of satisfaction forced themselves through the swamps of bristles which covered the faces of the passengers.

“What time shall we reach New York if this breeze continues?” was the anxious inquiry of half a dozen passengers.