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

BARNUM’S UNIVERSAL SHOW

Barnum, who long ago beat all creation, is now exhibiting his spoils at the Rink. Animated nature and animated art make a stunning combination, especially when the combination is all in active operation, as it generally is about two o clock in the afternoon and eight o’clock in the evening. Then one can enjoy the howls of the animals, the rush and scurry of the arena, the rattlebang of the band, and the delight of ten thousand people, without stopping to discriminate. It is something for the veteran showman to say he has been able to stir the metropolis with his caravan as other and less indifferent villages are stirred by smaller shows. The combination, as shows are rated, is really an extraordinary one, and when it arrives at an average Western city it doubles the population for them, contributing of its own multitudinous teamsters, tricksters, and stirrers-up about three hundred people, with as many more ravening beasts thrown in.

The first living curiosity that one meets at the Rink is Barnum himself uncaged. He still holds to the notion that it is worth fifty cents to look at him, and one dollar to read his life; and as nearly everybody has looked at him and read his life, we presume the rest of the world agrees with him. Still it is curious to observe how the healthy and hearty world, thronging to see the monkeys and the mermaids, mingle awe with their admiration of the greatest curiosity of all. They are subdued by a sense of the showman’s power. They skirt carefully round the edges of his greatness, so as not to attract too much of his attention, for who could tell at what moment, if he so chose, he would exhibit them. We say the healthy and hearty world, for of course the unhealthy and deformed world, which we all know was made to be exhibited, throngs as of old in supplicating procession after him. Three-legged women and four-legged men, and double-headed children may be seen at all hours congregating on the Third avenue in the vicinity of the Rink, seeking audience of the great showman. Indeed, the observant traveller on this great thoroughfare will know, hours before he gets to the Rink, that he is approaching Barnum, by the strange monstrosities, woolly horses, Albino children, and living skeletons that will be observed wending their way from all parts of the world to the great show in hope of getting engagements. Of course, all this adds to the excitement and interest of the eager multitude. But the animals and curiosities inside constitute the real attraction to the public; and a very fine collection of animals it is. The eight or ten royal Abyssinian and Babylonian lions roar less like sucking doves than any that have had their jaws stretched among us since Van Amburgh’s time. As for the rhinoceros, he deserves especial attention, because, as the card on his cage informs us, he is the unicorn of Scripture. But he doesn’t look a bit like the agile fellow that fought for the crown on his hind legs, (ah, he was an artist,) for he eats too much hay, and nothing can be more absurd and contrary to the revolutionary character of the unicorn dear to heraldry than this iron-clad monster eating hay with the demureness of a cow. Still there is danger in his cage, the keeper informs us, and he ought to know, for he probably lived there at some time with him in order to find him out. And he further assures us that the reason Mr. Barnum employs him to take care of the beast is that he is an old sailor, nobody else being able to go round his horn. Time, however would not suffice to relate the wonders of the yak and guayga and the wart hog, none of which are popular pets, nor to tell of the infinite variety of the feline tribe, from felis leo himself to the tiniest cougar. This collection of animals makes what is called the Zoölogical Garden, a distinct apartment of the show. There is a collection of camels – about forty – and several elephants, eating peanuts with singularly disproportioned taste, at the east end, and here, we observe, is the menagerie. The camels, each with his hump tastefully covered with a camel’s hair shawl, wait with meek patience for the ring-master to call them, and they all slide out on their cushioned feet like dusty spectres. It would be well to visit the collection of wild animals after this, and then inspect the exhibition of animated nature, reserving the caravan till the last. But the conscientious visitor has the hippodrome, the hippotheatron, the circus, the arena and the ring to inspect, and unless he hurries up, he will not get through in time. We have found it in our experience that the best plan is to cut the arena, the hippodrome, and the hippotheatron, and stick to the circus. The circus will be found worthy of the carefulest study. It will be found to have a largeness that is new, and certainly it would be difficult to find more performers or have them do more. The Rink, thanks to Barnum, is a popular resort. We forget how many miles of promenade there are through the zoölogical department of the menagerie, but we know that thousands of people may be seen there of a pleasant afternoon, adding a biological interest to the zoölogical exhibit that is well worth noting.

The following is from the New York Daily Standard of Dec. 28, 1871:

UNBOUNDED ENTERPRISE

Mr. P. T. Barnum is the only man in the show-business who thoroughly comprehends the demands of the public, and is willing to satisfy them at any expenditure of time and means. His projects are conceived on a gigantic scale, very far in advance of the conservatism so characteristic of even liberal managers. His expensive expeditions to Labrador, some years ago, to capture white whales for the American Museum, and another expedition to South Africa, in 1859, which secured the first and only living hippopotamus ever seen on this continent, involved an outlay sufficient to organize and completely furnish a first-class show. A third even more hazardous expedition was sent to the North Pacific to capture seals, sea lions, and other marine monsters, which were transported thousands of miles in immense water tanks. These are but a few in many instances of that large and comprehensive liberality that distinguishes all of Mr. Barnum’s enterprises, and is the source of his managerial triumphs and the foundation of his financial success. Obstacles, that to others seem insurmountable, only spur him on to greater effort. No article of real novelty or merit which will enhance the attractions of his exhibitions is suffered to escape for lack of energy, or for want of liberal expenditure of money. It is this spirit that has enabled Mr. Barnum to combine in one exhibition the most complete and colossal collection of animate and inanimate curiosities ever assembled in the world.

In the spring of 1871, when the great show was about to enter upon its first campaign, complete as it seemed to the manager and to other experts, Mr. Barnum thought a most valuable feature might be added. He telegraphed to the whaling ports of New England, and sent messages to San Francisco and Alaska, to know if a group of sea lions and other specimens of the phocine tribe could be secured. Finally, through his agents in San Francisco, he organized an expedition to Alaska. By the first of July, several fine specimens of seals and sea lions, some of the latter weighing more than 1,000 pounds each, were brought in tanks over the Union Pacific Railway, were safely landed at Bridgeport, and, thereafter, were forwarded to the show, then on its travels through New England. As these delicate animals are likely to die, arrangements have been made to keep good the supply, and December 16, 1871, Mr. Barnum received a telegram from San Francisco that six more sea lions had just arrived at that port for him. Two of these will be sent, by arrangement, to the Zoölogical Gardens, in Regent’s Park, London, and the rest, with several seals captured in the same expedition, will be added to Barnum’s show next spring.

Mr. Barnum’s active and enterprising agents are in Europe, Asia, Africa, South America, and elsewhere in the world, wherever anything rare and valuable – bird, beast, reptile, or other animate or inanimate curiosity – can be secured, which will add to the interest of the exhibition. In the menagerie, and the hippodrome also, experts are constantly engaged in training elephants, camels, performing horses, and other animals, and are thus preparing new and attractive features, some of which will be as novel to the show profession as they will be new and attractive to the public.

I might fill hundreds of pages with the notices of the New York papers during the protracted exhibition at the Empire Rink. Every day, almost, the journals had something new to say about the show, from the simple fact that nearly every day the addition of some new animal or attraction, or fresh features in the ring performances compelled new notices. The exhibition continued with unabated success and patronage till after the holidays, when necessary preparations for the spring campaign, including the repainting of all the wagons, compelled me to close.

I must make mention merely of two genuine curiosities from California – the one a section of one of the big trees, and the other a bright young Digger Indian, who was my guide through the Yosemite Valley. I little thought when I saw the big trees that I should soon secure for exhibition in New York a gigantic section of one of them, with the bark, which, set up as it enclosed the tree, enclosed, on one occasion, at the Empire Rink, two hundred children from the Howard Mission. The Digger was equally a curiosity in his way. One day when the baboon escaped from his cage, and defied all the efforts of the keepers to capture him, my Digger Indian lassooed him, and brought him down with a run and a rope in less than no time. His services in, and with, this “line” on other occasions were more memorable.

I cannot close this additional narrative without warning my readers, and the public generally, that the enormous success of my great combination has stimulated unscrupulous smaller showmen to feeble imitations, which, in some instances, are, and are intended to be, downright frauds upon the public. Nearly every circus and menagerie in the country has lately added what is called a “museum,” and in some cases they have employed a man named, or supposed to be named, Barnum, intending to advertise under the title of “Barnum’s Show,” thereby deceiving and swindling the public. The trick is very transparent, and can be successful, if at all, only in very rural regions, where the newspapers fail to penetrate. The so-called “Museums” may embrace a stuffed animal or two, and a small show of wax-works. Indeed, some of these minor managers have bought cast-off curiosities from me, and cheap rubbish from old museums, with which to set up the “new features” in their circuses or menageries. The whole public knows that there is but one P. T. Barnum, and but one show in the country of sufficient importance to bear his name. I trust to my name and my long-worked-for and well-earned reputation to insure the public against imposition from the attempts of my imitators, who are as unprincipled as they will be unsuccessful in their efforts to defraud me and to delude the public.

CONCLUSION

In sending these last pages to the printer in March, 1872, I may say that my manager, Mr. Coup, his assistants, and myself, have been busy ever since New Year’s in reorganizing our great travelling show, building new wagons and cages, and painting, gilding and repairing the others. One of the great carved, mirrored and gilded chariots, from England, used by me in 1871, is a grand affair, made telescopic, and when extended to its full height reaches an altitude of forty feet, on the top of which, in our street processions, we place a young lady, costumed to personate the Goddess of Liberty. The re-gilding of this one vehicle preparatory to opening our spring campaign cost about five thousand dollars – enough to build a nice house in the country. The wintering of my horses and wild animals, salaries of employees and expense of fitting up properly for the next season, cost over $50,000. During the winter my agents abroad have shipped me many interesting and expensive curiosities. Indeed, ship after ship has brought me so many rare animals and works of art that I have sometimes been puzzled to find places to store them.

Two beautiful Giraffes, or Camelopards, were despatched to me, but one died on the Atlantic, making three of these tender and valuable animals that I have lost within a year. The only one on this continent at this present writing is mine. He is a beauty. I own another, which is now in the Royal Zoölogical Gardens, Regent’s Park, London, ready to be shipped at any moment should I unfortunately be obliged to send a message by the Atlantic Cable announcing the death of my present pet.

Other managers gave up trying to import Giraffes several years ago, owing to the great cost and care attending them. No Giraffe has ever lived two years in America. These very impediments, however, incited me to always have a living Giraffe on hand, at whatever cost – for, of course, their scarcity enhances their attraction and value as curiosities. I hear that my example has stimulated the manager of a small show to try and obtain a Giraffe. I am educating the public curiosity and taste to demand so much that is rare and valuable, that many managers will soon give up the show business, as several have this spring, while others must be more liberal and enterprising if they succeed.

Hitherto many small showmen who could raise cash and credit to the amount of $20,000, would get half a dozen cages of cheap animals, two or three fourth-rate circus riders, a few acrobats or tumblers, a clown, and three or four broken down “ring horses;” then buying some ready printed dashy show-bills mis-representing their show, they would announce a great menagerie and circus, and perhaps clear the cost of their show the first season; for there are some persons who are bound to go to “the show” whatever may be its merits. But the public are generally getting sick of this same old story, and as my Broadway American Museum years ago served to reform or extinguish “one horse shows,” so I trust that the immensity of my travelling show will serve to elevate and extend public expectations and improve public exhibitions.

Several immense Sea Lions and Barking Seals have also been captured by my agents at Alaska and are added to the “innumerable caravan.” Some of these marine monsters weigh a thousand pounds each, and each consumes from sixty to a hundred pounds of fish per day. It is very curious to see them floundering in and out of the immense water tanks in which I transport them through the country. Their tremendous roar may often be heard the distance of a mile.

Among my equestrian novelties is an Italian Goat taught in Europe to ride on horseback, leap through hoops and over banners, alighting on his feet on the back of the horse while at full speed. I named him “Alexis” in honor of the Russian Prince. He appeared at Niblo’s Garden, New York, in February, and created much enthusiasm.

Numerous artists in different parts of Europe have been engaged all winter in making for my show extraordinary Musical and other Automatons and Moving Tableaux, so marvelous in their construction as to seem enchanted or to be possessed of life.

But perhaps the most rare and curious addition to my great show, and certainly the most difficult to obtain, is a company of four wild Fiji Cannibals! I have tried in vain for years to secure specimens of these “man-eaters.” At last the opportunity came. Three of these Cannibals having fallen into the hands of their Royal enemy, who was about to execute, and perhaps to eat them, the missionaries and my agent prevailed upon the copper-colored king to accept a large sum in gold on condition of his majesty’s granting them a reprieve and leave of absence to America for three years, my agent also leaving a large sum with the American Consul to be forfeited if they were not returned within the time stipulated. Accompanying them is a half-civilized Cannibal woman, converted and educated by the Methodist missionaries. She reads fluently and very pleasantly from the Bible printed in the Fijian language, and she already exerts a powerful moral influence over these savages. They take a lively interest in hearing her read the history of our Saviour. They earnestly declare their convictions that eating human flesh is wrong, and faithfully promise never again to attempt it. They are intelligent and docile. Their characteristic war dances and rude marches, as well as their representations of Cannibal manners and customs, are peculiarly interesting and instructive. It is perhaps needless to add that the bonds for their return will be forfeited. They are already learning to speak and read our language, and I hope soon to put them in the way of being converted to Christianity, even if by so doing the title of “Missionary” be added to the many already given me by the public.

The following happy hit is from the pen of Rev. Henry Ward Beecher as it appeared in that excellent paper of which he is editor, the N. Y. Christian Union of Feb. 28th, 1872:

“Should not a paternal government set some limit to the enterprise of Brother Barnum; with reference, at least, to the considerations of public safety? Here, upon our desk, lies an indication of his last perilous venture. He invites us “and one friend” – no conditions as to “condition” specified – to a private exhibition of four living cannibals, which he has obtained from the Fiji Islands, for his travelling show. We have beaten up, in this office, among the lean and tough, and those most easily spared in an emergency, for volunteers to visit the Anthropophagi, and report; but never has the retiring and self-distrustful disposition of our employees been more signally displayed. This establishment was not represented at that exposition. If Barnum had remembered to specify the “Feeding-time,” we might have dropped in, in a friendly way, at some other period of the day.”

I may add that at the above exhibition several editors brought their daughters. These blooming young ladies refused to sit on the front seat, in the fear of being eaten; but I remarked that there was more danger of some of the young gentlemen swallowing them alive, than there was from the cannibals. The belles subsided and were safe.

And now comes a joke so huge and ludicrous that I laugh over it daily, although there is a serious aspect to it. Every shipment of curiosities that has arrived from abroad this winter has served to put my worthy Manager Coup in great agony.

“I tell you, Mr. Barnum, you are getting this show too big,” has been repeated by my perplexed manager a hundred times since New Year’s.

“Never mind,” I reply, “we ought to have a big show – the public expect it, and will appreciate it.”

“So here must go six thousand dollars more for a Giraffe wagon and the horses to draw it,” says Coup, “and this makes more than seventy additional horses that your importations since last fall have rendered necessary.”

“Well, friend Coup, we have the only Giraffe in America,” I replied.

“Yes, sir, that is all very well, but no country can support such an expensive show as you are putting on the road.”

And that is poor Coup’s doleful complaint continually.

But now comes a more serious side, and here is where the joke comes in. I had wintered about five hundred horses, and was preparing to add at least another hundred to my retinue. I induced my son-in-law, Mr. S. H. Hurd, to sell out his business, take stock in the show, and become its treasurer and assistant manager. Hurd is clear-headed, but he moves cautiously, and “looks before he leaps.” On a cold, clear morning in February, 1872, Mr. Coup, Mr. Hurd, and several of our leading assistants and counsellors called at my house. Their countenances were solemn, not to say lugubrious; their jaws seemed firmly set, and altogether I discovered something ominous in their appearance. I saw that there was solid business ahead, but I said with a smile:

“Gentlemen, I am right glad to see you. I confess you don’t look very jolly, but never mind, unbosom yourselves, and tell me what is up.”

Manager Coup opened the ball.

“I am very sorry to say, Mr. Barnum,” said that honest, good-hearted manager, “that our business here is important and serious. Although we, of course, like to bow to your decisions, and are ready to acknowledge that your experience is greater than ours, we have had a long and serious consultation this morning, and have unanimously concluded that your show is more than twice too large to succeed; that you will lose nearly four hundred thousand dollars if you try to drag it all through the country, and that your only chance of success is to sell off more than half of your curiosities and horses and wagons, or else divide them into three, or certainly two distinct shows.”

“Is this a mutiny, gentlemen?” I asked, with a feeling and countenance far from solemn.

“By no means a mutiny, father,” said Hurd, “but really it is a very serious affair. We have been making a careful and close calculation.” Here he drew from his pocket a sheet of paper covered with figures, and read from it: “The expenses of your exhibitions, including nearly a thousand men and horses, the printing, board, salaries, &c., will average more than $4,000 per day. But call it $4,000. You show thirty weeks – 180 days. Thus your expenses for the tenting season, besides wear and tear and general depreciation, will be at least $720,000. This is about twice as much as any show ever took in one season, except your own, last year. This is the year of the presidential election, which, on account of political excitement and mass meetings, always injures travelling shows. We have carefully looked over the towns which you will be able to touch this summer, not going west of Ohio, for you cannot get beyond that State in a single season, and we compute your receipts at not over $350,000, which would leave you a loser of $370,000.”

“Are you not a little mistaken in some of your estimates?” I asked.

“Mr. Barnum, figures never lie,” exclaimed Mr. Coup, with great earnestness, and, pulling a pocket-map from his breast pocket, he opened it, and I saw that he was set down for the next spokesman.

“Our teams cannot travel with heavy loads more than an average of twenty miles per day,” continued Coup; “now please follow the lines marked on this map, and you will find that we are compelled to make seventy-one stands where there are not people enough within five miles to give us an average of $1,000 per day. That will involve a loss of $213,000, and, I tell you, that taking accidents, storms, and other risks, the season will be ruinous if you don’t reduce the show more than one-half.”

“Coup,” I replied, “did not thousands of people come fifty, sixty, a hundred miles last year, by railroad excursions, to see my show?”

He confessed that they did.

“Well,” I replied, “if you have lost faith in the discernment of the public, I have not, and I propose to prove it.” Then, laughing heartily, I added:

“Gentlemen, I thank you for your advice; but I won’t reduce the show a single hair or feather; on the contrary, I will add five or six hundred dollars per day to my expenses!”

My assembled “cabinet” rolled their eyes in astonishment.

“Father, are you crazy?” asked Hurd, with a look of despair.

“Not much,” I replied.

“Now,” I continued, “I see the show is too big to drag from village to village by horse power, and I have long suspected it would be, and have laid my plans accordingly. I will immediately telegraph to all the principal railroad centres between here and Omaha, Nebraska, and within five days I will tell you what it will cost to transport my whole show, taking leaps of a hundred miles or more in a single night when necessary, so as to hit good-sized towns every day in the season. If I can do this with sixty or seventy freight cars, six passenger cars and three engines, within such a figure as I think it ought to be done for, I will do it.”

The “cabinet” adjourned for five days, and it was worth something to see how astonished, and apparently pleased, the various members looked as they withdrew.

At the appointed time all met again. The railroad telegrams were generally favorable, and we, then and there, resolved to transport the entire Museum, Menagerie and Hippodrome, all of the coming season, by rail, enlisting a power which, if expended on traversing common wagon roads, would be equivalent to two thousand men and horses.

If life and health are spared me till another spring, I will report the result of thus setting on foot a mighty “army with banners.” But if it is wisely appointed that some other hand shall record it, I confidently trust that the American public will bear witness that I found great pleasure in contributing to their rational enjoyment.