After the performance one evening at Richmond, Barnum tried to pay Turner for that practical joke about the Rev. Mr. Avery. A score of the company were telling stories and singing songs in the sitting room of the hotel. Presently somebody began propounding some amusing arithmetical problems. Then Turner proposed one, which was readily solved. Barnum's turn came next, and he offered the following, for Turner's especial benefit:

"Suppose a man is thirty years of age, and he has a child one year of age; he is thirty times older than his child. When the child is thirty years old, the father, being sixty, is only twice as old as his child. When the child is sixty the father is ninety, and therefore only one-third older than the child. When the child is ninety the father is one hundred and twenty, and therefore only one-fourth older than the child. Thus you see, the child is gradually but surely gaining on the parent, and as he certainly continues to come nearer and nearer, in time he must overtake him. The question therefore is, suppose it was possible for them to live long enough, how old would the father be when the child overtook him and became of the same age?"

The company generally saw the catch; but Turner was very much interested in the problem, and although he admitted he knew nothing about arithmetic, he was convinced that as the son was gradually gaining on the father he must reach him if there was time enough—say, a thousand years, or so—for the race. But an old gentleman gravely remarked that the idea of a son becoming as old as his father while both were living, was simply nonsense, and he offered to bet a dozen of champagne that the thing was impossible, even "in figures." Turner, who was a betting man, and who thought the problem might be proved, accepted the wager; but he was soon convinced that however much the boy might relatively gain upon his father, there would always be thirty years difference in their ages. The champagne cost him $25, and he failed to see the fun of Barnum's arithmetic, though at last he acknowledged that it was a fair offset to the Avery trick.

From Richmond they went to Petersburg, and thence to Warrenton, North Carolina, and there, on October 30, Barnum and Turner separated, Barnum's engagement having expired with a clear profit to himself of about $1,200. Barnum took Vivalla, a negro singer and dancer named James Sandford, several musicians, horses and wagons, and a small canvas tent. With these he proposed to carry on a travelling show of his own. His first stop was on Saturday, November 12, 1836, at Rocky Mount Falls, North Carolina. The next day, being Sunday, Barnum set out for church. "I noticed," he says, "a stand and benches in a grove near by, and determined to speak to the people if I was permitted. The landlord who was with me said that the congregation, coming from a distance to attend a single service, would be very glad to hear a stranger, and I accordingly asked the venerable clergyman to announce that after service I would speak for half an hour in the grove. Learning that I was not a clergyman, he declined to give the notice, but said that he had no objection to my making the announcement, which I did, and the congregation, numbering about three hundred, promptly came to hear me.

"I told them I was not a preacher, and had very little experience in public speaking, but I felt a deep interest in matters of morality and religion, and would attempt in a plain way, to set before them the duties and privileges of man. I appealed to every man's experience, observation and reason, to confirm the Bible doctrine of wretchedness in vice and happiness in virtue. We cannot violate the laws of God with impunity, and He will not keep back the wages of well-doing. The outside show of things is of very small account. We must look to realities and not to appearances. 'Diamonds may glitter on a vicious breast,' but 'the soul's calm sunshine and the heart-felt joy is virtue's prize.' The rogue, the passionate man, the drunkard, are not to be envied even at the best, and a conscience hardened by sin is the most sorrowful possession we can think of."

Barnum proceeded in this strain with various scriptural quotations and familiar illustrations, for three-quarters of an hour. At the end of his address several persons came up to shake hands with him, saying that they had been greatly pleased and edified by his remarks and asking to know his name. He went away feeling that possibly he had done some good by means of his impromptu preaching.

The negro singer and dancer, Sandford, abruptly deserted the show at Camden, South Carolina, and left Barnum in a bad plight. An entertainment of negro songs had been advertised, and no one was able to fill Sandford's place. Barnum was determined, however, that his audience should not be disappointed, and so he blackened his own face and went on the stage himself, singing a number of plantation melodies. His efforts were received with great applause, and he was recalled several times. This performance was repeated for several evenings.

One night after thus personating a negro, Barnum heard a disturbance outside the tent. Hastening to the spot he found a man quarreling with one of his company. He interfered, whereupon the man drew a pistol and pointing it at Barnum's head, exclaimed, "you black scoundrel! How dare you use such language to a white man?" He evidently took Barnum for a real negro, and in another moment would have blown his brains out. But quick as a flash the showman exclaim, "I am as white as you!" and at the same moment rolled up his sleeves showing the white skin of his arm. The other man dropped his pistol in consternation and humbly begged Barnum's pardon.

"On four different occasions in my life," said Mr. Barnum not long before his death, "I have had a loaded pistol pointed at my head and each time I have escaped death by what seemed a miracle. I have also often been in deadly peril by accidents, and when I think of these things I realize my indebtedness to an all-protecting Providence. Reviewing my career, too, and considering the kind of company I kept for years and the associations with which I was surrounded and connected, I am surprised as well as grateful that I was not ruined. I honestly believe that I owe my preservation from the degradation of living and dying a loafer and a vagabond, to the single fact that I was never addicted to strong drink. To be sure, I have in times past drank liquor, but I have generally wholly abstained from intoxicating beverages, and for many years, I am glad to say, I have been a strict 'teetotaller.' "

At Camden, Barnum also lost one of his musicians, a Scotchman named Cochran. This man was arrested and, in spite of Barnum's efforts to save him, imprisoned for many months for advising a negro barber who was shaving him to run away to the Free States or to Canada. To fill up his ranks Barnum now hired Bob White, a negro singer, and Joe Pentland, a clown, ventriloquist, comic singer, juggler, and sleight-of-hand performer, and also bought four horses and two wagons. He called this enlarged show "Barnum's Grand Scientific and Musical Theatre."

At Raleigh, North Carolina, Barnum had sold a half interest in his show to a man called Henry,—not his real name. The latter now acted as treasurer and ticket taker. When they reached Augusta, Georgia, the Sheriff served a writ upon Henry for a debt of $500. As Henry had $600 of the Company's money in his pockets, Barnum at once secured a bill of sale of all his property in the exhibition. Armed with this he met Henry's creditor and his lawyer, who demanded the key of the stable, so that they might levy on the horses and wagons. Barnum asked them to wait a little while until he could see Henry, to which they agreed. Henry was anxious to cheat his creditor, and accordingly was glad to sign the bill of sale. Then Barnum returned and told the creditor and his lawyer that Henry would neither pay nor compromise the claim. The Sheriff thereupon demanded the stable key, so that he might attach Henry's share of the property. "Not yet," said Barnum, pulling out the bill of sale, "I am in possession as entire owner of this property. I have already purchased it, and you have not yet levied on it. You will touch my property at your peril."

The creditor and the sheriff were thus baffled, but they immediately arrested Henry and took him to prison. The next day Barnum learned that Henry really owed $1,300, and that he had promised his creditor that he would pay him $500 of the company's money and a bill of sale of his interest in the show at the end of the Saturday night performance, in consideration of which the creditor was to allow him to take one of the horses and run away, leaving Barnum in the lurch. Learning this, Barnum was not disposed to help Henry any further. Finding that Henry had intrusted the $500 to Vivalla, to keep it from the sheriff, Barnum secured it from Vivalla on Henry's order, under pretense of securing bail for the prisoner. Then he paid the creditor the full amount obtained from Henry as the price of his half-interest and received in return an assignment of $500 of the creditor's claim and a guarantee that he should not be troubled by Henry for it. Thus his own promptness rescued Barnum from one of the most unpleasant situations in which he was ever placed.

After this they got into one of the most desolate parts of Georgia. One night their advance agent, finding it impossible to reach the next town, arranged for the whole show to spend the night at a miserable and solitary hovel owned by an old woman named Hayes. The horses were to be picketed in a field, and the company were to sleep in the tent and the out houses. Posters were scattered over the country, announcing that a performance would be given there the next day, the agent thinking that, as a show was a rarity in that region, a considerable number of small farmers would be glad to attend.

"Meanwhile," says Barnum, "our advertiser, who was quite a wag, wrote back informing us of the difficulty of reaching a town on that part of our route, and stating that he had made arrangements for us to stay over night on the plantation of 'Lady Hayes,' and that although the country was sparsely settled, we could doubtless give a profitable performance to a fair audience.

"Anticipating a fine time on this noble 'plantation,' we started at four o'clock in the morning so as to arrive at one o'clock, thus avoiding the heat of the afternoon. Towards noon we came to a small river where some men, whom we afterwards discovered to be down-east Yankees, from Maine, were repairing a bridge. Every flooring plank had been taken up, and it was impossible for our teams to cross. 'Could the bridge be fixed so that we could go over?' I inquired. 'No; it would take half a day, and meantime, if we must cross, there was a place about sixteen miles down the river where we could get over. 'But we can't go so far as that; we are under engagement to perform on Lady Hayes's place to-night, and we must cross here. Fix the bridge and we will pay you handsomely.'

"They wanted no money, but if we would give them some tickets to our show they thought they might do something for us. I gladly consented, and in fifteen minutes we crossed that bridge. The cunning rascals had seen our posters and knew we were coming; so they had taken up the planks of the bridge and had hidden them till they had levied upon us for tickets, when the floor was re-laid in a quarter of an hour.

"Towards dinner-time we began to look out for the grand mansion of 'Lady Hayes,' and seeing nothing but little huts we quietly pursued our journey. At one o'clock—the time when we should have arrived at our destination—I became impatient, and riding up to a poverty-stricken hovel and seeing a ragged, bare-footed old woman, with her sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, who was washing clothes in front of the door, I inquired—" 'Hello! can you tell me where Lady Hayes lives?'

"The old woman raised her head, which was covered with tangled locks and matted hair, and exclaimed—" 'Hey?'

" 'No, Hayes, Lady Hayes; where is her plantation?'

" 'This is the place,' she answered; 'I'm Widder Hayes, and you are all to stay here to-night.'

"We could not believe our ears or eyes; but after putting the dirty old woman through a severe cross-examination she finally produced a contract, signed by our advertiser, agreeing for board and lodging for the company, and we found ourselves booked for the night. It appeared that our advertiser could find no better quarters in that forlorn section, and he had indulged in a joke at our expense by exciting our appetites and imaginations in anticipation of the luxuries we should find in the magnificent mansion of 'Lady Hayes.'

"Joe Pentland grumbled, Bob White indulged in some very strong language, and Signor Vivalla laughed. He had travelled with his monkey and organ in Italy and could put up with any fare that offered. I took the disappointment philosophically, simply remarking that we must make the best of it and compensate ourselves when we reached a town next day.

"The next forenoon we arrived at Macon, and congratulated ourselves that we had reached the regions of civilization.

"In going from Columbus, Ga., to Montgomery, Ala., we were obliged to cross a thinly-settled, desolate tract, known as the 'Indian Nation,' and as several persons had been murdered by hostile Indians in that region, it was deemed dangerous to travel the road without an escort. Only the day before we started, the mail stage had been stopped and the passengers murdered, the driver alone escaping. We were well armed, however, and trusted that our numbers would present too formidable a force to be attacked, though we dreaded to incur the risk. Vivalla alone was fearless and was ready to encounter fifty Indians and drive them into the swamp.

"Accordingly, when we had safely passed over the entire route to within fourteen miles of Montgomery, and were beyond the reach of danger, Joe Pentland determined to test Vivalla's bravery. He had secretly purchased at Mt. Megs, on the way, an old Indian dress with a fringed hunting shirt and moccasins and these he put on, after coloring his face with Spanish brown. Then shouldering his musket he followed Vivalla and the party, and, approaching stealthily leaped into their midst with a tremendous whoop.

"Vivalla's companions were in the secret, and they instantly fled in all directions. Vivalla himself ran like a deer and Pentland after him, gun in hand and yelling horribly. After running a full mile the poor little Italian, out of breath and frightened nearly to death, dropped on his knees and begged for his life. The 'Indian' leveled his gun at his victim, but soon seemed to relent, and signified that Vivalla should turn his pockets inside out—which he did, producing and handing over a purse containing eleven dollars. The savage then marched Vivalla to an oak, and with a handkerchief tied him in the most approved Indian manner to the tree, leaving him half dead with fright.

"Pentland then joined us, and washing his face and changing his dress, we all went to the relief of Vivalla. He was overjoyed to see us, and when he was released his courage returned; he swore that after his companions left him, the Indian had been re-inforced by six more, to whom, in default of a gun or other means to defend himself, Vivalla had been compelled to surrender. We pretended to believe his story for a week, and then told him the joke, which he refused to credit, and also declined to take the money which Pentland offered to return, as it could not possibly be his since seven Indians had taken his money. We had a great deal of fun over Vivalla's courage, but the matter made him so cross and surly that we were finally obliged to drop it altogether. From that time forward, however, Vivalla never boasted of his prowess."

At the end of February, 1837, they reached Montgomery, and there Barnum sold a half interest in his show to Henry Hawley, a sleight-of-hand performer. He was a very clever fellow and was never known to be non-plussed or embarrassed in his tricks, except upon one occasion. This was when he was performing the well-known egg and bag trick, which he did with great success, taking egg after egg from the bag and finally breaking one to show that they were genuine. "Now," said he "I will show you the old hen that laid them." But it happened that the negro boy to whom had been intrusted the duty of supplying "properties," had made a slight mistake. The result was that Hawley triumphantly produced not "the old hen that laid the eggs," but a most palpable and evident rooster. The audience roared with laughter, and Hawley, completely taken aback, fled in confusion to his dressing room, uttering furious maledictions upon the boy who was the author of his woe.

The show visited various places in Alabama, Tennessee and Kentucky, and finally disbanded at Nashville in May, 1837. Vivalla went to New York and gave some performances on his own account before sailing for Cuba. Hawley remained in Tennessee, and Barnum went home to his family. Early in July, however, he formed a new company and went back to rejoin Hawley. But they were not successful, and in August they parted again, Barnum forming a new partnership with one Z. Graves. He then went to Tiffin, Ohio, where he re-engaged Joe Pentland and got together the nucleus of a new company.

During his short stay at Tiffin, Barnum got into a discussion with various gentlemen on religious subjects, and in response to their invitation lectured, or preached, in the school-house on Sunday afternoon and evening. He also went to the neighboring town of Republic and delivered two lectures.

On his way back to Kentucky, just before he reached Cincinnati, he met a drove of hogs. One of the drivers made an insolent remark because the circus wagons interfered with the driving of the hogs, and Barnum responded angrily. Thereupon the fellow jumped from his horse, pointed a pistol at Barnum's breast and swore he would shoot him if he did not apologize. Barnum asked permission to speak first to a friend in the next wagon, after which, he said, he would give the man full satisfaction. The "friend" proved to be a loaded double barrelled gun, which Barnum leveled at the hog-driver's head, saying:

"Now, sir, you must apologize, or have your brains blown out. You drew a weapon upon me for a careless remark. You seem to hold human life at a cheap price. Now you have the choice between a load of shot and an apology."

The man apologized promptly, a pleasant conversation ensued, and they parted excellent friends.

On this tour they exhibited at Nashville, where Barnum visited General Jackson at the Hermitage; at Huntsville, Tuscaloosa, Vicksburg and various other places, generally doing well. At Vicksburg they bought a steamboat and went down the river, stopping at every important landing to exhibit. At Natchez their cook deserted them, and Barnum set out to find another. He found a white woman who was willing to go, only she expected to marry a painter in that town, and did not want to leave him. Barnum went to see the painter and found that he had not fully made up his mind whether to marry the woman or not. Thereupon the enterprising showman told the painter that if he would marry the woman the next morning he would hire him for $25 a month as painter, and his bride at the same wages as cook, give them both their board and add a cash bonus of $50. There was a wedding on the boat the next day, and they had a good cook and a good dinner.

During one evening performance at Francisville, Louisiana, a man tried to pass Barnum at the door of the tent, claiming that he had paid for admittance. Barnum refused him entrance; and as he was slightly intoxicated, he struck Barnum with a slung shot, mashing his hat and grazing what phrenologists call "the organ of caution." He went away and soon returned with a gang of armed and half-drunken companions, who ordered the showmen to pack up their "traps and plunder" and to get on board their steamboat within an hour. The big tent speedily came down. No one was permitted to help, but the company worked with a will, and within five minutes of the expiration of the hour they were on board and ready to leave. The scamps who had caused their departure escorted them and their last load, waving pine torches, and saluted them with a hurrah as they swung into the stream.

The New Orleans papers of March 19th, 1838, announced the arrival of the "Steamer Ceres, Captain Barnum, with a theatrical company." After a week's performance, they started for the Attakapas country. At Opelousas they exchanged the steamer for sugar and molasses; the company was disbanded, and Barnum started for home, arriving in New York. June 4th, 1838.



CHAPTER VII. HARD TIMES.

ADVERTISING FOR A PARTNER—"QUAKER OATS"—DIAMOND THE DANCER—A DISHONEST MANAGER—RETURN TO NEW YORK—FROM HAND TO MOUTH—THE AMERICAN MUSEUM.

Looking around now for some permanent business, Barnum at last resorted to the expedient of advertising for a partner, stating that he had $2,500 to invest, and was willing to add his entire personal attention to the business. He was immediately overwhelmed with answers, the most of them coming from sharpers. One was a counterfeiter who wanted $2,500 to invest in paper, ink, and dies.

One applicant was a sedate individual dressed in sober drab; he proposed to buy a horse and wagon and sell oats in bags, trusting that no one would be particular in measuring after a Quaker.

"Do you mean to cheat in measuring your oats?" asked Barnum.

"Well," said the Quaker, with a significant leer, "I shall probably make them hold out."

Finally Barnum decided to go into business with a good-looking, plausible German, named Proler, who was a manufacturer of paste-blacking, cologne, and bear's grease. They opened a store at No. 101 1/2 Bowery, where Proler manufactured the goods, and Barnum kept accounts and attended to sales in the store. The business prospered, or appeared to, until the capital was exhausted, and early in 1840 Barnum sold out his interest to Proler, taking the German's note for $2,600, which was all he ever got, Proler shortly afterward running away to Rotterdam.

Barnum had formed the acquaintance of a very clever young dancer named John Diamond, and soon after leaving the paste-blacking enterprise, he gathered together a company of singers, etc., which, with the dancer, Diamond, he placed in the hands of an agent, not caring to have his name appear in the transaction. He hired the Vauxhall Garden Saloon in New York and gave a variety of performances. This, however, proved unprofitable, and was abandoned after a few months.

Much as Barnum dreaded resuming the life of an itinerant showman, there seemed nothing else to be done, so January 2d, 1841, found him in New Orleans, with a company consisting of C. D. Jenkins, an excellent Yankee character artist; Diamond, the dancer; a violinist, and one or two others. His brother-in-law, John Hallett, acted as advance agent. The venture was fairly successful, though after the first two weeks in New Orleans, the manager and proprietor of the show was obliged to pledge his watch as security for the board-bill. A dancing match between Diamond and a negro from Kentucky put nearly $500 into Barnum's pocket, and they continued to prosper until Diamond, after extorting as much money as possible from his manager, finally ran away. The other members of the troop caused considerable trouble later. Jenkins, the Yankee character man, went to St. Louis, and having enticed Francis Lynch, an orphan protege of Barnum's into the scheme, proceeded to the Museum, where he exhibited Lynch as the celebrated dancer, John Diamond. Barnum poured out his wrath at this swindler in a letter, for which Jenkins threatened suit, and actually did instigate R. W. Lindsay to bring an action against Barnum for a pipe of brandy, alleged to have been included in his contract. Being among strangers, Barnum had some difficulty in procuring the $500 bond required, and was committed to jail until late in the afternoon. As soon as he was released, he had Jenkins arrested for fraud, and then went on his way rejoicing.

After an absence of eight months Barnum found himself back in New York, resolved never again to be a traveling showman. Contracting with the publisher, Robert Sears, for five hundred copies of "Sear's Pictorial Illustrations of the Bible," and accepting the United States agency for the book, he opened an office at the corner of Beekman and Nassau Streets. He advertised widely, had numerous agents, and sold thousands of books, but for all that, lost money.

While engaged in this business the Vauxhall Saloon was re-opened, under the management of John Hallett, Mrs. Barnum's brother. At the end of the season they had cleared about $200. This sum was soon exhausted, and for the rest of the winter Barnum managed to eke out a living by writing for the Sunday papers, and getting up unique advertisements for the Bowery Amphitheatre.

His ambition received a stimulus at last from a friend in Danbury, who held a mortgage on a piece of property owned by Mr. Barnum. Mr. Whittlesey wrote that as he was convinced of Mr. Barnum's inability to lay up money, he thought he might as well demand the five hundred dollars then as at any time. Barnum's flagging energies were aroused, and he began in earnest to look for some permanent investment.

In connection with the Bowery Amphitheatre, the information came to him that the collection of curiosities comprising Scudder's American Museum, at the corner of Broadway and Ann Streets, was for sale. The original proprietor had spent $50,000 on it, and at his death had left a large fortune as the result of the speculation. It was now losing money and the heirs offered it for sale, at the low price of $15,000. Realizing that with tact, energy, and liberality, the business might be made as profitable as ever, Barnum resolved to buy it.

"You buy the American Museum!" exclaimed a friend to whom he confided the scheme. "What will you buy it with?"

"With brass," answered Barnum, "for silver and gold have I none."

And buy it with brass he did, as the story of the transaction testifies.

The Museum building belonged to Mr. Francis W. Olmsted, a retired merchant, to whom he wrote, stating his desire to buy the collection, and that although he had no means, if it could be purchased upon reasonable credit, he was confident that his tact and experience, added to a determined devotion to business, would enable him to make the payments when due. Barnum therefore asked him to purchase the collection in his own name; to give a writing securing it to Barnum, provided he made the payments punctually, including the rent of his building; to allow Barnum twelve dollars and a half a week on which to support his family; and if at any time he failed to meet the installment due, he would vacate the premises, and forfeit all that might have been paid to that date. "In fact, Mr. Olmsted." Barnum continued, earnestly, "you may bind me in any way, and as tightly as you please—only give me a chance to dig out, or scratch out, and I will do so or forfeit all the labor and trouble I may have incurred."

In reply to this letter, which Barnum took to his house himself, Mr. Olmsted named an hour when he could call on him. Barnum was there at the exact moment, and Olmsted was pleased with his punctuality. He inquired closely as to Barnum's habits and antecedents, and the latter frankly narrated his experiences as a caterer for the public, mentioning his amusement ventures in Vauxhall Garden, the circus, and in the exhibitions he had managed at the South and West.

"Who are your references?" Olmsted inquired.

"Any man in my line," Barnum replied, "from Edmund Simpson, manager of the Park Theatre, or William Niblo, to Messrs. Welch, June, Titus, Turner, Angevine, or other circus or menagerie proprietors; also Moses Y. Beach, of the New York Sun."

"Can you get any of them to call on me?"

Barnum told him that he could, and the next day Mr. Niblo rode down and had an interview with Mr. Olmsted, while Mr. Beach and several other gentlemen also called. The following morning Barnum waited upon him for his decision.

"I don't like your references, Mr. Barnum," said Mr. Olmsted, abruptly, as soon as he entered the room.

Barnum was confused, and said, "he regretted to hear it."

"They all speak too well of you," Olmsted added, laughing; "in fact, they all talk as if they were partners of yours, and intended to share the profits."

"Nothing could have pleased me better," says Barnum. "He then asked me what security I could offer in case he concluded to make the purchase for me, and it was finally agreed that, if he should do so, he should retain the property till it was entirely paid for, and should also appoint a ticket-taker and accountant (at my expense), who should render him a weekly statement. I was further to take an apartment hitherto used as a billiard-room in his adjoining building, allowing therefor $500 a year, making a total rental of $3,000 per annum, on a lease of ten years. He then told me to see the administrator and heirs of the estate, to get their best terms, and to meet him on his return to town a week from that time.

"I at once saw Mr. John Heath, the administrator, and his price was $15,000. I offered $10,000, payable in seven annual installments, with good security. After several interviews, it was finally agreed that I should have it for $12,000, payable as above —possession to be given on the 15th of November. Mr. Olmsted assented to this, and a morning was appointed to draw and sign the writings. Mr. Heath appeared, but said he must decline proceeding any further in my case, as he had sold the collection to the directors of Peale's Museum (an incorporated institution) for $15,000, and had received $1,000 in advance.

"I was shocked, and appealed to Mr. Heath's honor. He said that he had signed no writing with me; was in no way legally bound, and that it was his duty to do the best he could for the heirs. Mr. Olmsted was sorry but could not help me; the new tenants would not require him to incur any risk, and my matter was at an end.

"Of course I immediately informed myself as to the character of Peale's Museum Company. It proved to be a band of speculators who had bought Peale's collection for a few thousand dollars, expecting to unite the American Museum with it, issue and sell stock to the amount of $50,000, pocket $30,000 profits, and permit the stockholders to look out for themselves.

"I went immediately to several of the editors, including Major M. M. Noah, M. Y. Beach, my good friends West, Herrick, and Ropes, of the Atlas, and others, and stated my grievances. 'Now,' said I, 'if you will grant me the use of your columns, I'll blow that speculation sky-high.' They all consented, and I wrote a large number of squibs, cautioning the public against buying the Museum stock, ridiculing the idea of a board of broken-down bank directors engaging in the exhibition of stuffed monkeys and gander-skins; appealing to the case of the Zoological Institute, which had failed by adopting such a plan as the one now proposed; and finally, I told the public that such a speculation would be infinitely more ridiculous than Dickens's 'Grand United Metropolitan Hot Muffin and Crumpit-baking and Punctual Delivery Company.'

"The stock was 'as dead as a herring!' I then went to Mr. Heath and asked him when the directors were to pay the other $14,000.' On the 26th day of December, or forfeit the $1,000 already paid,' was the reply. I assured him that they would never pay it, that they could not raise it, and that he would ultimately find himself with the Museum collection on his hands, and if once I started off with an exhibition for the South, I could not touch the Museum at ANY price. 'Now,' said I, 'if you will agree with me confidentially, that in case these gentlemen do not pay you on the 26th of December I may have it on the 27th for $12,000, I will run the risk, and wait in this city until that date.' He readily agreed to the proposition, but said he was sure they would not forfeit their $1,000.

" 'Very well,' said I; 'all I ask of you is, that this arrangement shall not be mentioned.' He assented. 'On the 27th day of December, at ten o'clock A. M., I wish you to meet me in Mr. Olmsted's apartments, prepared to sign the writings, provided this incorporated company do not pay you $14,000 on the 26th. He agreed to this, and by my request put it in writing.

"From that moment I felt that the Museum was mine. I saw Mr. Olmsted, and told him so. He promised secrecy, and agreed to sign the document if the other parties did not meet their engagement. This was about November 15th, and I continued my shower of newspaper squibs at the new company, which could not sell a dollar's worth of its stock. Meanwhile, if any one spoke to me about the Museum, I simply replied that I had lost it."

This newspaper war against the Peales was kept up unceasingly until one morning in December, "I received a letter from the secretary of that company (now calling itself the 'New York Museum Company'), requesting me to meet the directors at the Museum on the following Monday morning. I went, and found the directors in session. The venerable president of the board, who was also the ex-president of a broken bank, blandly proposed to hire me to manage the united museums, and though I saw that he merely meant to buy my silence, I professed to entertain the proposition, and in reply to an inquiry as to what salary I should expect, I specified the sum of $3,000 a year. This was at once acceded to, the salary to begin January 1st, 1842, and after complimenting me on my ability, the president remarked: 'Of course, Mr. Barnum, we shall have no more of your squibs through the newspapers.' To which I replied that I should 'ever try to serve the interests of my employers,' and I took my leave.

"It was as clear to me as noonday that, after buying my silence so as to appreciate their stock, these directors meant to sell out to whom they could, leaving me to look to future stockholders for my salary. They thought, no doubt, that they had nicely entrapped me, but I knew I had caught them.

"For, supposing me to be out of the way, and having no other rival purchaser, these directors postponed the advertisement of their stock to give people time to forget the attacks I had made on it, and they also took their own time for paying the money promised to Mr Heath, December 26th—indeed, they did not even call on him at the appointed time. But on the following morning, as agreed, I was promptly and hopefully at Mr. Olmsted's apartments with my legal adviser, at half-past nine o'clock; Mr. Heath came with his lawyer at ten, and before two o'clock that day I was in formal possession of the American Museum. My first managerial act was to write and dispatch the following complimentary note:

" 'AMERICAN MUSEUM, NEW YORK, Dec. 27th, 1841. " 'To the President and Directors of the New York Museum:

" 'GENTLEMEN: It gives me great pleasure to inform you that you are placed upon the Free List of this establishment until furthur notice. " 'P. T. BARNUM, Proprietor.'

"It is unnecessary to say that the 'President of the New York Museum' was astounded, and when he called upon Mr. Heath, and learned that I had bought and was really in possession of the American Museum, he was indignant. He talked of prosecution, and demanded the $1,000 paid on his agreement, but he did not prosecute, and he justly forfeited his deposit money."



CHAPTER VIII. THE AMERICAN MUSEUM.

ADVERTISING EXTRAORDINARY—A QUICK-WITTED PERFORMER—NIAGARA FALLS WITH REAL WATER—OTHER ATTRACTIONS—DRUMMOND LIGHTS.

With great hopes for the success of his project, Barnum entered upon the management of the Museum. It was a new epoch in his career, he felt that the opportunity of his life had presented itself—in the show business, to be sure, but in a permanent, substantial phase of it.

He must pay for the establishment within the stipulated time, or forfeit all he had paid on account. A rigid plan of economy was determined upon, his wife agreeing to support the family on $600 a year, or even on four hundred if necessary. Barnum himself made every possible personal retrenchment. One day, some six months after the purchase had been made, Mr. Olmsted happened into the ticket office, while the proprietor was eating his lunch of cold corned beef and bread.

"Is that all you eat for dinner?" asked Mr. Olmsted.

"I have not eaten a warm dinner, except on Sundays, since I bought the Museum," was the reply, "and I don't intend to, until I am out of debt."

"That's right," said Mr. Olmsted, heartily, "and you'll pay for the Museum before the year is out."

And he was right.

The nucleus of this establishment, Scudder's Museum, was formed in 1810. It was begun in Chatham Street, and was afterward transferred to the old City Hall, and from small beginnings, by purchases, and to a considerable degree by presents, it had grown to be a large and valuable collection. People in all parts of the country had sent in relics and rare curiosities. Sea captains for years had brought and deposited strange things from foreign lands; and besides all these gifts, the previous proprietor had actually expended, as was stated, $50,000 in making the collection, which valuable as it was when Barnum bought it, was only the beginning of its subsequent greatness. In 1842 the entire contents of Peale's Museum was purchased, and in 1850 the Peale collection of Philadelphia was added. In 1865 the space occupied for museum purposes was more than twice as large as in 1842. The Lecture Room, originally narrow, ill-contrived, and inconvenient, was so enlarged and improved that it became one of the most commodious and beautiful amusement halls in the city of New York. At first the attractions and inducements were merely the collection of curiosities by day, and an evening entertainment, consisting of such variety performances as were current in ordinary shows. Then Saturday afternoons and, soon afterward, Wednesday afternoons, were devoted to entertainments, and the popularity of the Museum grew so rapidly that it was presently found expedient and profitable to open the great Lecture Room every afternoon, as well as every evening, on every weekday in the year. The first experiments in this direction more than justified expectations, for the day exhibitions were always more thronged than those of the evening.

Holidays, of course, were made the most of, and there is a record of twelve performances, to as many audiences, being given in one day.

By degrees the character of the stage performances were changed. The transient attractions of the Museum were constantly diversified, and educated dogs, industrious fleas, automatons, jugglers, ventriloquists, living statuary, tableaux, gypsies, Albinoes, fat boys, giants, dwarfs, rope-dancers, live "Yankees," pantomime, instrumental music, singing and dancing in great variety, dioramas, panoramas, models of Niagara, Dublin, Paris, and Jerusalem; Hannington's dioramas of the Creation, the Deluge, Fairy Grotto, Storm at Sea; the first English Punch and Judy in this country, Italian Fantoceini, mechanical figures, fancy glass-blowing, knitting machines, and other triumphs in the mechanical arts; dissolving views, American Indians, who enacted their warlike and religious ceremonies on the stage—these, among others, were all exceedingly successful.

No man ever understood the art of advertising better than Barnum. Knowing that mammon is ever caught with glare, he took pains that his posters should be larger, his transparencies more brilliant, his puffing more persistent than anybody elses. And if he resorted to hyperbole at times in his advertisements, it was always his boast that no one ever went away from his Museum, without having received the worth of his money. It used to amuse Mr. Barnum later in life, to relate some of the unique advertising dodges which his inventive genius devised. Here is a fair sample, as he once told it:

"One morning a stout, hearty-looking man came into my ticket-office and begged some money. I asked him why he did not work and earn his living? He replied that he could get nothing to do, and that he would be glad of any job at a dollar a day. I handed him a quarter of a dollar, told him to go and get his breakfast and return, and I would employ him, at light labor, at a dollar and a half a day. When he returned I gave him five common bricks.

" 'Now,' said I, 'go and lay a brick on the sidewalk, at the corner of Broadway and Ann Street; another close by the Museum; a third diagonally across the way, at the corner of Broadway and Vesey Street, by the Astor House; put down the fourth on the sidewalk, in front of St. Paul's Church opposite; then, with the fifth brick in hand, take up a rapid march from one point to the other, making the circuit, exchanging your brick at every point, and say nothing to any one.'

" 'What is the object of this?' inquired the man.

" 'No matter,' I replied: 'all you need to know is that it brings you fifteen cents wages per hour. It is a bit of my fun, and to assist me properly you must seem to be as deaf as a post; wear a serious countenance; answer no questions; pay no attention to any one; but attend faithfully to the work, and at the end of every hour, by St. Paul's clock, show this ticket at the Museum door; enter, walking solemnly through every hall in the building; pass out, and resume your work.' "

With the remark that "it was all one to him, so long as he could earn his living," the man placed his bricks, and began his round. Half an hour afterward, at least five hundred people were watching his mysterious movements. He had assumed a military step and bearing, and, looking as sober as a judge, he made no response whatever to the constant inquiries as to the object of his singular conduct. At the end of the first hour, the sidewalks in the vicinity were packed with people, all anxious to solve the mystery. The man, as directed, then went into the Museum, devoting fifteen minutes to a solemn survey of the halls, and afterward returning to his round. This was repeated every hour until sundown, and whenever the man went into the Museum a dozen or more persons would buy tickets and follow him, hoping to gratify their curiosity in regard to the purpose of his movements. This was continued for several days—the curious people who followed the man into the Museum considerably more than paying his wages—till finally the policeman, to whom Barnum had imparted his object, complained that the obstruction of the sidewalk by crowds, had become so serious that he must call in his "brick man." This trivial incident excited considerable talk and amusement; it advertised Barnum; and it materially advanced his purpose of making a lively corner near the Museum.

Barnum realized above all that to have people pleased with his attractions was the best advertisement he could possibly have, and he tried honestly to keep the Museum supplied with every novelty. A curiosity which possessed some merit, and considerable absurdity was the celebrated model of Niagara, "with real water."

One day the enterprising proprietor was called before the Board of Water Commissioners, and informed that he must pay a large extra compensation for the immense amount of water that supplied his Niagara. To the astonishment of the Board Mr. Barnum gave his assurance that a single barrel of water per month served to run the machine.

Apropos of this wonderful model, Barnum used to tell how he got even with his friend, Louis Gaylord Clark, editor of the Knickerbocker, an inveterate joker, and who was fond of guying the Museum. The first time Clark viewed "Niagara" he assumed great admiration.

"Well, Barnum, I declare, this is quite an idea; I never saw the like of this before in all my life."

"No?" inquired Barnum, quite pleased.

"No," said Clark, fervently, "and I hope to the Lord, I never will."

Barnum might have forgiven this, but Clark's next joke was too much to bear. He came in one day and asked Barnum if he had the club with which Captain Cook was killed. The Museum boasted a large collection of Indian curiosities, and Barnum showed one warlike weapon which he assured Clark was the identical club and he had all the documents to prove it.

"Poor Cook! Poor Cook!" said Clark, musingly. "Well, Mr. Barnum," he continued, with great gravity, at the same time extending his hand, "I am really very much obliged to you for your kindness. I had an irrepressible desire to see the club that killed Captain Cook, and I felt quite confident you could accommodate me. I have been in half a dozen smaller museums, and as they all had it, I was sure a large establishment like yours would not be without it."

But Barnum's turn came. A few weeks afterward, he wrote to Clark that if he would come to his office he was anxious to consult him on a matter of great importance. He came, and Barnum said:

"Now, I don't want any of your nonsense, but I want your sober advice."

Clark assured him that he would serve him in any way in his power, and Barnum proceeded to tell him about a wonderful fish from the Nile, offered for exhibition at $100 a week, the owner of which was willing to forfeit $5,000, if, within six weeks, this fish did not pass through a transformation in which the tail would disappear and the fish would then have legs.

"Is it possible!" asked the astonished Clark.

Barnum assured him that there was no doubt of it.

Thereupon Clark advised Barnum to engage the wonder at any price; that it would startle the naturalists, wake up the whole scientific world, draw in the masses, and make $20,000 for the Museum. Barnum told him that he thought well of the speculation, only he did not like the name of the fish.

"That makes no difference whatever," said Clark; "what is the name of the fish?"

"Tadpole," Barnum replied, with becoming gravity, "but it is vulgarly called 'pollywog.' "

"Sold, by thunder!" exclaimed Clark, and he left.

Another story is illustrative of some of the trials incident to theatrical management.

An actor named La Rue presented himself as an imitator of celebrated histrionic personages, including Macready, Forrest, Kemble, the elder Booth, Kean, Hamblin, and others. Taking him into the green-room for a private rehearsal, and finding his imitations excellent, Barnum engaged him. For three nights he gave great satisfaction, but early in the fourth evening he staggered into the Museum so drunk that he could hardly stand, and in half an hour he must be on the stage! Barnum called an assistant, and they took La Rue and marched him up Broadway as far as Chambers Street, and back to the lower end of the Park, hoping to sober him. At this point they put his head under a pump and gave him a good ducking, with visible beneficial effect, then a walk around the Park and another ducking, when he assured them that he should be able to give his imitations "to a charm."

"You drunken brute," said Barnum, "if you fail, and disappoint my audience, I will throw you out of the window."

He declared that he was "all right," and Barnum led him behind the scenes, where he waited with considerable trepidation to watch his movements on the stage. La Rue began by saying:

"Ladies and gentlemen: I will now give you an imitation of Mr. Booth, the eminent tragedian."

His tongue was thick, his language somewhat incoherent, and Barnum had great misgivings as he proceeded; but as no token of disapprobation came from the audience, he began to hope he would go through with his parts without exciting suspicion of his condition. But before he had half finished his representation of Booth, in the soliloquy in the opening act of Richard III, the house discovered that he was very drunk, and began to hiss. This only seemed to stimulate him to make an effort to appear sober, which, as is usual in such cases, only made matters worse, and the hissing increased. Barnum lost all patience, and, going on the stage and taking the drunken fellow by the collar, apologized to the audience, assuring them that he should not appear before them again. Barnum was about to march him off, when he stepped to the front, and said:

"Ladies and gentlemen: Mr. Booth has often appeared on the stage in a state of inebriety, and I was simply giving you a truthful representation of him on such occasions. I beg to be permitted to proceed with my imitations."

The audience at once supposed it was all right, and cried out, "go on, go on"; which he did, and at every imitation of Booth, whether as Richard, Shylock, or Sir Giles Overreach, he received a hearty round of applause. Barnum was quite delighted with his success; but when he came to imitate Forrest and Hamblin, necessarily representing them as drunk also, the audience could be no longer deluded; the hissing was almost deafening, and Barnum was forced to lead the actor off. It was his last appearance on that stage.

Barnum always denied that the "Feejee Mermaid," which attained such lasting notoriety, was an invention of his own. It was first exhibited in London in 1822, where it was purchased by Mr. Moses Kimball, of the Boston Museum, who sold it to Barnum. The creature was really most ingeniously constructed, probably by some Japanese. It drew like magic, and afterward served as a good advertisement, sent throughout the country for exhibition, the posters reading, "From Barnum's Great American Museum, New York."

Barnum believed in making his place of exhibition as attractive as possible, and the building was decorated with flags and banners, the posters were of the most sensational character, and the first "Drummond Lights" ever seen in New York were placed on top of the Museum, flooding the streets around with brilliance.



CHAPTER IX. INCREASED POPULARITY OF THE MUSEUM.

THE AMERICAN FLAG AND ST. PAUL'S—ST, PATRICK'S DAY—THE BABY SHOW—GRAND BUFFALO HUNT—N. P. WILLIS—THE FIRST WILD-WEST SHOW.

The fame of the American Museum rose higher and higher. It is doubtful if any place of entertainment ever attracted such enthusiastic crowds. It was the first place visited by strangers in the city.

The small Lecture Room had been converted into a large and beautiful theatre, and in it many afterward celebrated actors and actresses made their first appearance; Sothern, Barney Williams, and the charming Mary Garmon. On holidays there were lecture performances every hour. The actors kept on their stage clothes from eleven o'clock in the morning until ten at night, their meals were served in the green-room, and the company received extra pay.

The 4th of July, 1842, was a great day in the history of the Museum. Barnum had planned a magnificent display of American flags, as one of the outside attractions, and applied to the vestrymen of St. Paul's Church, opposite the Museum, for permission to attach his flag-rope to a tree in the church-yard. Their reply was an indignant refusal. Returning to the Museum, Barnum directed that his original order concerning the disposition of the flags be carried out to the letter.

The morning dawned, and the crowds on Broadway were admiring the display, when two representatives of the baffled vestry rushed into the office and demanded that the ropes be taken down. "The Church of St. Paul's, where Washington worshiped, attached to a Museum! Sacrilege!"

Barnum assumed a conciliatory tone, reminding them that he always stopped his band playing during their week-day services, and suggesting the fairness of the obligation being made mutual.

"If those flags are not down in ten minutes," cried one of the vestrymen, "I will cut them down."

Then Barnum sprang to his feet and exclaimed loudly enough for the crowd to hear:

"Well, Mister, I should just like to see you dare to cut down the American flag on the Fourth of July; you must be a 'Britisher' to make such a threat as that; but I'll show you a thousand pairs of Yankee hands in two minutes, if you dare to attempt to take down the Stars and Stripes on this great birthday of American freedom!"

"What's that John Bull a-saying?" asked a brawny fellow, placing himself in front of the irate vestryman. "Look here, old fellow," he continued, "if you want to save a whole bone in your body, you had better slope, and never dare to talk again about hauling down the American flag in the city of New York."

Throngs of excited, exasperated men crowded around, and the vestryman, seeing the effect of the ruse, smiled faintly and said, "Oh, of course it is all right," and he and his companion quietly edged out of the crowd.

By one o'clock that day, the Museum was so densely packed that no more visitors could be admitted, and the proprietor saw with despair the crowds being turned away from the door. Rushing down-stairs, he directed the carpenter to cut down the partition and floor in the rear and to put in a temporary flight of stairs. The egress was ready by three o'clock, and people poured out into Ann Street, while the crowd from Broadway poured in. After that, the egress was always ready on holidays. One of Barnum's most amusing reminiscences related to this egress.

"Early in the following March I received notice from some of the Irish population that they meant to visit me in great numbers on 'St. Patrick's day in the morning.' 'All right,' said I to my carpenter, 'get your egress ready for March 17th;' and I added, to my assistant manager: 'If there is much of a crowd, don't let a single person pass out at the front, even if it were St. Patrick himself; put every man out through the egress in the rear.' The day came, and before noon we were caught in the same dilemma as we were on the Fourth of July; the Museum was jammed, and the sale of tickets was stopped. I went to the egress and asked the sentinel how many hundreds had passed out?

" 'Hundreds,' he replied, 'why only three persons have gone out by this way, and they came back, saying that it was a mistake and begging to be let in again.'

" 'What does this mean?' I inquired; 'surely thousands of people have been all over the Museum since they came in.'

" 'Certainly,' was the reply; 'but after they have gone from one saloon to another, and have been on every floor, even to the roof, they come down and travel the same route over again.'

"At this time I espied a tall Irish woman with two good-sized children whom I had happened to notice when they came in early in the morning.

" 'Step this way, madam,' said I, politely; 'you will never be able to get into the street by the front door without crushing these dear children. We have opened a large egress here, and you can thus pass by these rear stairs into Ann Street, and thus avoid all danger.'

" 'Sure,' replied the woman, indignantly, 'an' I'm not going out at all, at all, nor the children either, for we've brought our dinners and we are going to stay all day.'

"Further investigation showed that pretty much all of the visitors had brought their dinners with the evident intention of literally 'making a day of it.' No one expected to go home till night; the building was overcrowded, and hundreds were waiting at the front entrance to get in when they could. In despair, I sauntered upon the stage behind the scenes, biting my lips with vexation, when I happened to see the scene-painter at work, and a happy thought struck me. 'Here,' I exclaimed, 'take a piece of canvas four feet square and paint on it, as soon as you can, in large letters,

{pointing finger} TO THE EGRESS.'

"Seizing his brush, he finished the sign in fifteen minutes, and I directed the carpenter to nail it over the door leading to the back stairs. He did so, and as the crowd, after making the entire tour of the establishment, came pouring down the main stairs from the third-story, they stopped and looked at the new sign, while some of them read audibly: 'To the Aigress.'

" 'The Aigress,' said others, 'sure that's an animal we haven't seen,' and the throng began to pour down the back-stairs only to find that the 'Aigress ' was the elephant, and that the elephant was all out o' doors, or so much of it as began with Ann Street. Meanwhile, I began to accommodate those who had long been waiting with their money at the Broadway entrance."

Barnum had planned to expend the entire profits of the first year in advertising, but so fast did the money pour in, that he was often embarrassed to devise means to get rid of it, according to his first idea. One of the most expensive advertisements consisted of a large number of oil paintings of every animal in zoology. These paintings were prepared secretly, and were put between the windows of the building at night. The town was paralyzed with astonishment, and the daily receipts took an upward jump of nearly a hundred dollars.

Flower shows, dog shows, poultry and bird shows, with prizes to the best specimens, had long been features of the Museum, and at last Barnum rashly decided on a baby show. There was a prize of one hundred dollars attached, and a committee of ladies were appointed to decide on the best baby. The unsuspecting Barnum stepped into the circle and announced the prize winner, but to his astonishment the verdict did not suit anybody but the mother of one baby. The other ninety-nine indignant mothers "jumped on" to Mr Barnum and the committee, and denounced the whole proceeding as impartial and unjust. Barnum offered to let them select a new committee, and even agreed to give another hundred dollar prize, but the storm raged with unabating fury. There were baby shows after that, but the verdict was delivered in writing, and Mr. Barnum never gave the prize in person.

In June, 1843, a herd of yearling buffaloes was on exhibition in Boston. Barnum bought the lot, brought them to New Jersey, hired the race-course at Hoboken, chartered the ferry-boats for one day, and advertised that a hunter had arrived with a herd of buffaloes, and that august 31st there would be a "Grand Buffalo Hunt" on the Hoboken race-course—all persons to be admitted free of charge.

The appointed day was warm and delightful, and no less than twenty-four thousand people crossed the North River in the ferry-boats to enjoy the cooling breeze and to see the "Grand Buffalo Hunt." The hunter was dressed as an Indian, and mounted on horseback; he proceeded to show how the wild buffalo is captured with a lasso, but unfortunately the yearlings would not run till the crowd gave a great shout, expressive at once of derision and delight at the harmless humbug. This shout started the young animals into a weak gallop and the lasso was duly thrown over the head of the largest calf. The crowd roared with laughter, listened to the balcony band, which was also furnished "free," and then started for New York, little dreaming who was the author of this sensation, or what was its object.

Mr. N. P. Willis, then editor of the Home Journal, wrote an article illustrating the perfect good nature with which the American public submit to a clever humbug. He said that he went to Hoboken to witness the buffalo hunt. It was nearly four o'clock when the boat left the foot of Barclay Street, and it was so densely crowded that many persons were obliged to stand on the railings and hold on to the awning-posts. When they reached the Hoboken side a boat equally crowded was coming out of the slip. The passengers just arriving cried out to those who were coming away, "Is the buffalo hunt over?" To which came the reply, "Yes, and it was the biggest humbug you ever heard of!" Willis added that passengers on the boat with him instantly gave three cheers for the author of the humbug, whoever he might be.

After the public had enjoyed their laugh over the Buffalo hunt, Barnum let it become known that he was the author of the joke. Of course, their cry of "charlatan," "humbug," and "swindler" was louder than ever from that time, but Barnum never objected to being celled names. The more advertising the better.

About this time Barnum engaged a band of Indians from Iowa.

The party comprised large and noble specimens of the untutored savage, as well as several very beautiful squaws, with two or three interesting "papooses." They lived and lodged in a large room on the top floor of the Museum, and cooked their own victuals in their own way. They gave their war-dances on the stage in the Lecture Room with great vigor and enthusiasm, much to the satisfaction of the audiences. But these wild Indians seemed to consider their dances as realities. Hence, when they gave a real war-dance, it was dangerous for any parties, except their manager and interpreter to be on the stage, for the moment they had finished their war-dance, they began to leap and peer about behind the scenes in search of victims for their tomahawks and scalping knives! Indeed, lest in these frenzied moments they might make a dash at the orchestra or the audience, Barnum had a high rope barrier placed between them and the savages on the front of the stage.

Barnum counted one incident in connection with his Indian show as notable, being one of the few occasions when he played the losing card.

"After they had been a week in the Museum," he said, "I proposed a change of performance for the week following by introducing new dances. Among these was the Indian wedding dance. At that time I printed but one set of posters (large bills) per week, so that whatever was announced for Monday was repeated every day and evening during that week. Before the wedding dance came off on Monday afternoon, I was informed that I was to provide a large, new, red woolen blanket, at a cost of ten dollars, for the bridegroom to present to the father of the bride. I ordered the purchase to be made, but was considerably taken aback when I was informed that I must have another new blanket for the evening, inasmuch as the savage old Indian chief, father-in-law to the bridegroom, would not consent to his daughter's being approached with the wedding dance unless he had his blanket present,

"I undertook to explain to the chief, through the interpreter, that this was only a 'make believe' wedding; but the old savage shrugged his shoulders, and gave such a terrific 'Ugh!' that I was glad to make my peace by ordering another blanket. As we gave two performances per day, I was out of pocket $120 for twelve 'wedding blankets' that week."

One of the beautiful squaws named Do-humme died in the Museum. She had been a great favorite with many ladies. Do-humme was buried on the border of Sylvan Water, at Greenwood Cemetery, where a small monument erected by her friends, designates her last resting-place. The poor Indians were very sorrowful for many days, and desired to get back again to their Western wilds. The father and the betrothed of Do-humme cooked various dishes of food and placed them upon the roof of the Museum, where they believed the spirit of their departed friend came daily for its supply; and these dishes were renewed every morning during the stay of the Indians at the Museum.



CHAPTER X. GIANTS AND DWARFS.

SCIENCE FOR THE PUBLIC—MESMERISM EXTRAORDINARY—KILLING OF A RIVAL—THE TWO GIANTS—DISCOVERY OF "TOM THUMB"—SEEKING OTHER WORLDS TO CONQUER—FIRST VISIT TO ENGLAND.

Barnum would never submit to being outdone by a rival. In "poker" parlance, he would "see him and go one better." His chief competitor now was Peale, who was running Peale's Museum, and proudly proclaiming it to be a more scientific institution than Barnum's. Thus, he said, he was catering to a higher class of patrons.

"Science, indeed!" said Barnum. "I'll give him science to his heart's content!"

Mesmerism was then a great novelty, and Peale was given exhibitions of it. He had one subject on whom he operated daily, with most surprising results; though at times she was unimpressionable, and the people who had paid to come in and see her performances complained loudly that they were being swindled. Barnum saw here a great opportunity to squelch a rival and increase his own fame at a single stroke. He engaged a bright little girl who was exceedingly susceptible to such mesmeric influences as he could induce. That is, she learned her lesson thoroughly, and when he had apparently put her to sleep with a few passes and stood behind her, she seemed to be duly "impressed," as he desired; raised her hands as he willed, fell from her chair to the floor; and if he put candy or tobacco into his own mouth, she was duly delighted or disgusted. She never failed in these routine performances. Strange to say, believers in mesmerism used to witness her performances with the greatest pleasure, and adduce them as positive proofs that there was something in mesmerism, and they applauded tremendously—up to a certain point.

That point was reached when, leaving the girl "asleep," Barnum called up some one in the audience, promising to put him "in the same state" within five minutes, or forfeit fifty dollars. Of course, all his "passes" would not put a man in the mesmeric state; at the end of three minutes he was as wide awake as ever.

"Never mind," Barnum would say, "looking at his watch; "I have two minutes more, and meantime, to show that a person in this state is utterly insensible to pain, I propose to cut off one of the fingers of the little girl who is still asleep." He would then take out a knife and feel of the edge, and when he turned around to the girl whom he left on the chair, she had fled behind the scenes, to the intense amusement of the greater part of the audience, and to the amazement of the mesmerists who were present.

"Why! where's my little girl?" he asked, with feigned astonishment.

"Oh! she ran away when you began to talk about cutting off fingers."

"Then she was wide awake, was she?"

"Of course she was, all the time."

"I suppose so; and, my dear sir, I promised that you should be 'in the same state' at the end of five minutes, and as I believe you are so, I do not forfeit fifty dollars."

Barnum kept up this performance for several weeks, till he quite killed Peale's "genuine" mesmerism in the rival establishment. At the end of six months he bought Peale's Museum, and the whole, including the splendid gallery of American portraits, was removed to the American Museum, and he immediately advertised the great card of a "Double Attraction," and "Two Museums in One," without extra charge.

Barnum was now devoting all his attention and energy to this enterprise, and was achieving great success. He made everything contribute to its popularity. When a politician asked him for what candidate he was going to vote, he would answer, "For the American Museum;" and this was an index of his whole demeanor.

Among the genuine and literally "great" features of his show were several giants. They often gave both the showman and his patrons food for much amusement as well as wonder. The Quaker giant, Hales, was quite a wag in his way. He went once to see the new house of an acquaintance who had suddenly become rich, but who was a very ignorant man. When he came back he described the wonders of the mansion, and said that the proud proprietor showed him everything from basement to attic; parlors, bed-rooms, dining-room, and, said Hales, "what he calls his 'study'—meaning, I suppose, the place where he intends to study his spelling-book!"

He had at one time two famous men, the French giant, M. Bihin, a very slim man, and the Arabian giant, Colonel Goshen. These men generally got on together very well, though, of course, each was jealous of the other, and of the attention the rival received, or the notice he attracted. One day they quarreled, and a lively interchange of compliments ensued, the Arabian calling the Frenchman a "Shanghai," and receiving in return the epithet of "Nigger." From words both were eager to proceed to blows, and both ran to the collection of arms, one seizing the club with which Captain Cook, or any other man, might have been killed, if it were judiciously wielded, and the other laying hands on a sword of the terrific size which is supposed to have been conventional in the days of the Crusades.

The preparations for a deadly encounter, and the high words of the contending parties, brought a dozen of the Museum attaches to the spot, and these men threw themselves between the gigantic combatants. Hearing the disturbance, Barnum ran from his private office to the dueling ground, and said:

"Look here! This is all right; if you want to fight each other, maiming and perhaps killing one or both of you, that is your affair; but my interest lies here: you are both under engagement to me, and if this duel is to come off, I and the public have a right to participate. It must be duly advertised, and must take place on the stage of the Lecture Room. No performance of yours would be a greater attraction, and if you kill each other, our engagement can end with your duel."

This proposition, made in apparent earnest, so delighted the giants that they at once burst into a laugh, shook hands, and quarreled no more.

From giants to dwarfs. None of Barnum's attractions has been more famous than "Tom Thumb." The story of his discovery and engagement is dated in November, 1842. Barnum was then at Bridgeport, Conn. One day he heard that there belonged in one of the families of the place a phenomenally small child, and he got his brother, Philo F. Barnum, to bring the little fellow to his hotel. "He was," Barnum afterward said, "not two feet high; he weighed less than sixteen pounds, and was the smallest child I ever saw that could walk alone; he was a perfectly formed bright-eyed little fellow, with light hair and ruddy cheeks, and he enjoyed the best of health. He was exceedingly bashful, but after some coaxing, he was induced to talk with me, and he told me that he was the son of Sherwood E. Stratton, and that his own name was Charles S. Stratton. After seeing him and talking with him, I at once determined to secure his services from his parents and to exhibit him in public. I engaged him for four weeks, at three dollars a week, with all traveling and boarding charges for himself and his mother at my expense. They came to New York Thanksgiving day, December 8th, 1842, and I announced the dwarf on my Museum bills as 'General Tom Thumb.' "

Barnum took the greatest pains to educate and train the diminutive prodigy, devoting many hours to the task by day and by night, and he was very successful, for the boy was an apt pupil, with a great deal of native talent, and a keen sense of the ludicrous. Barnum afterward re-engaged him for one year, at seven dollars a week with a gratuity of fifty dollars at the end of the engagement, and the privilege of exhibiting him anywhere in the United States, in which event his parents were to accompany him and Barnum was to pay all traveling expenses. He speedily became a public favorite, and long before the year was out, Barnum voluntarily increased his weekly salary to twenty-five dollars, and he fairly earned it.

For two years Barnum had been the owner of the Museum. He had enjoyed great prosperity. Long ago he had paid every dollar of the purchase-money out of the profits of the place. All rivals had been driven from the field. He was out of debt, and had a handsome balance in the bank. The experimental stage was passed, and the enterprise was an established success. It was, indeed, in such perfect order that Barnum felt safe in leaving it to his lieutenants, while he went forth to seek new realms of conquest. Accordingly he made an agreement for General Tom Thumb's services for another year, at fifty dollars a week and all expenses, with the privilege of exhibiting him in Europe. He proposed to test the curiosity of men and women on the other side of the Atlantic.

After arranging his business affairs for a long absence, and making every preparation for an extended foreign tour, on Thursday, January 18th, 1844, he went on board the new and fine sailing ship "Yorkshire," Captain D. G. Bailey, bound for Liverpool. The party included General Tom Thumb, his parents, his tutor, and Professor Guillaudeu, a French naturalist. They were accompanied by several personal friends, and the City Brass Band kindly volunteered to escort them to Sandy Hook.

They were met at Liverpool by a large crowd of sight-seers, who had been attracted thither by the fame of "Tom Thumb." The curiosity of the populace was not gratified, however, for Barnum had the child smuggled ashore unseen, under his mother's shawl.

"My letters of introduction," said the showman, many excellent families, and I was induced to hire a hall and present the General to the public, for a short season in Liverpool. I had intended to proceed directly to London, and begin operations at 'headquarters,' that is, in Buckingham Palace, if possible; but I had been advised that the royal family was in mourning for the death of Prince Albert's father, and would not permit the approach of any entertainments. Meanwhile, confidential letters from London informed me that Mr. Maddox, Manager of Princess's Theatre, was coming down to witness my exhibition, with a view to making an engagement. He came privately, but I was fully informed as to his presence and object. A friend pointed him out to me in the hall, and when I stepped up to him, and called him by name, he was 'taken all aback,' and avowed his purpose in visiting Liverpool. An interview resulted in an engagement of the General for three nights at Princess's Theatre. I was unwilling to contract for a longer period, and even this short engagement, though on liberal terms, was acceded to only as a means of advertisement. So soon, therefore, as I could bring my short, but highly successful, season in Liverpool to a close, we went to London."



CHAPTER XI. TOM THUMB IN LONDON.

AN ARISTOCRATIC VISITOR—CALLING AT BUCKINGHAM PALACE AND HOB-NOBBING WITH ROYALTY—GETTING A PUFF IN THE "COURT CIRCULAR" —THE IRON DUKE—A GREAT SOCIAL AND FINANCIAL SUCCESS.

The first public appearance of Tom Thumb in London occurred soon after the arrival of the party there, at the Princess's Theatre. A short engagement only had been made, but it was exceedingly successful. The spectators were delighted, the manager overjoyed, and Barnum himself pleased beyond measure. This brief engagement answered his purpose, in arousing public interest and curiosity. That was all the shrewd showman wanted for the present. Accordingly, when the manager of the theatre urged a renewal of the engagement, at a much higher price, Barnum positively declined it. He had secured the desired advertising; now he would exhibit on his own account and in his own way.

He therefore took a splendid mansion in Grafton Street, Bond Street, in the fashionable and aristocratic West End of London. Lord Talbot had lived in it, and Lord Brougham lived close by. It was an audacious stroke for the Yankee showman to invade this select and exclusive region, but it was successful. In response to his invitations members of the nobility came eagerly flocking to the house to see the wonderful child. Barnum showed himself as exclusive as any of them, for he gave orders to his servants that no callers were to be received who did not present cards of invitation. This procedure he afterward explained, was entirely proper. He had not yet announced himself as a public showman. He was simply an American citizen visiting London, and it was incumbent upon him to maintain the dignity of his position! His servants, of course, exercised proper tact, and no offense was given, although many of the nobility and gentry, who drove to his door in carriages adorned with crests and coats of arms, were thus turned away.

Among the early callers was the Hon. Edward Everett, the American minister to England. He was much pleased with Mr. Barnum and his tiny ward, and had them dine with him the next day. He also promised that they should, if possible, be received by the Queen at Buckingham Palace.

A few evenings afterward the Baroness Rothschild sent her carriage for them. They were received by a half a dozen servants, and were ushered up a broad flight of marble stairs to the drawing-room, where they met the Baroness and a party of twenty or more ladies and gentlemen. In this sumptuous mansion of the richest banker in the world, they spent about two hours, and when they took their leave a well-filled purse was quietly slipped into Mr. Barnum's hand. The golden shower had begun to fall.

Mr. Barnum now thought the time ripe for beginning his public exhibitions. He engaged Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, and announced that Tom Thumb was to be seen there. The rush of visitors was tremendous. The aristocracy of London thronged the hall night after night, and a phenomenal success was assured. Barnum did not look beyond such work. True, Everett had spoken of an audience with the Queen, but Barnum had no idea that it would ever be granted. One day, however, he met Mr. Murray, Master of the Queen's Household, at Everett's at breakfast, and that gentleman asked him what were his plans for the future. Barnum replied that he expected presently to go to the Continent, but he would most gladly stay in London if he could get the favor of an audience with Her Majesty.

Mr. Murray kindly offered his good offices in the case, and the next day one of the Life Guards, a tall, noble-looking fellow, bedecked as became his station, brought a note, conveying the Queen's invitation to General Tom Thumb and his guardian Mr. Barnum, to appear at Buckingham Palace on an evening specified. Special instructions were the same day orally given by Mr. Murray, by Her Majesty's command, to suffer the General to appear before her, as he would appear anywhere else, without any training in the use of the titles of royalty, as the Queen desired to see him act naturally and without restraint.

Determined to make the most of the occasion, Mr. Barnum put a placard on the door of the Egyptian Hall: "Closed this evening, General Tom Thumb being at Buckingham Palace by command of Her Majesty."

When they arrived at the palace, a Lord-in-Waiting met them, and began "coaching" them on points of court etiquette. Mr. Barnum, especially, was told that he must in no event speak directly to Her Majesty, but through the medium of the aforesaid Lord. He must also keep his face constantly turned toward the Queen, and so, in retiring from the royal presence, must walk backward. Having thus been instructed in the ways of royalty, Mr. Barnum and the diminutive General were led to the presence of the Queen.

They passed through a long corridor to a broad flight of marble steps, which led to the picture gallery, and there the Queen and Prince Albert, the Duchess of Kent, the Duke of Wellington, and others were awaiting their arrival. They were standing at the further end of the room when the doors were thrown open, and the General walked in, looking like a wax doll gifted with the power of locomotion. Surprise and pleasure were depicted on the countenances of the royal circle at beholding this remarkable specimen of humanity so much smaller than they had evidently expected to find him.

The General advanced with a firm step, and, as he came within hailing distance, made a very graceful bow, and exclaimed, "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."

A burst of laughter followed this salutation. The Queen then took him by the hand, led him about the gallery, and asked him many questions, the answers to which kept the party in an uninterrupted strain of merriment. The General familiarly informed the Queen that her picture gallery was "first-rate," and told her he should like to see the Prince of Wales. The Queen replied that the Prince had retired to rest, but that he should see him on some future occasion. The General then gave his songs, dances, and imitations, and after a conversation with Prince Albert, and all present, which continued for more than an hour, they were permitted to depart.

But before this Mr. Barnum had broken the instructions in etiquette which had been so carefully impressed upon him by the Lord-in-Waiting. When the Queen began asking him questions, he answered her, as she addressed him, through the lordly medium, as he had been told. That was inconvenient and irksome, however, and presently Barnum addressed his reply directly to her. The Lord-in-Waiting was horror-struck, but the Queen did not appear to be displeased, for she instantly followed her guest's example, and spoke thereafter directly to him. In a few minutes Her Majesty and the Yankee showman were talking together with the greatest ease and freedom.

"I felt," said Mr. Barnum afterward, "entirely at ease in her presence, and could not avoid contrasting her sensible and amiable manners with the stiffness and formality of upstart gentility at home or abroad.

"The Queen was modestly attired in plain black, and wore no ornaments. Indeed, surrounded as she was by ladies arrayed in the highest style of magnificence, their dresses sparkling with diamonds, she was the last person whom a stranger would have pointed out in that circle as the Queen of England.

"The Lord-in-Waiting was perhaps mollified toward me when he saw me following his illustrious example in retiring from the royal presence. He was accustomed to the process, and therefore was able to keep somewhat ahead (or rather aback) of me, but even I stepped rather fast for the other member of the retiring party. We had a considerable distance to travel in that long gallery before reaching the door, and whenever the General found he was losing ground, he turned around and ran a few steps, then resumed his position of backing out, then turned around and ran, and so continued to alternate his methods of getting to the door, until the gallery fairly rang with the merriment of the royal spectators. It was really one of the richest scenes I ever saw; running, under the circumstances, was an offense sufficiently heinous to excite the indignation of the Queen's favorite poodle dog, and he vented his displeasure by barking so sharply as to startle the General from his propriety. He, however, recovered immediately, and with his little cane, commenced an attack on the poodle, and a funny fight ensued, which renewed and increased the merriment of the royal party.

"This was near the door of exit. We had scarcely passed into the ante-room, when one of the Queen's attendants came to us with the expressed hope of her Majesty that the General had sustained no damage, to which the Lord-in-Waiting playfully added, that in case of injury to so renowned a personage, he should fear a declaration of war by the United States!"

The visitors were then escorted about the Palace, and treated to refreshments. Before leaving Mr. Barnum bethought him of the "Court Circular," in which the doings of the Royal Family were chronicled to the world. Would his reception by the Queen be mentioned in it? Certainly. Well, then, would it not be possible to secure something more than mere mention; some words of special commendation; a "free advertisement" in fact? He would try it! So he inquired where he could find the gentleman who prepared the circular, and was informed that that functionary was in the Palace at that very moment.

"He was sent for," related Mr. Barnum, "by my solicitation, and promptly acceded to my request for such a notice as would attract attention. He even generously desired me to give him an outline of what I sought, and I was pleased to see afterward, that he had inserted my notice verbatim.

"This notice of my visit to the Queen wonderfully increased the attraction of 'Gen. Tom Thumb,' and compelled me to obtain a more commodious hall for my exhibition. I accordingly moved to a larger room in the same building."

On their second visit to the Queen, they were received in what is called the Yellow Drawing Room, a magnificent apartment. It is on the north side of the gallery, and is entered from that apartment. It was hung with drapery of rich yellow satin damask, the couches, sofas, and chairs being covered with the same material. The vases, urns, and ornaments were all of the most exquisite workmanship. The room was panelled in gold, and the heavy cornices beautifully carved and gilt. The tables, pianos, etc., were mounted with gold, inlaid with pearl of various hues, and of the most elegant designs.

They were ushered into this gorgeous drawing-room before the Queen and royal circle had left the dining-room, and, as they approached, the General bowed respectfully, and remarked to Her Majesty, "that he had seen her before," adding, "I think this is a prettier room than the picture gallery; that chandelier is very fine."

The Queen smilingly took him by the hand, and said she hoped he was very well.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, "I am first-rate."

"General," continued the Queen, "this is the Prince of Wales."

"How are you, Prince?" said the General, shaking him by the hand, and then standing beside the Prince, he remarked, "the prince is taller than I am, but I feel as big as anybody," upon which he strutted up and down the room as proud as a peacock, amid shouts of laughter from all present.

The Queen then introduced the Princess Royal, and the General immediately led her to his elegant little sofa, which he took with him, and with much politeness sat down beside her. Then, rising from his seat, he went through his various performances, and the Queen handed him an elegant and costly souvenir, which had been expressly made for him by her order, for which, he told her, "he was very much obliged, and would keep it as long as he lived." The Queen of the Belgians (daughter of Louis Philippe) was present on this occasion. She asked the General where he was going when he left London.

"To Paris," he replied.

"Whom do you expect to see there?" she continued.

Of course all expected he would answer, "the King of the French," but the little fellow replied.

"Monsieur Guillaudeu."

The two queens looked inquiringly, and when Mr. Barnum informed them that M. Guillaudeu was his French naturalist, they laughed most heartily.

On their third visit to Buckingham Palace, Leopold, King of the Belgians, was also present. He was highly pleased, and asked a multitude of questions. Queen Victoria desired the General to sing a song, and asked him what song he preferred to sing.

"Yankee Doodle," was the prompt reply.

This answer was as unexpected to Mr. Barnum as it was to the royal party. When the merriment it occasioned had somewhat subsided, the Queen good-humoredly remarked, "that is a very pretty song, General, sing it, if you please." The General complied, and soon afterward retired.

The Queen sent to Barnum a handsome fee for each of his visits, but that was only a small part of the benefits which his acquaintance with her brought to him. Such was the force of Court example that it was now deemed unfashionable, almost disloyal, not to have seen Tom Thumb. Carriages of the nobility, fifty or sixty at a time, were to be seen at Barnum's door in Piccadilly. Egyptian Hall was crowded at every exhibition, and the net profits there were on the average more than $500 per day from March 20th to July 20th. Portraits of the tiny General were for sale everywhere, and were eagerly purchased by thousands. Musical compositions were dedicated to him, and songs were sung in his honor. Week after week he was the subject of Punch's wittiest cartoons; and of course all this was just so much free advertising. Besides his three public performances per day, the little General attended three or four private parties per week, for which they were paid eight to ten guineas each. Frequently he would visit two parties in the same evening, and the demand in that line was much greater than the supply. The Queen Dowager Adelaide requested the General's attendance at Marlborough House one afternoon. He went in his court dress, consisting of a richly embroidered brown silk-velvet coat and short breeches, white satin vest with fancy colored embroidery, white silk stockings and pumps, wig, bagwig, cocked hat, and dress sword.

"Why, General," said the Queen Dowager, "I think you look very smart to-day."

"I guess I do," said the General, complacently.

A large party of the nobility were present. The old Duke of Cambridge offered the little General a pinch of snuff, which he declined. The General sang his songs, performed his dances, and cracked his jokes, to the great amusement and delight of the distinguished circle of visitors.

"Dear little General," said the kind-hearted Queen, taking him upon her lap, "I see you have no watch. Will you permit me to present you with a watch and chain?"

"I would like them very much," replied the General, his eyes glistening with joy as he spoke.

"I will have them made expressly for you," responded the Queen Dowager; and at the same moment she called a friend and desired him to see that the proper order was executed. A few weeks thereafter they were called again to Marlborough House. A number of the children of the nobility were present, as well as some of their parents. After passing a few compliments with the General, Queen Adelaide presented him with a beautiful little gold watch, placing the chain around his neck with her own hands.

This watch, also, served the purpose of an advertisement, and a good one, too. It was not only duly heralded, but was placed upon a pedestal in the hall of exhibition, together with the presents from Queen Victoria, and covered with a glass vase. These presents, to which were soon added an elegant gold snuff-box mounted with turquois, presented by his grace the Duke of Devonshire, and many other costly gifts of the nobility and gentry, added to the attraction of the exhibition.

The Duke of Wellington called frequently to see the little General at his public levees. The first time he called, the General was personating Napoleon Bonaparte, marching up and down the platform, and apparently taking snuff in deep meditation. He was dressed in the well-known uniform of the Emperor. Barnum introduced him to the "Iron Duke," who inquired the subject of his meditations. "I was thinking of the loss of the battle of Waterloo," was the little General's immediate reply. This display of wit was chronicled throughout the country, and was of itself worth thousands of pounds to the exhibition.

General Tom Thumb had visited the King of Saxony and also Ibrahim Pacha, who was then in London. At the different parties he attended, he met, in the course of the season, nearly all of the nobility. Scarcely a nobleman in England failed to see General Tom Thumb at his own house, at the house of a friend, or at the public levees at Egyptian Hall. The General was a decided pet with some of the first personages in the land, among whom were Sir Robert and Lady Peel, the Duke and Duchess of Buckingham, Duke of Bedford, Duke of Devonshire, Count d'Orsay, Lady Blessington, Daniel O'Connell, Lord Adolphus Fitzclarence, Lord Chesterfield, and many other persons of distinction They had the free entree to all the theatres, public gardens, and places of entertainment, and frequently met the principal artists, editors, poets, and authors of the country. Albert Smith wrote a play for the General, entitled "Hop o' my Thumb," which was presented with great success at the Lyceum Theatre, London, and in several of the provincial theatres.

Thus the London visit and the tour of England were successful beyond all anticipation, and it was with an overflowing purse that Barnum set out with his charge for the French capital.



CHAPTER XII. IN FRANCE.

ARRIVAL IN PARIS—VISIT TO THE TUILERIES—LONGCHAMPS—"TOM PONCE" ALL THE RAGE—BONAPARTE AND LOUIS PHILIPPE—TOUR THROUGH FRANCE—BARNUM'S PURCHASE.

Barnum having returned from a preliminary trip to France, in which all arrangements, even to starting the first paragraphs in the Paris papers were made, now went back accompanied by Tom Thumb. They reached Paris some days before the exhibition was opened, but on the day following their arrival, a special command reached them to appear at the Tuileries on the next Sunday evening.

At the appointed hour the General and his manager were ushered into the presence of the King, the Queen, the Count de Paris, Prince de Joinville, the Duchess d'Orleans, and a dozen more distinguished persons, among whom was the editor of the Journal des Debats.

At the close of the General's performances, which he went through with to the evident delight of all present, the King gave him a large emerald and diamond brooch, at the same time saying to Mr. Barnum: "You may put it on the General, if you please." Which command was obeyed, to the gratification of the King and the immense delight of the General.

The King was so condescending and affable that Mr. Barnum at length ventured to ask a favor of him. The Longchamps celebration was close at hand—a day once devoted to religious ceremony, but now conspicuous for the display of court and fashionable equipages in the various drives and parks—and after the King had conversed with Mr. Barnum on various topics in a familiar manner, the diplomatic showman remarked that he had hastened his arrival in Paris for the express purpose of taking part in the Longchamps celebration. The General's carriage, he explained, with its ponies and little coachman and footman, was so small that it would be in great danger in the crowd unless the King would graciously permit it to appear in the avenue reserved for the court and the diplomatic corps

The King smiled, and after a few minutes' consultation with one of the officers of his household. said: "Call on the Prefect of Police to-morrow afternoon and you will find a permit ready for you."

After a two hours' visit they retired, the General loaded with presents.

The next morning all the newspapers chronicled the royal audience, the Journal des Debats giving a full account of the interview and of the General's performances.

Thus all Paris knew that Tom Thumb, in all his glory, was in the city.

Longchamps day arrived, and conspicuous among the splendid equipages on the grand avenue, Tom Thumb's beautiful little carriage, with four ponies and liveried and powdered coachman and footman, rode along in the line of carriages bearing the ambassadors to the Court of France. The air was fairly rent with cheers for "le General Tom Ponce."

The first day's receipts were 5,500 francs—over three hundred dollars, and this sum might have been doubled had there been room for more visitors. The elite of Paris flocked to the exhibition. There were afternoon and evening performances, and seats were reserved in advance at an extra price for the entire two months.

The papers were full of praises for the performance; Figaro gave a picture of an immense mastiff running away with the General's horse and carriage in his mouth.

Statuettes and pictures of "Tom Ponce" appeared everywhere; a cafe on one of the boulevards took the name of "Tom Ponce," with a life-size statue of the General for a sign. Eminent painters here, as in London, asked to paint his portrait, but the General's engagements were so pressing that he had little time to sit to artists. All the leading actors and actresses came to see him, and he received many fine presents from them. The daily receipts continued to increase, and the manager had to take a cab to carry home the silver at night.

Twice more was the General summoned to appear before the royal family at the Tuileries, and on the King's birthday a special invitation was sent him to view the display of fireworks in honor of the anniversary.

The last visit to the Court was made at St. Cloud. The papers, in speaking of the General's characterizations, mentioned that there was one costume which Tom Thumb wisely kept at the bottom of his trunk. This was the uniform of Napoleon Bonaparte, and by special request of the King, it was worn at St. Cloud. The affair was quite sub rosa, however, none of the papers mentioning it.

At the end of the visit each of the royal company gave the General a magnificent present, overwhelmed him with kisses, wishing him a safe journey through France, and a long and happy life. After making their adieux they retired to another part of the palace to permit the General to change his costume and to partake of a collation which was served them. As they were leaving the palace they passed the sitting-room where the royal family were spending the evening. The door was open, and some one spying the General there was a call for him to come in and shake hands once more. They went in, finding the Queen and her ladies engaged in embroidering, while one young lady read aloud. They all kissed and petted the General many times around before finally permitting him to depart.

After leaving Paris they made a most profitable tour, including the cities of Rouen, Orleans, Brest, and Bordeaux, where they were invited to witness a review of 20,000 soldiers by the Dukes de Nemours and d'Aumale. Thence to Toulon, Montpelier, Nismes, Marseilles, and many other less important places. At Nantes, Bordeaux, and Marseilles the General appeared in the theatres in a part written for him in a French play called "Petit Poncet."