Life of Hon. Phineas T. Barnum | ||
SOME REMINISCENCES OF P. T. BARNUM
My first recollection of Mr. Barnum goes back to the period of my small-boyhood, when he came to the country village near my home to lecture upon temperance. I still remember the animation of his discourse on that occasion; its humor and its anecdote; and, with what absorbing interest the large audience sat out the hour and a half or more which the speaker so well filled. In describing the drunkard and the illusions which master him, he showed a keen perception of human nature; and, in every part of his address there was no end of spirited appeal and analysis, mingled with unbounded mirth and pathos, as the fluctuating argument went on.
A few years later, when I had grown old enough to visit the metropolis, I made it one of the chief items of my concern to visit the old museum on the corner of Ann Street and Broadway, where the Herald Building now stands. There was, even then, no curiosity there more impressive than its proprietor, who was the very embodiment of life, kindly feeling, and wholesome joy. I noticed that he was in all parts of the museum in very rapid succession, and that nothing escaped his attention. Something in his manner caught every eye. It was said of
He had a kind word or an entertaining one for everybody who came near him, as occasion offered, whether he was an old acquaintance or a stranger. The occasion did not come to me, though I remember wishing it had, when I left the museum. Probably I should have deliberately sought it if I had had more assurance and experience at that time; and if I had known, too, that we were afterward to meet intimately, and that for more than twenty years the latch-string of his different homes, in Bridgeport and New York, was to respond so many dozens of times to my touch, for days and weeks of remarkable hospitality.
My opportunity for knowing Mr. Barnum personally came about when I was, as a young man, conducting, almost single-handed, a lecture course in a very small country town in the later sixties, soon after the close of the war. The night for Mr. Barnum to come to us was a very cold and forbidding one in February. A snow-storm, the most formidable
I said to him: "Please trust me for the avoidance of that. If it had been a pleasant night, instead of this howling storm, I would have filled the hall and the yard in front to the front gate. But, as it now is, I will still guarantee to fill the hall.'' And filled it was, to our equal delight.
Before entering and discovering this fact, I ventured to say to Mr. Barnum that, owing to the general untowardness and inclemency of the night, I would introduce him in my own way, and not in the conventional one, if he did not object. "By all means,'' said he; "if you can awaken any warmth or hilarity on as sorrowful an outlook as this, do not spare me, or hesitate for a moment.''
On arriving at our seats on the platform, I arose and said, in some such words as these:
Mr. Barnum then arose, not in the least nonplussed, but greatly pleased with the packed house and the hearty cheers which greeted him:
The whole story may read very weakly in print; for Mr. Barnum's tones of voice, and gestures and mobility of feature are not communicable to cold type. But the playfulness of this unusual preface not only stirred the audience on a dismal night, but put the lecturer at his very best. Mr. Barnum's lecture was elastic. It might be shaped for an hour, as it was not fully written, or it might consume more time. On this occasion it was two hours and over. While the snow was still falling in open sleighs, that could find no shelter, their owners, not minding this, were enjoying one of the most delightful evenings of a whole winter — of many winters, perhaps.
And all this leads me to say that Mr. Barnum, while claiming no part of a professional lecturer's endowment, and only made oratory a casual — if it was sometimes a frequent — matter, was, nevertheless,
When I met him in Bridgeport for the first time, I found he was easily the chief man of the place. He was living then at Lindencroft, on Fairfield Avenue. His Oriental palace, Iranistan, had burned down some years before. But, wherever he lived, his house gave open welcome to many guests, illustrious and other; and no one who had the good fortune to enter it, ever went away without connecting with his visit the happiest of memories. At the table he especially shone. Wit, repartee, and even puns, when occasion offered, coruscated over the meal, and diffused universal good humor. He had always at hand innumerable anecdotes, which he made peculiarly his own, and which he told with inimitable grace and unction. I am sure nobody will ever tell them again as he told them; for, contrary to the proverb, the prosperity of the jest in his case lay, nine-tenths, in his way of relating it — though it was never a dull one.
It mattered not what the business of the day might be, or what obstacles or discouragements had been encountered, his cheerfulness was perennial
There was a depth of warm humanity in Mr. Barnum's inmost texture that his public fame does not fully disclose. That children liked him has been already often said; but those in maturer youth — young gentlemen and ladies — felt, somehow, that he never ceased, at any age, to be their cotemporary. No younger and more hopeful thoughts were offered than his. If, as sometimes happened, when he organized, as he persistently did, the summer picnic, inland or on the coast, there was a party made for each direction, the struggle was to see which could capture Mr. Barnum. Which way the rest of us might go was not of so much consequence; but the party which lost him in behalf of the other, felt like
At one time he actually kept a seaside caterer at a distant beach to receive his guests of twenty or more on a place of his own, whenever, on summer days, he could collect guests enough and give them attention. It was only necessary to send word in the morning, and the tables were ready, and the party was conveyed to the shady grounds from Mr. Barnum's door. Swings were not forgotten for the children, nor was anything forgotten that conduced to rational joy. If some poor sick person was heard of in the city, one carriage, Mr. Barnum's own, would go somewhat out of the way to stop and leave delicacies and presents, not without a few words of sympathy and comfort. When, on one occasion that I remember, he took two or three hundred people from several towns in the State, and from New York, to Charles Island, a summer place midway between Bridgeport and New Haven, the hospitality was royal, and even the steamboat tickets were mysteriously provided for all.
I have never noticed, in the multitude of printed sketches of Mr. Barnum's doings, any general mention of his lavish hospitality poured out for years, but there will be hundreds who can testify to and will remember it. It was as if he had said: "As we go along through life let us make others happy.'' And he did this with no niggardliness or stint, in his private life as well as in his public career.
There is a series of stories of Mr. Barnum's humane endeavors longer than Æsop's or Pilpays' fables combined, and it is impossible to relate them all. But I have heard one recently that will very well illustrate the beneficial manner of his charity, and which shows that, by native sagacity, he had early learned the scientific way of giving — to give so that the gift may be more than its surface expression, and so as not to produce chronic pauperism.
It seems that a poor widow, some years ago, went to Mr. Barnum's house and told him she was very poor, and had a large family to support; she could not, in fact, decently support them. But if Mr. Barnum would only loan her $75 with which to buy a sewing-machine, she assured him she could do enough better to be able to save a little, and to pay the money back. Mr. Barnum, thinking her honest and truthful, said she might have the money on the terms suggested, but told her when she had saved the requisite amount to bring it to him. After some struggle and privation, in due time she did this, and laid it before him. "Well,'' said he, "my good woman, you have now fairly earned your sewing-machine, and you have done one thing more, you have learned how to save.'' And thereupon he handed back the money, and told her to put it in safe keeping.
Mr. Barnum's deep attachment for Bridgeport grew year by year, and was most strikingly manifested.
Some years ago, when certain experiments were made to test the presence of ozone in the air, and much was said of its value to health, Mr. Barnum had the air at Bridgeport put on trial, and proved exultingly that no climate in this country was so salubrious as that of Bridgeport, especially in the region of the Seaside Park. He was very enthusiastic on the subject, and wrote to the local papers, to myself, and to others about it to give the fact publicity and proper emphasis.
It may be said by some that Mr. Barnum, in many of his real estate enterprises, made money; and so he did, by his foresight, faith, and sagacity concerning his adopted town. He partly foresaw the future of Bridgeport, and then largely made it. But if he had not made money — and his example was open for others to follow — he could have had no money to give. He used to say himself, half jokingly: "I believe in a profitable philanthropy,'' which illustrates one of his characteristic traits — his absolute
In early life he suffered hardship and deprivations, and no Mark Tapley ever met them with more composure and, on occasions, with more hilarity. But he knew well what comfort and convenience are, and when they were at his command he enjoyed their best gifts. He once told me that it pained him to see Mr. Greeley omit those little cares for himself in later life to which he was surely entitled, and so, when he was his guest for many days together, he took care to provide him with a loose morning coat and comfortable slippers, and would not have him drop in an ordinary chair by accident, but secured for him the easiest one.
Busy as Mr. Barnum was, he found many hours for social and other pleasures. He did this by his systematic allotment of his time. All the machinery of his household and his business ran with a smoothness and punctuality that would have delighted George Washington. Everything was on time; his meals were regular — not movable feasts. It was a wonder how he wrote so many letters, foreign and domestic; dispatched so promptly his household and his city affairs, and his out-of-town business; met all sorts of callers on all sorts of errands; and yet spared time for rides, a social game or talk, and an
I can scarcely realize, even now, that he is really gone — so clear of mind and active was he to the very last. Nor can it be easily imagined how Bridgeport in this generation can accustom itself to so great a loss. To hear that the average man — of distinction even — has died, seems common and credible. But the message which announced Mr. Barnum's death came like a troubled dream from which we somehow expect to awaken. That one so full of life as to be its very embodiment, should leave us, it will take time to fully comprehend. If, in the world, his demise leaves a striking and peculiar void, to a multitude of friends it comes with a tender sorrow that shall tincture indelibly many flowing years. J. B. — —
Among letters that have come to hand we select the following as the tribute of a representative American divine:
Dear Mr. Benton:
There was a Mr. Barnum whom all the world knew, and whose name is familiar in every civilized land; but there was another Mr. Barnum whom we, his intimate friends knew, and regarded with a hearty affection. That he was a most courteous gentleman and the entertaining companion at his
THEODORE L. CUYLER.
Life of Hon. Phineas T. Barnum | ||