DR. COLLYER'S TRIBUTE.
The immense congregation that filled to repletion
the South Congregational Church, while the last
services were being held over the remains of Hon.
P. T. Barnum, were deeply impressed with the
touching tribute which was paid the great showman
and public benefactor by his old friend, Rev. Robert
Collyer, D. D.
It was a pathetic picture which met the eyes of
the vast throng. The aged preacher, with long
white hair hanging loosely on his shoulders, and an
expression of keen sorrow on his kindly face, standing
in a small pulpit looking down on the remains
of his old and cherished friend. The speaker's
voice was strong and steady throughout his sermon.
Each word of that sad panegyric could be distinctly
heard in all parts of the edifice, but in offering up
the last prayer, he broke down. The aged preacher
made a strong effort to control himself, but his voice
finally became husky, and tears streamed down his
wrinkled cheeks. The audience was deeply touched
by this display of feeling, and many ladies among
the congregation joined with the preacher and wept
freely.
The immense gathering were unusually quiet
when the aged minister took his place in the pulpit,
and his words were strangely clear, and distinct in
all portions of the church, In his feeling tribute,
Dr. Collyer said:
"P. T. Barnum was a born fighter for the weak
against the strong, for the oppressed against the
oppressor. The good heart, tender as it was brave,
would always spring up at the cry for help and rush
on with the sword of assistance. This was not all
that made him loved, for the good cheer of his nature
was like a halo about him. He had always
time to right a wrong and always time to be a good
citizen and patriot of the town, State, or republic in
which he lived. His good, strong face, was known
almost as well on the other side. You may be proud
of him as he was proud of his town. He helped to
strengthen and beautify it, and he did beautify it in
many places. `It is said that the hand that grasps
takes away the strength from the hand that ought
to give,' and that such a man must die without friends
or blessings. He was not that man. He was always
the open and generous man, who could not do
too much for Bridgeport. He often told me of his
desire to help this place, and he was not content to
wait until after death. What he has done for Bridgeport
is the same as he has done for other noble
works. As my brother, Rev. Mr. Fisher, said today,
there was never anything proposed in this city
that had any promise of goodness but that he was
ready to pour out money and assistance for it.
"Faith in one's self fails in the spring if one has
not faith in God also. He had that faith I know.
He had worship, reverence, and love in his heart,
and as he rests from his labors we meet and linger
here for a few minutes and pay respect and honor
to the memory of a great and good man. We can
forget that we belong to divers churches, and stand
here as children of one faith and one baptism, honoring
for the last time one who has finished his
labors here and with a crown of glory for his reward,
has joined in his eternal home the Father he
served so well.''
When the church services were over, the procession
moved to Mountain Cemetery, a mile or more
distant, where, in a beautiful plat, long ago arranged,
with a modest monument above it, rest the
remains of Mr. Barnum's first wife. Here, in a
place made beautiful by nature and improved by
art, was consigned the mortal part of him whose
story we have tried, weakly, perhaps, to tell. Great
masses of flowers, similar to those displayed in the
house and church, were upon the grave and about
it, and the people, who came there in large numbers,
did not leave for hours after the religious service
had been read.
A book of good size might be made of the notable
expressions called forth by Mr. Barnum's death
from leading journals and men known to fame. It
is impossible to give any fair sample of them here,
but the London Times' leader of April 8th may
serve, perhaps, as a good specimen:
"Barnum is gone. That fine flower of Western
civilization, that
arbiter elegantiarum to Demos, has
lived. At the age of eighty, after a life of restless
energy and incessant publicity, the great showman has
lain down to rest. He gave, in the eyes of the seekers
after amusement, a lustre to America. * * * He
created the
métier of showman on a grandiose scale,
worthy to be professed by a man of genius. He
early realized that essential feature of a modern
democracy, its readiness to be led to what will amuse
and instruct it. He knew that `the people' means
crowds, paying crowds; that crowds love the fashion
and will follow it; and that the business of the great
man is to make and control the fashion. To live
on, by, and before the public was his ideal. For
their sake and his own, he loved to bring the public
to see, to applaud, and to pay. His immense activity,
covering all those years, marked him out as one
of the most typical and conspicuous of Yankees.
From Jenny Lind to Jumbo, no occasion of a public
`sensation' came amiss to him.
"Phineas Taylor Barnum, born in 1810, at Bethel,
Connecticut — how serious and puritanical it sounds!
— would have died with a merely local reputation unless
chance had favored him by putting in his way
something to make a hit with. He stumbled across
Charles H. Stratton, the famous, the immortal
`General Tom Thumb' of our childhood. Together
they came to Europe and held `receptions' everywhere.
It was the moment when the Queen's eldest
children were in the nursery, and Barnum saw
that a fortune depended on his bringing them into
friendly relations with Tom Thumb. He succeeded;
and the British public flocked to see the amusing
little person who had shown off his mature yet miniature
dimensions by the side of the baby Heir Apparent.
Then came the Jenny Lind
furore. Then
came a publicity of a different sort. Mr. Barnum
became a legislator for his State, and even, in 1875,
Mayor of Bridgeport. Why not? The man who
can organize the amusements of the people may
very well be trusted to organize a few of their laws
for them.
"When, in 1889, the veteran brought over his shipload
of giants and dwarfs, chariots and waxworks,
spangles and circus-riders, to entertain the people
of London, one wanted a Carlyle to come forward
with a discourse upon `the Hero as Showman.' It
was the ne plus ultra of publicity. * * * There was
a three-fold show — the things in the stalls and cages,
the showman, and the world itself. And of the three
perhaps Barnum himself was the most interesting.
The chariot races and the monstrosities we can
get elsewhere, but the octogenarian showman was
unique. His name is a proverb already, and a proverb
it will continue.''
