Struggles and Triumphs · Appendix 2 (1/3)

Written up to February, 1873.

Readers of the preceding pages will expect in this Appendix a brief resumé of events relating to my Great Travelling World’s Fair for the season of 1872. Connected as I have been with so many gigantic undertakings, and the subject of so many and varied experiences, it can hardly be thought strange if I have taught myself not to be surprised at anything in the way of business results. The idea of attempting to transport by rail any company or combination requiring sixty-five cars⁠—to be moved daily from point to point⁠—was an experiment of such magnitude that railroad companies could not supply my demands, and I was compelled to purchase and own all the cars. Up to this time in life, my record is clear for never retrograding after once embarking in any undertaking, and I did not propose to establish a contrary precedent at this late day, so, at the appointed time, the great combination moved westward by rail: The result is known. It visited the States of New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, Pennsylvania, District of Columbia, Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Kentucky, Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Iowa, Minnesota, Wisconsin and Michigan. In order to exhibit only in large towns, it was frequently necessary to travel one hundred miles in a single night, arriving in season to give three exhibitions and the usual street pageant at 8 o’clock a.m. By means of cheap excursion trains, thousands of strangers attended daily from along the lines of the various railroads, for a distance of fifty, seventy-five and even a hundred miles. Other thousands came in wagons, on horseback and by every means of conveyance that could be pressed into service, until by 10 o’clock⁠—the hour for the morning exhibition⁠—the streets, sidewalks and stores were filled with strangers. It was universally conceded that the money invested by these country customers, who took this opportunity to visit the town and make purchases, exceeded by many thousands of dollars the amount I took away. Indeed, my own expenditures at each point where we exhibited, averaged one-half my gross receipts.

Some idea of the excitement throughout the country, may be formed from the fact that, upon arriving at daylight, we usually found wagon loads of rural strangers⁠—men, women and children⁠—who had come in during the night, and “pitched camp.” They had arrived at a most unseasonable hour for pleasure, but this nocturnal experience was no barrier when they had the ultimatum of “seeing Barnum.” Notwithstanding our transportation was necessarily done at night, under all the disadvantages of darkness and usually by three trains, it is gratifying to look back upon the great railroad campaign of 1872 as entirely free from serious accident. A few minor casualties occurred. At 1 o’clock on the morning of June 8, several of our cars and cages were precipitated down an embankment at Erie, Penn., by the gross carelessness of a switchman, and the utter recklessness of two locomotive engineers. The accident resulted in no loss of life, but the crushed cages, the roaring of the animals, the general excitement, coupled with the fact that the night was one of Egyptian darkness, all combined to form an “incident of travel” long to be remembered. It is also a source of satisfaction to record that nothing like riotous conduct, quarreling or disturbing elements of any nature have annoyed us during the tenting season. I attribute this to one fact, viz., that my employees are teetotalers and of gentlemanly behavior; that they fully appreciate the wisdom of my forty years’ motto⁠—“We Study to Please”⁠—and consequently make every effort to preserve decorum, and make visitors as happy as possible during the few hours they are with us.

With wonderful unanimity the public and the press acknowledged that I exhibited much more than I advertised, and that no combination of exhibitions that ever travelled had shown a tithe of the instructive and amusing novelties that I had gathered together. This universal commendation is, to me, the most gratifying feature of the campaign, for not being compelled to do business merely for the sake of profit, my highest enjoyment is to delight my patrons. The entire six months’ receipts of the Great Travelling World’s Fair exceeded one million dollars. The expenses of 156 days were nearly $5,000 per day, making about $780,000, besides the interest on a million dollars capital, and the wear and tear of the whole establishment. Although these daily expenses were more than double the receipts of any other show ever organized in any country, the financial result surprised everyone, and even I, who had anticipated so much, was a little “set back” when my treasurer made his final report. It will be remembered that it was the year of a heated presidential campaign, when factional strife and political ambition might be expected to monopolize public attention to the serious detriment of amusements generally. I think I may with truth say that no other man in America would have dared to assume such risk. All well known showmen agree that without my name, which is recognized as the synonym of “Old Reliable⁠—always giving my patrons thrice the worth of their money,” the enormous outlay I incurred would have swamped any other proprietor of this vast collection of novelties, requiring the services of 1,000 men and 300 horses. The tenting season proper, closed at Detroit October 30th, when we were patronized by the largest concourse of people ever assembled in the State of Michigan.

During this season of unparalleled prosperity, I made it my custom to be present at all large cities and prominent points, and superintend in person the gigantic combination. Frequently I was invited by leaders in the temperance cause or by the “Young Men’s Christian Associations” to lecture on temperance, which invitation I accepted when in my power, but always upon conditions that the lecture should be free and open to all. As a matter of fact I may be permitted to say that upon these occasions more people were turned away than gained admission, but whether these crowds were attracted by an interest in the temperance cause, or from a desire to get a glimpse of the old showman, I have never been fully satisfied. My manager and assistants insist that the latter is true, and that my free lectures, especially in the large cities, result to my pecuniary disadvantage, as fully satisfying many who otherwise would patronize the exhibition to gratify their curiosity. However, as our immense pavilions are always crowded, I can see no real cause for complaint. At my stage of life I confess to a deeper interest in the noble cause of temperance than I ever had in the largest audience ever assembled under canvas. If but one-half the people who have signed the pledge at these lectures keep it through life, I shall feel that my labors in this direction will not have been devoid of valuable and beneficent results.

Early in the presidential canvass I published a general invitation offering the free use of my immense Hippodrome pavilion to either of the great political parties, for holding mass meetings. No building in the West would accommodate the masses seeking admission upon these occasions, and “open air” gatherings were at a discount, even with enthusiastic politicians. My immense circus canvas had a seating capacity of 12,000, and was proof against ordinary storms. My offer gave the free use of this immense tent between the hours of 4 and 6 p.m. The invitation was accepted in some instances where the exhibition and the political gathering were billed for the same day.

When not with the company I spent most of my time at my ideal home⁠—Waldemere. To me who have travelled so far and seen so much, and whose life seems destined to be an eventful one, this delightful summer retreat is invested with new charms at each successive visit. The beautiful groves seem still more beautiful, the foliage more green, the entire scenery more picturesque and the broad expanse of water⁠—with the Long Island shore visible in the mazy background⁠—sparkles in the sunlight with additional brilliancy. Possibly my affection for Waldemere is due in some degree to the fact that I can here look upon thriving shade trees and spacious drives of my own creation, and that wherever art has beautified nature, it has but utilized plans and carried out suggestions of my own. In 1871 I attached to Waldemere a new building for a library. Its architecture was so beautiful and unlike the main edifice that after expending $10,000 on it, I was obliged to lay out $30,000 on the house to make it “correspond!” It was the old story of the man’s new sofa over again. When the building was enlarged, the lawn on the east side appeared too narrow, so I purchased a slip of land (seven acres) on that side for $50,000. The land is worth it for building lots at present prices, but I could not help half agreeing with a neighboring farmer who said, “well, that Barnum is the queerest man I ever saw. He’s gone and spent $50,000 for a little potato patch to put on his dooryard.” The past season my summer home was made still more attractive by the frequent presence of distinguished personal friends, whom I took delight in entertaining. Their sojourn I endeavored to make agreeable, and in after years their recollections of Waldemere will, I trust, be pleasing reminiscences of a quiet visit and unfeigned hospitality. In August I received a visit from my esteemed friend, the late Horace Greeley. Mine was one of the few private residences he visited during the campaign, and the last, I think, which he sought for relaxation or pleasure. I have every reason to believe that he spoke the true sentiment of his heart when he assured me of his enjoyment while at my house, and never did a careworn journalist, and him too the very central figure of a heated political campaign, stand more in need of repose and perfect freedom from mental excitement than did Mr. Greeley at this time. I arranged an old-fashioned clam bake, at which were present congenial spirits from home and abroad. Mr. Greeley laid aside all restraint. He mingled freely with the guests, and his native genial humor and ready wit contributed greatly to the enjoyment. The keenest observer could have detected nothing like care or anxiety upon his countenance, and the stranger would have pointed him out as a quiet farmer enjoying a day at the seaside.

Although not much of a politician I have my political preferences. Mr. Greeley was my lifelong personal friend. I gave him my support. Once I ventured my opinion that his election was doubtful. He replied that a more important result than his election would be, that, running upon so liberal a platform as that adopted at Cincinnati, would compel all parties to recognize a higher standard regarding public justice and the rights of others. “My chief concern,” he added, “is to do nothing in this canvass that I shall look back upon with an unapproving conscience.”

In October I visited Colorado accompanied by my English friend John Fish, and a Bridgeport gentleman who has an interest with me in a stock-raising ranch in the southern part of that Territory. We took the Kansas Pacific Railroad to Denver, seeing many thousands of wild buffalo⁠—our train sometimes being stopped to let them pass. The weather was delightful. We spent several days in the new and flourishing town of Greeley. I gave a temperance lecture there; also at Denver. At the latter city, in the course of my remarks, I told them I never saw so many disappointed people as at Denver. The large audience looked surprised, but were relieved when I added, “half the inhabitants came invalids from the East, expecting to die, and they find they cannot do it. Your charming climate will not permit it!” And it is a fact. I am charmed with Colorado, the scenery and delightful air, and particularly would I recommend as a place of residence to those who can afford it, the lively, thriving city of Denver. To those who have their fortunes yet to make, I say “go to Greeley.”

We took the narrow gauge road from Denver to Pueblo, stopping at Colorado Springs and the “Garden of the gods.” The novel scenery here amply paid us for our visit. From Pueblo I proceeded forty miles by carriage to our cattle ranch, and spent a couple of days there very pleasantly. We have several thousand head of cattle there, which thrive through the winter without hay or fodder of any kind.

At the close in Detroit of the great Western railroad tour, I equipped and started South a Museum, Menagerie and Circus, which, while it made no perceptible diminution in the main body, was still the largest and most complete travelling expedition ever seen in the Southern States. Louisville was designated as the rendezvous and point of consolidation of the various departments, and the new expedition gave its initial exhibition in the Falls City, November 4th. Much of the menagerie consisted of animals of which I owned the duplicate, and hence could easily spare them without injuring the variety in my zoological collection. I was aware also that many of the rare specimens would thrive better in a warmer climate, and as the expense of procuring them had been enormous, I coupled my humanitarian feelings with my pecuniary interests and sent them South.