Struggles and Triumphs · Appendix 2 (2/3)

And now in this routine of events for 1872, I record one important project with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain. In August I purchased of Mr. L. B. Lent the building and lease in Fourteenth street, New York, known as the Hippotheatron. One purpose was to open a Museum, Menagerie and Hippodrome that would give employment to two hundred of my people who otherwise would be idle during the winter. Another and main object was to take the inaugural steps toward the foundation of a permanent establishment, where the higher order of arenic entertainments could be witnessed under all the advantages of a thoroughly equipped, refined and moral dramatic entertainment. My project combined not only a circus, but a museum of the world’s wonders and a menagerie that should equal in extent and variety the great zoological collection of London. I realized the importance of an establishment in New York where old and young could seek innocent amusement, and where Christian parents could take their children and feel that the exhibition contributed not only to their enjoyment but to their instruction. The press generally had kindly acknowledged the success of my efforts in bringing the modern arena up to its proper standard among the fashionable amusements of the day. By divesting the ring of all objectionable features, and securing the highest talent of both hemispheres, my circus had become popularized among the better classes, for whose good opinion it has ever been my fortune to cater. At an expense of $60,000 I enlarged and remodeled the building, so as to admit my valuable collection of animals, museum of life-size automatons, and living curiosities. The entire edifice was so thoroughly built over as to leave but little to remind the visitor of the original structure. The amphitheater had a seating capacity of 2,800. It consisted of parquette and balcony, each completely encircling the ring, and the former luxuriously fitted up with cushioned armchairs and sofa seats. The grand opening took place Monday evening, November 18th. In theatrical parlance, the house was crowded from “pit to dome.” The leading citizens of the metropolis were present, many of whom on that occasion patronized an equestrian entertainment for the first time. Viewed from the center of the ring, the vast amphitheater presented a scene of bewildering beauty. The dazzling lights, the delightful music of the orchestra, the gorgeous surroundings, and the brilliant audience⁠—filling the numerous circles of seats which rose one above another to the most remote outskirts of the building⁠—all formed a picture so unlike anything ever before seen in New York, as to bring out detailed and eulogistic editorials from the press of the following morning. Being recognized among the audience, I was called into the ring, when I briefly thanked my friends for their generous appreciation. From this date the establishment was open daily from 11 a.m. to 10 p.m., with hippodrome performances afternoon and evening.

On December 16th, four weeks after the inauguration of the new Fourteenth street building, I started for New Orleans, to visit my southern show. I found the Crescent City luxuriating in its usual winter rains, and paddling through its regular rations of mud and slush⁠—happy in its very dreariness. The contentment of the native population of New Orleans reaches the sublime. The average citizen accepts rain and its kindred elements as special attractions indigenous to that climate; and unless the levee breaks and the turbulent Mississippi overflows the city, they see no occasion to murmur. During the brief intervals of sunshine I rode through the principal streets, met several old acquaintances, and renewed friendships formed many years ago. Changes I found, it is true, but they are changes resulting from nature rather than from human hands. The ravages of time and natural decay seem to offset all the thrift of which New Orleans can boast. No Northerner⁠—no matter how frequent his visits⁠—fulfills his destiny until he drives to the suburbs and plucks his fill of oranges. Upon the occasion of my visit political dissensions monopolized public attention. What with the continual skirmishing between the municipal, State and general governments, the city was in a most disagreeable turmoil; and one retired at night quite uncertain as to what administration would be in power in the morning. Once I had occasion to inquire for the governor’s address, and my companion innocently asked, “Which one?” Compared to the civic and military imbroglio in New Orleans in December, the political situation of Mexico was one of placid serenity.

It was while quietly seated at the breakfast table, at the St. Louis Hotel, in the Crescent City, on Tuesday, December 24th, that the waiter handed me a telegram. I had been reading in the morning papers of the flooding of my show grounds on Canal street, and of the change of location my manager had been forced to make. These annoyances had prepared me when I read the despatch to fully appreciate Longfellow’s words,

“So disasters come not singly.”

It was as follows:

About 4 a.m. fire discovered in boiler-room of circus building; everything destroyed except 2 elephants, 1 camel.

Calling for pen, ink and paper, I then and there cabled my European agents to send duplicates of all animals lost, with positive instructions to have everything shipped in season to reach New York by the middle of March. They were further directed to procure at any cost specimens never seen in America, and through sub-agents to purchase and forward curiosities⁠—animate and inanimate⁠—from all parts of the globe. Cable dispatches were also sent to the celebrated inventors and manufacturers of automatons, in Paris, to lose no time in making and purchasing everything new and wonderful in the way of mechanical effects. This feature of my great exhibition had proved so attractive that I determined at once not only to duplicate it, but to enlarge this department to double its original size. I then dispatched the following to my son-in-law:

Tell editors I have cabled European agents to expend half million dollars for extra attractions; will have new and more attractive travelling show than ever early in April.

These details attended to, I could see no further occasion for delaying breakfast and taking a calm view of the situation.

The total destruction of this beautiful building and its valuable contents, was an item of news for which I was ill prepared, and the extent of which calamity I could scarcely comprehend. I could realize in a measure a vast conflagration, with its excitement and contingent incidents, but I could not think without a shudder of the terrible sufferings of one hundred wild beasts, in their frantic, howling efforts to escape the flames. For a moment I was disposed to censure my agents and employees for permitting such a wholesale destruction of these poor animals. Then I remembered the reliable men I employed, and could not but feel assured that everything in their power had been done. The four beautiful giraffes⁠—the only ones in the United States, and which alone cost $80,000⁠—were lost in the general sacrifice. I learned afterwards that every effort was made to rescue them, but the poor innocent pets were utterly paralyzed with fear, and could not be made to move, even after the lattice enclosure had been torn away. Had they escaped the burning building, the terrible cold night would doubtless have killed them before they could have been sheltered from the weather. No pecuniary compensation could satisfy me for the loss of these and many other rare animals.

Returning to New York I learned that my loss on building and property amounted to the neighborhood of $300,000. To meet this I held insurance polices to the amount of $90,000. My equestrian company, in which I took great pride, and which I had hoped to give employment during the winter, was of course left idle until the opening of the summer season. The members lost their entire wardrobe, a loss of which can only be appreciated by professionals. I was pleased to see a disposition manifested to render them some assistance, and encouraged it so far as lay in my power. A benefit was arranged under the auspices of the Equestrian Benevolent Association of the United States. The order has for its object the relief of unfortunate members, and, as in the present case, its broad mantle of charity includes worthy professionals not members of the Association. The affair came off at the Academy of Music, Tuesday, January 7, 1873, afternoon and evening. Many stars in the Equestrian, Dramatic and Musical firmament volunteered for the occasion, and the two entertainments were largely attended. Being called upon to “define my position,” I stepped upon the stage and made a few offhand remarks, which were reported in the morning papers as follows:

Ladies and Gentlemen: I have catered for so many years for the amusement of the public, that the beneficiaries on this occasion seem to have thought that the showman himself ought to be a part of the show; and, at their request, I come before you. I sincerely thank you, in their behalf, for your patronage on this occasion. How much they need your substantial sympathy, the ashes across the street can tell you more eloquently than human tongue could utter. Those ashes are the remnants of “all the worldly goods” of some who appeal to you today.

For myself, I have been burned out so often, I am like the singer who was hissed on the stage; “Hiss away,” said he, “I am used to it.” My pecuniary loss is very serious, and occurring as it did, just before the holidays, it is all the more disastrous.

It may perhaps gratify my friends to know, however, that I am still enabled to invest another half million of dollars without disturbing my bank account. The public will have amusements, and they ought to be those of an elevating and an unobjectionable character. For many years it has been my pleasure to provide a class of instructive and amusing entertainments, to which a refined Christian mother can take her children with satisfaction.

I believe that no other man in America possesses the desire and facilities which I have in this direction. I have, therefore, taken steps, through all my agents in Europe and this country, which will enable me to put upon the road, early in April, the most gigantic and complete travelling museum, menagerie and hippodrome ever organized.

It has been asked whether I will build up a large museum and menagerie in New York. Well, I am now nearly sixty-three years of age. I can buy plenty of building sites and get plenty of leased lots for a new museum; but I cannot get a new lease of life.

Younger members of my family desire me to erect in this city an establishment worthy of New York and of myself. It will be no small undertaking; for if I erect such an establishment, it will possess novel and costly features never before attempted. I have it under consideration, and within a month shall determine whether or not I shall make another attempt; of one thing, however, you may be assured, ladies and gentlemen, although conflagrations may, for the present, disconcert my plans, yet while I have life and health no fire can burn nor water quench my ambition to gratify my patrons at whatever cost of money or of effort. I shall never lend my name where my labors and heart do not go with it, and the public shall never fail to find at any of my exhibitions their money’s worth ten times told.

The following paragraph from the New York Tribune of January 16, 1873, will give an inkling of what I am about, as I send these last pages to press:

Mr. Phineas T. Barnum, the genial showman, contributes a good deal to our amusement, and all New Yorkers have a kindly side for him. Here is The Philadelphia Press’s account of his latest achievement:

“Early yesterday morning Prof. Faber received a call, at the Girard House, from the renowned showman, P. T. Barnum, who is now on a visit to Philadelphia in pursuit of wonders for his great travelling show. Within two hours Prof. Faber had given notice to the Emperor of Austria of his forfeiture of £200 for not exhibiting his talking machine at the Vienna Exposition next summer, and a contract was signed by Mr. Barnum, agreeing to pay $20,000 for the services of Mr. and Mrs. Faber and their wonderful automaton talker during the tenting season of 1873. No more marvelous exhibition was ever seen in a travelling tent. It is the most wonderful achievement of ingenuity that this age of new inventions has yet witnessed. Although it looks no more like a talking machine than an old-fashioned weaver’s loom, or a modern sewing machine, it converses plainly and distinctly in all languages, giving every intonation of the human voice to extraordinary perfection. Mr. Barnum says that 10,000,000 of visitors will hear this wonderful wooden conversationalist during the coming Summer.”

It is amusing to witness the difference in men’s dispositions. I arrived in New York from New Orleans the night before New Year’s, just a week after the fire. I found my manager, Mr. Coup, and my son-in-law, Mr. Hurd, in rather low spirits. I laughed at them and called them my deacons, but begged them not to go into mourning.

“It’s astonishing how you can laugh when you know our museum building and all of our rare animals are burned up, and we cannot get more in time for the spring show,” drawled the lugubrious Coup, in an injured tone.

“If the fire had waited ten days till the holidays were over, we should have been $50,000 dollars better off,” chimed in the chopfallen Hurd.

“If the skies had fallen we should have caught larks,” I replied; “but as the skies did not fall, let us be content with what is still left us.”

“As for you, Coup,” I continued, “you talk about what we cannot do; now, have I not told you often enough, the word ‘can’t’ is not in my dictionary?”

“But you can’t help the fire, can you?” retorted Coup.

“I shall not try, but I can restore all it has destroyed, and much more,” I replied; “and I will do it within three months at furthest.”

“That is easier said than done,” responded Coup with a sigh.

“Surely, Father, you don’t think we can get a new show upon the road before July, do you?” asked Mr. Hurd.

“I repeat that I see nothing to prevent our exhibiting the largest and best show on this earth, three months from today,” I replied; “all that is required are energy, pluck, courage, and a liberal outlay of money. All our golden chariots and cages, our horses, harness, canvas tents and wagons are saved, besides which we have thirty new cages nearly finished. Telegraphs, Atlantic cables and our agents abroad, can supply us all the curiosities and animals we want, before the last of March next, if we will supply them with money enough.”

But my advisers thought I was too sanguine, and they said as much. Coup even proposed to lie still a year, and start our show again in 1874. But I replied that my “years” were too few and too precious to be wasted in that way; and although I would never put a show upon the road that did not exceed in magnitude and merit that which we had lost, I felt every confidence in accomplishing this before April, if we would all work hard.

Strange enough, before we parted on that evening of December 31st, I received a cable message from my trusty agent, Robert Fillingham of London, saying he had purchased for me a pair of giraffes or camelopards and a full supply of lions, tigers and other animals. He added: “All the Governmental Zoological Gardens here and on the continent sympathize with you, and are ready to dispose of any animals you wish. The mechanicians of Paris and Geneva are at work on automatons and other attractions for your travelling museum.”

“Don’t that electricity beat the world?” exclaimed Mr. Coup with great delight.