Struggles and Triumphs - P. T. Barnum (top 20 books to read txt) 📗

Racehorse⁠—How He Was Let and Then Killed⁠—Agony of the Horse-Killer⁠—The Final “Sell”⁠—Foreign and Domestic French⁠—Cockneyism⁠—Wicked Words in Exeter Hall.

And now as a traveller, when almost home, sits down by the wayside to rest, and meanwhile discourses to his companion about minor matters relating to the journey, or revives reminiscenses of home and foreign lands, so I stop to sum up in this chapter some of the incidents and anecdotes which seem pertinent to my story.

The old adages, “Every man to his vocation,” and “Nature will assert herself” are oftentimes amusingly illustrated. Everyone knows the fable of the man who prayed to Jupiter to convert his cat into a woman, and Jupiter kindly gratified him and the man married the woman. This was well enough, till one night the feline female heard a mouse scratching at the door, when she jumped out of bed and began a vigorous hunt, to the consternation of her husband, if not of the mouse. Something almost as absurd and quite as illustrative of “instinct,” or “nature” occurred during my management of the Museum.

I had brought out a play entitled “The Patriot Fathers,” or something of the sort; it was patriotic at any rate, and required a great many people, who had very little to do excepting to dress, group themselves, and go on and off the stage at the proper times demanded by the incidents or situations of the play. One night I suddenly found myself short of supernumeraries to do these subordinate parts, so I sent up to Center Market for a supply of young men who were willing to be soldiers, Indians, or anything else which the exigencies of Revolutionary times not less than my own immediate necessities demanded.

Now, it fortunately happened that an engine company near by, the famous “Forty” of bygone days, had just returned from a fire, and my messenger proposed to these men to come down and help me out of my difficulty. The boys wanted no better fun. At least thirty of them came headed by their foreman, Mr. William Racey. They were soon dressed, one as a woman, a mother of the Revolution; others as Indians, British soldiers, Hessian grenadiers, and Continentals. A very little drilling sufficed to put these new recruits in order for presentation on the stage, for they had little to do but to follow directions as to where they must stand, and when they must go on and off. Numbers, not talent, were needed. They were apt pupils, and did excellently well from the start.

But in the very midst of one of those convulsions which threatened the fate of the struggle for Independence, the City Hall bell sounded out the alarm for fire. That was enough. Racey shouted out on the stage:

“Boys, there’s a fire in the Seventh! Put for ‘Forty’ ”; and the thirty incontinently fled in post haste for “Forty,” and soon after appeared in the street, followed by a jeering, cheering crew, the most motley company that ever dragged a fire engine through the streets of New York. They were in full costume as they left the Museum. The red-coated British troops, the Hessians in their tall bearskin caps, the Indians in their paint and feathers, and even the “woman” helped to drag the machine, and at the fire these strange people, including the woman, helped to “man” the brakes. It is unnecessary to say that they succeeded in creating in the street, what I hoped they would have done on the stage, a positive sensation.

I confess that I am fond of story-telling as well as fun, and I inherit this I think from my maternal grandfather, whom I have already chronicled in these pages as a “practical joker of the old school.” One of the best illustrations of his peculiar fondness for this amusement appears in the following:

Danbury and Bethel were and still are manufacturing villages. Hats and combs were the principal articles of manufacture. The hatters and comb makers had occasion to go to New York every spring and fall, and they generally managed to go in parties, frequently taking in a few “outsiders,” who merely wished to visit the city for the fun of the thing. They usually took passage on board a sloop at Norwalk, and the length of their passage depended entirely upon the state of the wind. Sometimes the run would be made in eight hours, and at other times nearly as many days were required. It, however, made little difference with the passengers. They went in for a “spree,” and were sure to have a jolly time whether on land or water. They were all fond of practical jokes, and before starting they usually entered into a solemn compact, that any man who got angry at a practical joke should forfeit and pay the sum of twenty dollars. This agreement frequently saved much trouble; for occasionally an unexpected and rather severe trick would be played off, and sadly chafe the temper of the victim.

Upon one of these occasions a party of fourteen men started from Bethel on a Monday morning for New York. Among the number were my grandfather, Capt. Noah Ferry, Benjamin Hoyt, Esq., Uncle Samuel Taylor, (as he was called by everybody,) Eleazer Taylor, and Charles Dart. Most of these were proverbial jokers, and it was doubly necessary to adopt the stipulation in regard to the control of temper. It was therefore done in writing, duly signed.

They arrived at Norwalk Monday afternoon. The sloop set sail the same evening, with a fair prospect of reaching New York early the next morning. Several strangers took passage at Norwalk, among the rest a clergyman. He soon found himself in jolly company, and attempted to keep aloof. But they informed him it was of no use, they expected to reach New York the next morning, and were determined to “make a night of it,” so he might as well render himself agreeable, for sleep was out of the question. His “reverence” remonstrated at first, and talked about