target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#u1a6817d4-010c-5adb-bf05-11fd864afefc">CHAPTER XLIII. THE NEW MUSEUM.
CHAPTER XLIV. CURIOUS COINCIDENCES.—NUMBER THIRTEEN.
APPENDIX. REST ONLY FOUND IN ACTION.
PREFACE.
This book is my Recollections of Forty Busy Years. Few men in civil life have had a career more crowded with incident, enterprise, and various intercourse with the world than mine. With the alternations of success and defeat, extensive travel in this and foreign lands; a large acquaintance with the humble and honored; having held the preëminent place among all who have sought to furnish healthful entertainment to the American people, and, therefore, having had opportunities for garnering an ample storehouse of incident and anecdote, while, at the same time, needing a sagacity, energy, foresight and fortitude rarely required or exhibited in financial affairs, my struggles and experiences (it is not altogether vanity in me to think) can not be without interest to my fellow countrymen.
Various leading publishers have solicited me to place at their disposal my Recollections of what I have been, and seen, and done. These proposals, together with the partiality of friends and kindred, have constrained me, now that I have retired from all active participation in business, to put in a permanent form what, it seems to me, may be instructive, entertaining and profitable.
Fifteen years since, for the purpose, principally, of advancing my interests as proprietor of the American Museum, I gave to the press some personal reminiscences and sketches. Having an extensive sale, they were, however, very hastily, and, therefore, imperfectly, prepared. These are not only out of print, but the plates have been destroyed. Though including, necessarily, in common with them, some of the facts of my early life, in order to make this autobiography a complete and continuous narrative, yet, as the latter part of my life has been the more eventful, and my recollections so various and abundant, this book is new and independent of the former. It is the matured and leisurely review of almost half a century of work and struggle, and final success, in spite of fraud and fire—the story of which is blended with amusing anecdotes, funny passages, felicitous jokes, captivating narratives, novel experiences, and remarkable interviews—the sunny and sombre so intermingled as not only to entertain, but convey useful lessons to all classes of readers.
These Recollections are dedicated to those who are nearest and dearest to me, with the feeling that they are a record which I am willing to leave in their hands, as a legacy which they will value.
And above and beyond this personal satisfaction, I have thought that the review of a life, with the wide contrasts of humble origin and high and honorable success; of most formidable obstacles overcome by courage and constancy; of affluence that had been patiently won, suddenly wrenched away, and triumphantly regained—would be a help and incentive to the young man, struggling, it may be, with adverse fortune, or, at the start, looking into the future with doubt or despair.
All autobiographies are necessarily egotistical. If my pages are as plentifully sprinkled with “I’s” as was the chief ornament of Hood’s peacock, “who thought he had the eyes of Europe on his tail,” I can only say, that the “I’s” are essential to the story I have told. It has been my purpose to narrate, not the life of another, but that career in which I was the principal actor.
There is an almost universal, and not unworthy curiosity to learn the methods and measures, the ups and downs, the strifes and victories, the mental and moral personnel of those who have taken an active and prominent part in human affairs. But an autobiography has attractions and merits superior to those of a “Life” written by another, who, however intimate with its subject, cannot know all that helps to give interest and accuracy to the narrative, or completeness to the character. The story from the actor’s own lips has always a charm it can never have when told by another.
That my narrative is interspersed with amusing incidents, and even the recital of some very practical jokes, is simply because my natural disposition impels me to look upon the brighter side of life, and I hope my humorous experiences will entertain my readers as much as they were enjoyed by myself. And if this record of trials and triumphs, struggles and successes, shall stimulate any to the exercise of that energy, industry, and courage in their callings, which will surely lead to happiness and prosperity, one main object I have in yielding to the solicitations of my friends and my publishers will have been accomplished.
P. T. BARNUM.
Waldemere, Bridgeport,
Connecticut, July 5, 1869.
CHAPTER I.
EARLY LIFE.
MY BIRTH—FIRST PROPERTY—FARMER-BOY LIFE—GOING TO SCHOOL—EARLY ACQUISITIVENESS—A HOLIDAY PEDDLER—FIRST VISIT TO NEW YORK—LEARNING TO “SWAP”—MISERIES FROM MOLASSES CANDY—“IVY ISLAND”—ENTERING UPON MY ESTATE—CLERKSHIP IN A COUNTRY STORE—TRADING MORALS—THE BETHEL MEETING-HOUSE—STOVE QUESTION—SUNDAY SCHOOL AND BIBLE CLASS—MY COMPOSITION—THE ONE THING NEEDFUL.
I was born in the town of Bethel, in the State of Connecticut, July 5, 1810. My name, Phineas Taylor, is derived from my maternal grandfather, who was a great wag in his way, and who, as I was his first grandchild, gravely handed over to my mother at my christening a gift-deed, in my behalf, of five acres of land situated in that part of the parish of Bethel known as the “Plum Trees.” I was thus a real estate owner almost at my very birth; and of my property, “Ivy Island,” something shall be said anon.
My father, Philo Barnum, was the son of Ephraim Barnum, of Bethel, who was a captain in the revolutionary war. My father was a tailor, a farmer, and sometimes a tavern-keeper, and my advantages and disadvantages were such as fall to the general run of farmers’ boys. I drove cows to and from the pasture, shelled corn, weeded the garden; as I grew larger, I rode horse for ploughing, turned and raked hay; in due time I handled the shovel and the hoe, and when I could do so I went to school.
I was six years old when I began to go to school, and the first date I remember inscribing upon my writing-book was 1818. The ferule, in those days, was the assistant school-master; but in spite of it, I was a willing, and, I think, a pretty apt scholar; at least, I was so considered by my teachers and schoolmates, and as the years went on there were never
