The Life of P.T. Barnum

“Go to blazes with your bet!” was the savage reply, and the wood-cutter threw his axe upon the ground.

The by-standers all joined in a hearty laugh, which increased the anger of the victim. They went to dinner, and when they returned he was sitting on the pile of wood, muttering vengeance against the whole village. After teasing him for an hour or two, my grandfather paid his demands.

The wood-chopper taking the money said: “That’s all right, but I guess I shall know who employs me before I chop the next cord of wood.”

An old gentleman lived in Bethel whom I will call “Uncle Reese.” He was an habitual snuff-taker. He always carried a “bean” in his box, which, he insisted, imparted a much improved flavor to the snuff. “Uncle Reese” peddled clams, fish, etc., on the road from Norwalk to Danbury. On one occasion my grandfather, who was also a snuff-taker, borrowed the bean from him for a few days. In the mean time the borrower whittled a piece of pine into the exact shape of the bean, and then taking it to a neighboring hat shop dropped it into the dye kettle, and thus colored it so that it was almost a fac-simile of the original bean. When Uncle Reese called for his treasure, my grandfather took from his snuff-box its wooden representative, and handed it over with many thanks.

Uncle Reese placed the imposition unsuspectingly into his snuff-box, and went on his way. He was just starting for Norwalk for a load of clams. Before he returned the next day, my grandfather had acquainted nearly all the town with the joke, in every case enjoining secresy. That caution was hardly necessary, for if there was ever a town where the inhabitants universally enjoyed a practical joke, that town was Danbury.

As Uncle Reese passed through Bethel and Danbury the next day, nearly every man, woman and child begged a pinch of snuff, and they all asked, as a particular favor, that it might be taken immediately under the bean, so as to secure some of the extra fragrance. The snuff-box was replenished several times that day. Many persons inquired of him what the properties of the bean were, where it came from, etc. He informed them that it grew on a tree in the East Indies, that it always imparted a peculiar and delightful flavor, and in fact that no snuff was fit for the human nose until it had been properly scented by the bean.

After the illusion had been kept up several days, my grandfather invited some twenty friends to dine with him the following week. “Uncle Reese” was one of the number, for the grand dénouement was appointed for that occasion. The fates were however against him. The victim came into our store to replenish his snuff-box. Dr. Orris Tyler Taylor, a most eccentric individual, (son of Uncle Samuel Taylor,) was present. He asked permission to examine the bean. Uncle Reese assured him it grew on a tree in the East Indies. The doctor run his knife through it, and the piece of pine wood, white as snow, was laid open to view.

“Uncle Reese” was astonished beyond measure. A roar of laughter which followed from all present, convinced him that there was a trick, and that all were in the secret. After a moment’s reflection, he exclaimed, “That old sinner, Phin Taylor, did that!”

My grandfather was never forgiven to the day of his death. He also was sorely chagrined that he could not have been present when the joke was disclosed. He blamed the doctor very much for the premature exposure, and declared he would rather have lost the best cow he owned, than to have had the secret divulged before the day of his dinner-party. I have no doubt he spoke the truth.

My father was brought to his bed with a severe attack of fever in March, and departed this life, I trust for a better world, on the 7th of September, 1825, aged 48 years.

I was then fifteen years of age. I stood by his bedside. The world looked dark indeed, when I realized that I was for ever deprived of my paternal protector! I felt that I was a poor inexperienced boy, thrown out on the wide world to shift for myself, and a sense of forlornness completely overcame me. My mother was left with five children. I was the oldest, and the youngest was only seven years of age. We followed the remains of husband and parent to their resting-place, and returned to our desolate home, feeling that we were forsaken by the world, and that but little hope existed for us this side the grave.

Administrators to the estate were appointed, and the fact was soon apparent that my father had not succeeded in providing any of this world’s goods for the support of his family. The estate was declared insolvent, and it did not pay fifty cents upon a dollar. My mother, like many widows before her, was driven to many straits to support her little family, but being industrious, economical and persevering, she succeeded in a few years in redeeming the homestead and becoming its sole possessor. The few dollars which I had accumulated, I had loaned to my father, and held his note therefor, but it was decided that the property of a minor belonged to the father, and my claim was ruled out. I was subsequently compelled to earn as clerk in a store the money to pay for the pair of shoes that were purchased for me to wear at my father’s funeral. I can truly say, therefore, that I began the world with nothing, and was barefooted at that.

I remained with Mr. Weed as clerk but a little longer, and then removed to “Grassy Plain,” a mile north-west of the village of Bethel, where I engaged with James S. Keeler and Lewis Whitlock, as clerk in their store, at six dollars per month and my board – my mother doing my washing. I soon entered into speculations on my own account, and by dint of economy succeeded in getting a little sum of money ahead. I boarded with Mrs. Jerusha Wheeler and her daughters, Jerusha and Mary. As nearly everybody had a nick-name, the two former ladies were called “Rushia” – the old lady being designated “Aunt Rushia.” They were an exceedingly nice and worthy family, and made me an excellent home. I chose my uncle Alanson Taylor as my “guardian,” and was guided by his counsel. I was extremely active as a clerk, was considered a ’cute trader, and soon gained the confidence and esteem of my employers. I remember with gratitude that they allowed me many facilities for earning money.

On one occasion a peddler called at our store with a large wagon filled with common green glass bottles of various sizes, holding from half a pint to a gallon. My employers were both absent, and I bantered him to trade his whole load of bottles in exchange for goods. Thinking me a greenhorn, he accepted my proposition, and I managed to pay him off in unsaleable goods at exorbitant prices. Soon after he departed, Mr. Keeler returned and found his little store half filled with bottles!

“What under heavens have you been doing?” said he in surprise.

“I have been trading goods for bottles;” said I.

“You have made a fool of yourself,” he exclaimed, “for you have bottles enough to supply the whole town for twenty years.”

I begged him not to be alarmed, and promised to get rid of the entire lot within three months.

“If you can do that,” said he, “you can perform a miracle.”

I then showed him the list of goods which I had exchanged for the bottles, with the extra prices annexed, and he found upon figuring that I had bartered a lot of worthless trash at a rate which brought the new merchandise to considerably less than one-half the wholesale price. He was pleased with the result, but wondered what could be done with the bottles. We stowed away the largest portion of them in the loft of our store.

My employers kept what was called a barter store. Many of the hat manufacturers traded there and paid us in hats, giving “store orders” to their numerous employees, including journeymen, apprentices, female hat trimmers, etc., etc. Of course we had a large number of customers, and I knew them all intimately.

I may say that when I made the bottle trade I had a project in my head for selling them all, as well as getting rid of a large quantity of tinware which had been in the store for some years, and had become begrimed with dirt and fly-specks. That project was a lottery. On the first wet day, therefore, when there were but few customers, I spent several hours in making up my scheme. The highest prize was $25, payable in any kind of goods the customer desired. Then I had fifty prizes of $5 each, designating in my scheme what goods each prize should consist of. For instance, one $5 prize consisted of one pair cotton hose, one cotton handkerchief, two tin cups, four pint glass bottles, three tin skimmers, one quart glass bottle, six tin nutmeg graters, eleven half-pint glass bottles, etc., etc. – the glass and tinware always forming the greater portion of each prize. I had one hundred prizes of one dollar each, one hundred prizes of fifty cents each, and three hundred prizes of twenty-five cents each. There were one thousand tickets at fifty cents each. The prizes amounted to the same as the tickets – $500. I had taken an idea from the church lottery, in which my grandfather was manager, and had many prizes of only half the cost of the tickets. I headed the scheme with glaring capitals, written in my best hand, setting forth that it was a “MAGNIFICENT LOTTERY!” “$25 FOR ONLY 50 CTS.!!” “OVER 550 PRIZES!!!” “ONLY 1000 TICKETS!!!!” “GOODS PUT IN AT THE LOWEST CASH PRICES!!!!!” etc., etc., etc.

The tickets went like wildfire. Customers did not stop to consider the nature of the prizes. Journeymen hatters, boss hatters, apprentice boys, and hat trimming girls bought tickets. In ten days they were all sold. A day was fixed for the drawing of the lottery, and it came off punctually, as announced.

The next day, and for several days thereafter, adventurers came for their prizes. A young lady who had drawn five dollars would find herself entitled to a piece of tape, a spool of cotton, a paper of pins, sixteen tin skimmers, cups, and nutmeg graters, and a few dozen glass bottles of various sizes! She would beg me to retain the glass and tinware and pay her in some other goods, but was informed that such a proceeding would be contrary to the rules of the establishment and could not be entertained for a moment.

One man would find all his prizes to consist of tinware. Another would discover that out of twenty tickets, he had drawn perhaps ten prizes, and that they consisted entirely of glass bottles. Some of the customers were vexed, but most of them laughed at the joke. The basket loads, the arms full, and the bags full of soiled tin and glass bottles which were carried out of our store during the first few days after the lottery drawing, constituted a series of most ludicrous scenes. Scarcely a customer was permitted to depart without one or more specimens of tin or green glass. Within ten days every glass bottle had disappeared, and the old tinware was replaced by a smaller quantity as bright as silver.

My uncle Aaron Nichols, husband of my aunt Laura, was a hat manufacturer on a large scale in Grassy Plains. His employees purchased quantities of tickets. He bought twelve, and was very lucky. He drew seven prizes. Unfortunately they were all to be paid in tin! He took them home one day in his wagon – looking like a tin peddler as he went through the street. Two days afterwards aunt Laura brought them all back.

“I have spent six hours,” said she, “in trying to rub some of this tin bright, but it is impossible. I want you to give me some other goods for it.” I told her it was quite out of the question.

“What on earth do you suppose I can do with all this black tin?” said she.

I replied that if my uncle Nichols had the good fortune to draw so many prizes, it would be presumption in me to dictate what use he should make of them.

“Your uncle is a fool, or he would never have bought any tickets in such a worthless lottery,” said she.

I laughed outright, and that only added to her vexation. She called me many hard names, but I only laughed in return.

Finally, says I, “Aunt Laura, why don’t you take some of your tin over to ‘Aunt Rushia?’ I heard her inquiring this morning at the breakfast table where she could buy some tin skimmers.”

“Well, I can supply her,” said my aunt Laura, taking half-a-dozen skimmers and an assortment of other articles in her apron and proceeding at once to my boarding-house across the street.

“Aunt Rushia,” said she, as she entered the door, “I have come to sell you some tin skimmers.”

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed “Aunt Rushia,” “I have got skimmers enough.”

“Why, Taylor Barnum told me you wanted to buy some,” said aunt Laura in surprise.

“I am afraid that boy is a mischievous young joker,” said aunt Rushia, laughing; “he did that to plague me, for I drew seven skimmers in the lottery.”

Aunt Laura returned more vexed than ever. She emptied the whole lot of tin upon the floor of the store, and declared she would never have it in her house again. She returned home.

I immediately dispatched the lot of tin to her house in a wagon. It reached there before she did, and when she entered her kitchen she found the tinware piled up in the middle of the room, with the following specimen of my poetry dangling from the handle of a tin coffee-pot:

“There was a man whose name was Nick,

He drew seven prizes very slick;

For the avails he took tinware,

Which caused his wife to fret and swear.”

It was several weeks before my aunt Laura forgave me the joke. At about that period, however, she sent me a mince pie nicely covered over in clean white paper, marked on the outside, “A mince pie for Taylor Barnum.”

I was delighted. I cut the string which surrounded it and took off the paper. The pie was baked in one of the unwashed tin platters! Of course I could not eat it, but it was an evidence to me of reconciliation, and that afternoon I took tea with my aunt, where I had enjoyed many an excellent meal before, and have done the same thing scores of times since.

My grandfather enjoyed my lottery speculation very much, and seemed to agree with many others, who declared that I was indeed “a chip of the old block.”

Occasionally some one of my school-mates in Bethel would visit me in the evening, and sleep with me at my boarding-house. James Beebe, a boy of my own age, once came for that purpose. One of our nearest neighbors was Mr. Amos Wheeler, son of the widow, “Aunt Jerusha.” As he and his wife were absent that night, they had arranged that I should sleep in their house, so as not to have their children left alone. I took my chum Jim Beebe with me, as a fellow-lodger. Several days afterwards Jim called on me and said that in dressing himself in the morning, at Mr. Wheeler’s, he had put on the wrong stockings. Instead of getting his own, which were a new pair, he had got an old pair belonging to Mr. Wheeler. They were distinctly marked “A. W.” I told him the only way was for him to return to Mrs. Wheeler her husband’s stockings, and explain to her how the mistake had been made. He did so, and soon returned in a high state of anger. He called Mrs. Wheeler all sorts of hard names. It seems that she examined the old stockings, and notwithstanding the initials of her husband’s name, “A. W.,” were worked into the top of them, she denied that they were his, and of course denied having any stockings in her possession belonging to Jim Beebe.

I confess I thought her conduct was unaccountable. It was difficult to believe that for the sake of a pair of stockings she would state an untruth, and yet it was evident that “A.W.” were not the initials of James Beebe’s name, and that they were the initials of Amos Wheeler. Jim declared that he discovered his mistake on the very day that he dressed himself at Amos Wheeler’s house, and of course Mrs. Wheeler must be mistaken. I showed the stockings to Mr. Wheeler. He did not know so much about his wardrobe as his wife did, but he said he was sure his wife could not be mistaken. Of course we were just as confident that she was mistaken. There could be no doubt about it, but Jim was compelled to take home the old stockings. I was considerably vexed by the circumstance. Jim was downright mad, and declared he would not sleep in Grassy Plains again under any consideration, lest the women might steal all his clothes, and claim them as their own.

I met him a week afterwards, and commenced laughing at him about his old stockings.

“Oh, that is all right,” said he. “You see I happened to sleep with John Williams a night or two before I slept with you, and as all the Williams boys slept in the same room, I got the wrong pair of stockings. John Williams met me a few days ago and told me his brother Adam had a pair of stockings with my initials marked on them, and he concluded therefore that I had worn his and left mine by mistake. I called on Adam, and found that it was as he suspected.”

So it seemed that the A. W. stood for Adam Williams, instead of Amos Wheeler, and that Mrs. Wheeler was right after all. It certainly was a singular coincidence, and made a strong impression on my mind. I have many a time since that simple event reflected that scores, probably hundreds of innocent men have been executed on circumstantial evidence less probable than that which went to prove Amos Wheeler to be the owner of the old stockings bearing his initials.

On Saturday nights I usually went to Bethel to remain with my mother and attend church on the Sabbath. My mother continued for some years to keep the village tavern. One Saturday evening a violent thunder shower came up; it was very dark, and rained in torrents, with occasional intervals of a few minutes. Miss Mary Wheeler (who was a milliner) sent word across to the store that there was a girl at her house from Bethel, who had come up on horseback to obtain her new bonnet, that she was afraid to return home alone, and if I was going to Bethel on horseback that night, she wished me to escort her customer. I assented, and in a few minutes my horse was at “Aunt Rushia’s” door. I went in, and was introduced to a fair, rosy-cheeked, buxom-looking girl, with beautiful white teeth, named “Chairy Hallett.” Of course “Chairy” was a nickname, which I subsequently learned meant “Charity.”

I assisted the young lady into her saddle, was soon mounted on my own horse, and we trotted slowly towards Bethel.

The brief view that I had of this girl by candle-light, had sent all sorts of agreeable sensations through my bosom. I was in a state of feeling quite new to me, and as unaccountable as it was novel. I opened a conversation with her, and finding her affable and in no degree prim or “stuck-up,” (although she was on horseback,) I regretted that the distance to Bethel was not five miles instead of one. A vivid flash of lightning at that moment lighted up the horizon, and gave me a fair view of the face of my interesting companion. I then wished the distance was twenty miles at the least. I was not long in learning that she was a tailoress, working with Mr. Zerah Benedict, of Bethel. The tailoring trade stood much higher in my estimation from that moment than it ever did before. We soon arrived at Bethel, and bidding my fair companion good night, I went to my mother’s. That girl’s face haunted me in my dreams that night. I saw her the next day at church, and on every subsequent Sunday for some time, but no opportunity offered that season for me to renew the acquaintance.

Messrs. Keeler and Whitlock sold out their store of goods to Mr. Lewis Taylor in the summer of 1827. I remained a short time as clerk for Mr. Taylor. They have a proverb in Connecticut, that “the best school in which to have a boy learn human nature, is to permit him to be a tin peddler for a few years.” I think his chances for getting “his eye-teeth cut” would be equally great, in a country barter store like that in which I was clerk. As before stated, many of our customers were hatters, and we took hats in payment for goods. The large manufacturers generally dealt preety fairly by us, but some of the smaller fry occasionally shaved us prodigiously. There probably is no trade in which there can be more cheating than in hats. If a hat was damaged “in coloring” or otherwise, perhaps by a cut of half a foot in length, it was sure to be patched up, smoothed over, and slipped in with others to send to the store. Among the furs used for the nap of hats in those days, were beaver, Russia, nutria, otter, coney, muskrat, etc., etc. The best fur was otter, the poorest was coney.

The hatters mixed their inferior furs with a little of their best, and sold us the hats for “otter.” We in return mixed our sugars, teas, and liquors, and gave them the most valuable names. It was “dog eat dog” – “tit for tat.” Our cottons were sold for wool, our wool and cotton for silk and linen; in fact nearly every thing was different from what it was represented. The customers cheated us in their fabrics: we cheated the customers with our goods. Each party expected to be cheated, if it was possible. Our eyes, and not our ears, had to be our masters. We must believe little that we saw, and less that we heard. Our calicoes were all “fast colors,” according to our representations, and the colors would generally run “fast” enough and show them a tub of soap-suds. Our ground coffee was as good as burned peas, beans, and corn could make, and our ginger was tolerable, considering the price of corn meal. The “tricks of trade” were numerous. If a “peddler” wanted to trade with us for a box of beaver hats worth sixty dollars per dozen, he was sure to obtain a box of “coneys” which were dear at fifteen dollars per dozen. If we took our pay in clocks, warranted to keep good time, the chances were that they were no better than a chest of drawers for that purpose – that they were like Pindar’s razors, “made to sell,” and if half the number of wheels necessary to form a clock could be found within the case, it was as lucky as extraordinary.

Such a school would “cut eye-teeth,” but if it did not cut conscience, morals, and integrity all up by the roots, it would be because the scholars quit before their education was completed!

On one occasion, a hatter named Walter Dibble called to buy some furs from us. For certain reasons I was anxious to play a joke upon him. I sold him several kinds of fur, including “beaver” and “coney.” He wanted some “Russia.” I told him we had none, but Mrs. Wheeler, where I boarded, had several hundred pounds.

“What on earth is a woman doing with ‘Russia?’” said he.

I could not answer, but I assured him that there were 130 pounds of old Rushia, and 150 pounds of young Rushia in Mrs. Wheeler’s house, and under her charge, but whether it was for sale I could not say.

Off he started with a view to make the purchase. He knocked at the door. Mrs. Wheeler, the elder, made her appearance.

“I want to get your Russia,” said the hatter.

Mrs. Wheeler asked him to walk in and be seated. She of course supposed that he had come for her daughter “Rushia.”

“What do you want of Rushia?” asked the old lady.

“To make hats,” was the reply.

“To trim hats, I suppose you mean?” responded Mrs. Wheeler.

“No, for the outside of hats,” replied the hatter.

“Well, I don’t know much about hats,” said the old lady, “but I will call my daughter.”

Passing into another room where “Rushia” the younger was at work, she informed her that a man wanted her to make hats.

“Oh, he means sister Mary, probably. I suppose he wants some ladies’ hats,” replied Rushia, as she passed into the parlor.

“This is my daughter,” said the old lady.

“I want to get your Russia,” said he, addressing the young lady.

“I suppose you wish to see my sister Mary; she is our milliner,” said the young Rushia.

“I wish to see whoever owns the property,” said the hatter.

Sister Mary was sent for, and soon made her appearance. As soon as she was introduced, the hatter informed her that he wished to buy her “Russia.”

“Buy Rushia!” exclaimed Mary in surprise; “I don’t understand you.”

“Your name is Miss Wheeler, I believe,” said the hatter, who was annoyed by the difficulty he met in being understood.

“It is, sir.”

“Ah! very well. Is there old and young Russia in the house?”