Read the book: «The Life of P.T. Barnum»

CHAPTER I
My Early History

First Appearance – School Experience – John Haight – Breaking the Ice – A Debt Discharged – Living Statues – Dive, you Vagabond! – Speculation in Horns – The Biter Bit – The Horse and his Rider – The Crisis – John goes to Sea – A Naval Officer – Pennies and Sixpennies – Fish out of Water – First Visit to New York – Adventures in the City – Speculation in Oranges – Guns and Torpedoes – Funds running low – My first Swop – Vast Supplies – Corporation Morals – End of the Bargain.

MY first appearance upon this stage was on the 5th day of July, Anno Domini 1810. Independence Day had gone by, the cannons had ceased to thunder forth their remembrances of our National Anniversary, the smoke had all cleared away, the drums had finished their rattle, and when peace and quiet were restored, I made my début.

This propensity of keeping out of harm’s way has always stuck by me. I have often thought that were I forced to go to war, the first arms that I should examine would be my legs. I should scarcely fulfil the plan of the Yankee soldier who fired a few stray shots at the enemy on his own hook, and then departed, singing,

“He that fights and runs away,

May live to fight another day.”

I am decidedly a man of peace, and the first three words of the first line would never correctly apply to me if it was possible for me to appropriate the three words which follow them.

I am not aware that my advent created any peculiar commotion in the village, though my good mother declares that I made a great deal of noise the first hour I saw the light, and that she has never been able to discover any cessation since.

I must pass by the first seven years of my life – during which my grandfather crammed me with sugar and loaded me with pennies, to buy raisins and candies, which he always instructed me to solicit from the store-keeper at the “lowest cash price” – and proceed to talk of later events.

I commenced going to school at the age of about six years. The first date which I recollect inscribing upon my writing-book, was 1818. A schoolhouse in those days was a thing to be dreaded – a schoolmaster, a kind of being to make the children tremble. My first school-teacher was a Mr. Camp, the second Mr. Zerah Judson, the third a Mr. Curtiss from Newtown, the fourth Dr. Orris T. Taylor, and afterwards my uncle Alanson Taylor, etc. In the summers Miss Hannah Starr, an excellent teacher, of whom I was an especial favorite, and for whom I have ever entertained the highest respect, was our school-mistress. The first three male teachers used the ferule prodigiously, and a dark dungeon which was built in the house, was tenanted nearly all the time during school hours, by some unlucky juvenile frequently under eight years of age, who had incurred the displeasure of the “one-man power.”

I was generally accounted a pretty apt scholar, and as I increased in years, there were but two or three in school who were considered my superiors. In arithmetic I was unusually quick and I recollect, at the age of twelve years, being called out of bed one night by my teacher, who had laid a small wager with a neighbor that I could figure up and give the correct number of feet in a load of wood in five minutes. The neighbor stated the dimensions, and as I had no slate in the house I marked them on the stove pipe, and thereon also figured my calculations, and gave the result in less than two minutes, to the great delight of my teacher, my mother, and myself, and to the no small astonishment of our incredulous neighbor. My father was a tailor, a farmer, and sometimes a tavern-keeper; so I was often kept out of school, and never had any “advantages” except at the common district school, and one summer at the “Academy” in Danbury, a distance of three miles, which I marched and countermarched six times per week.

Like most farmers’ boys, I was obliged to drive and fetch the cows, carry in firewood, shell corn, weed beets and cabbages, and, as I grew larger, I rode horse for ploughing, turned and raked hay, and in due time handled “the shovel and the hoe,” as well as the plough; but I never really liked to work.

One of my playmates, who also had occasion to drive cows the same road with myself, and who was two years my senior, I will in these pages call John Haight. He was the son of Dr. Ansel Haight, one of our village physicians. John was a pretty hard customer. He was profane, bullying, fond of visiting other people’s peach and apple orchards, water-melon patches, etc. Many is the whipping that fell to my lot for disobeying my mother’s injunction “not to play with that John Haight.”

John was a regular raw-head and bloody-bones to all prudent mothers, and although he had a happy faculty of coaxing their sons into scrapes, he never helped them out. The boys generally both liked and feared him. They liked him for his impudent, daredevil sort of character, and they feared him because he was a terrible tyrant, ruling his mates with a rod of iron, and flogging all who presumed to disobey him.

On one occasion a dozen of the schoolboys – John among the rest – were skating upon a pond where the water was about twelve feet deep. John, prompted by his reckless spirit, dashed out on a portion of the pond where the ice was known to be thin, and, breaking through, nearly disappeared. He however caught by the ice, and struggled to get out, with nothing but his head and shoulders visible. John was then about fourteen years of age, the other boys ranging from ten to twelve. He called lustily for assistance, but we were all afraid to approach the dangerous locality. The ice kept giving way under the pressure of his arms, while he kept following it up, struggling and calling for help. We were shy and remained at a respectful distance. John, seeing our fears, became excited, and swore, in the most bitter tones, that if we did not help him he would give every one of us a “thundering licking” if he ever did get out.

Not relishing this threat, and with the spirit of thoughtlessness which marks boys of that age, we all decamped, leaving poor John to his fate. We quite expected he would be drowned, and as he had flogged several of us since morning, we did not much care what became of him. The next day I met one of my comrades. His head was enveloped in a cotton flag handkerchief, from under which I could perceive peeping out the edge of a black eye.

“What is the matter?” I inquired.

“John Haight got out yesterday, and has licked me this morning for not helping him,” was the reply.

The next day, as I was approaching the pond for another skating spree, I met John.

“Stop, or you’ll catch your death-blow!” roared John.

I halted as suddenly as if I had received the same command from a captain of artillery.

He approached me so closely that I could feel his breath upon my face, and looking me square in the eye, he exclaimed:

“Mr. Taylor Barnum, it seems to me I owe you a licking.” He then very deliberately divested himself of his coat, threw it upon the snow, and proceeded to cancel the debt in double quick time. In less than two minutes I was pretty well pummelled, and started for home, “drowned in tears.” My mother inquired the cause of my troubles, and when I informed her, she replied that I was served right for keeping such company.

A week had not elapsed after John’s accident before the round dozen of his schoolmates had received their promised “licking.” The boys were generally careful not to complain at home when John had whipped them, lest their fathers should administer the rod for having been caught in such company.

My father met John a few days after his accident, and never having heard a word about it, among other remarks he said, “Well, John, do you skate any now-a-days?”

“Oh, yes, Uncle Phile; the other day I skated clear up to here,” answered John, pointing to his neck with imperturbable gravity.

In spite of the tyranny of that boy, I preferred his companionship to that of any other of my mates; and though the family removed to Norwalk, so many of my early memories are linked with him that I feel impelled to relate additional incidents concerning him, although I was not immediately interested in them.

The Sunday after the family removed, (it was in midsummer,) John took his younger brother into the creek to bathe. Just as the various congregations were pouring out of the churches, John and Tom were seen perfectly naked standing upon the railing of the bridge.

“Don’t you stir till I give the word,” said John to his almost helpless brother.

The crowds of ladies and gentlemen were fast approaching the bridge, but the brothers stood fixed as statues. As the first score of persons stepped upon the bridge, and hundreds were at their heels, John exclaimed, at the top of his voice, “Now, Tom, dive, you little vagabond – dive!” at the same time pushing poor little Tom off into the deep creek, which was running thirty feet below. John himself leaped at the same instant, and in a few moments afterwards was seen swimming like a duck to the shore, with little Tom on his back.

While living in Norwalk, a comb-maker, who looked more to interest than principle, one day said to him, “John, the country comb-makers are having a good many horns come up on board the sloops, and they are stored in the warehouse of Munson Hoyt & Co. on the dock. If you can manage to hook some of them occasionally, I’ll buy them of you at a shilling apiece.” This was less than half their value, but as John wanted spending money, he assented.

The next night he brought the comb-maker four fine-looking ox horns, and received half a dollar for the larceny. The following night he brought as many more. The comb-maker cautioned John to be very careful and not get caught. John thanked him for his kind warning, and promised to conduct his thefts with the most profound secresy. Night after night, and week after week, did John bring horns and receive the rewards of his iniquity. Months rolled on, and John still escaped suspicion. At last he brought in a dozen horns at once, and insisted on receiving three dollars for them; “For,” said he, “they are much larger than any I ever before ‘hooked,’ and are worth treble what I ask for them.” The comb-maker looked at them, and exclaimed, in astonishment, “Why, these are the largest kind of Spanish horns. Where did you get them?”

“At the storehouse on the wharf, of course,” replied John.

The comb-maker had some misgivings. “I’ll pay you two dollars on account,” he continued, “and in the morning I’ll go down to the storehouse and examine the lot.”

John received his two dollars, but it was the last money he ever earned in that way. The next morning the comb-maker discovered that there were no such horns in the warehouse, and he also learned the uncomfortable fact that John Haight had received over a hundred dollars for stealing horns from the comb-maker’s own pile in the back shop, and bringing them into the front door for sale!

The following Fourth of July was celebrated in Norwalk by horse-racing. I was present. The owner of one high-mettled steed desired to enter him for the purse, but no person of sufficiently light weight could be found who dared to ride him. He had thrown many a good rider, and the equestrians in those parts were shy about mounting him. John heard of the owner’s dilemma, and as he never feared anything, he volunteered to ride, provided in case of winning he should have a portion of the stakes. The owner readily assented to this proposition, and John was soon astride the fractious animal. Preliminaries were settled, the judges took their stand, the horses were brought into line, and all started at the word “go.” Before they had reached half a mile, every horse was at the top of his speed, under the incessant application of whip and spur; when, quick as thought, John’s horse, frightened by some object at the road-side, came to a dead stand-still, and threw the rider headlong over a stone wall about seven feet high!

Hundreds of persons ran to the spot, and poor John was taken up for dead. A large contusion was found on his forehead from which the blood was running profusely, and several other frightful wounds marked his face and portions of his body. His father and other physicians were soon upon the ground. John was bled and restoratives applied, but in vain. He remained insensible, and was carried home on a litter. The sports of the day ceased, and the village was overspread with gloom. John was not what might be termed absolutely vicious, and his eccentricities furnished such a fund of amusement to the villagers that they felt “they could better spare a better person.”

“Will he die, do you think?” was the oft-repeated question addressed to such persons as were seen to emerge from the house where John lay in a stupor.

“There seems no hope of his recovery,” was the usual response.

John lay all night without manifesting any signs of life, except an almost imperceptible breathing, and occasionally a mournful and subdued groan.

In the morning he was still unconscious, and the monotony of his darkened chamber was only occasionally broken by some inarticulate mutterings which betrayed the absence of his reason.

A medical consultation was held, and inquirers were told that under the effects of remedies which had been applied, a crisis would probably occur about noon, which would determine whether there was any chance for his recovery. The slow-moving minutes seemed hours as his anxious parents and relatives watched at the silent bedside, and occasionally glanced at the clock. Eleven; half-past eleven; twelve o’clock arrived – and yet no sign of returning consciousness appeared. Ten, fifteen minutes more elapsed, and yet no sign.

“Will he leave us without one word or look of recognition?” inquired his agonized mother.

“We hope and believe,” responded one of the physicians in a whisper, “that even should his case prove fatal, he will return to consciousness in a few minutes, and be in full possession of his senses.”

Ten minutes more passed, and John turned his face slowly towards his anxious watchers. His eyes gradually opened, his lips began to move – all was breathless silence, every ear was on the qui vive to catch the first audible sound.

“Curse that thundering horse – I believe he bolted!” drawled the now conscious John.

A suppressed laugh was heard among the bystanders; the faces of his anxious parents were lit up with smiles, and the physicians declared that with quiet and good nursing he would probably recover.

In a week afterwards John was seen about the streets with his head bandaged, and he himself as ready as ever to embark in the first reckless enterprise that might turn up.

When John attained the age of sixteen years he had become so headstrong that his parents found him quite unmanageable. His father therefore determined upon sending him to sea. John, nothing loth, accompanied him to New York, and an arrangement was soon made for him to go before the mast on board a stout brig bound for Rio Janeiro. He was somewhat fractious during the first few days at sea, but under the discipline of a resolute mate he soon was mellowed down, and behaved well. He returned to New York with the vessel, and of his own choice shipped for another voyage.

On his second arrival at Rio, his clothing was stolen by some of the sailors. He was vexed, quitted the brig, and secreted himself, being determined not to return in her. The captain vainly sought for him, and was obliged to return to New York without him. The day the brig’s arrival in New York was announced, John’s father (who had removed to that city) went down to the wharf to see his son. His surprise and grief were great upon being told that John had left the ship, and remained in South America. His family were filled with sorrow, and the captain was urged to try, on the next trip, to induce him to return. Unfortunately the captain was obliged to make a trip to Liverpool and back, and another to New Orleans, before again visiting the Brazils.

At last, however, he was again ready to set sail. Dr. Haight placed a hundred dollars in his hands, and begged him to find his son, use the money for his benefit, and bring him back to his anxious parents. The captain promised to do all in his power.

When the brig arrived at Rio, the captain went on shore, and almost the first man he met was John Haight, with an epaulette upon each shoulder, and in the full dress of an officer in the Brazilian navy.

“Why, Haight, is it possible this is you?” exclaimed the astonished captain.

“Well, I guess it is a chap of about my size,” returned John with some dignity.

“I am glad to see you, but astonished to behold you in that dress,” responded the captain.

“I expect to astonish some other folks before I die,” replied the young officer.

“But I want you to return with me without fail,” rejoined the captain. “Your family are in great distress about you, and your father has sent a hundred dollars by me to relieve your wants.”

“I ha’n’t got any wants,” replied John, “so you may take the money back to father with my compliments; and please say to him that I was robbed of all my clothes in this country, and I will never return home until I lose more, or get the worth of them back.”

John never returned, and I believe was never heard of more. Probably death soon afterwards terminated the career of one, who, had he been carefully trained, might have shone brightly in a high sphere of society, and been an ornament to his family as well as a blessing to his race.

My organ of acquisitiveness must be large, or else my parents commenced its cultivation at an early period. Before I was five years of age I began to accumulate pennies and sixpennies. At the age of six years my grandfather informed me that all my little pieces of coin amounted to one dollar, and if I would go with him and take my money, he would show me something worth having. Placing all my wealth in a pocket handkerchief which was closely wound up and firmly grasped, I started with my grandfather. He took me to the village tavern, then kept by Mr. Stiles Wakelee, and approaching the landlord, he said, “Here, Mr. Wakelee, is the richest boy in this part of the country. He has a dollar in cash. I wish you to take his change and give him a silver dollar for it.”

The complaisant landlord took my deposits and presently handed me a silver dollar.

Never have I seen the time (nor shall I ever again) when I felt so rich, so absolutely independent of all the world, as I did when I looked at that monstrous big silver dollar, and felt that it was all my own. Talk of “cart wheels,” there was never one half so large as that dollar looked to me. I believed, without the slightest reservation, that this entire earth and all its contents could be purchased by that wonderful piece of bullion, and that it would be a bad bargain at that.

But my dollar did not long remain alone. My mother taught me that I should still save my pennies, and I did so. As I grew larger, my grandfather paid me ten cents per day for riding the horse which preceded the ox-team in ploughing, and I hit upon various expedients for adding to my pile. On “training days,” instead of spending money, I was earning it in the vocation of a peddler. My stock in trade consisted of a gallon of molasses, boiled down and worked into molasses candy, called in those times “cookania,” and I usually found myself a dollar richer at the end of “training,” than I was at the commencement. As I always had a remarkable taste for speculation, my holiday stock soon increased, and comprised “ginger-bread,” cookies, sugar candies, and cherry rum. The latter article consisted of a demijohn of New England rum, in which was put a quantity of wild cherries, and I believe a little sugar. I soon learned that the soldiers were good cherry-rum customers, and no sooner did I hear the words “halt,” “ground arms,” than I approached the “trainers” with my decanter and wine-glass. In a few years I should have been a second Crœsus in wealth, had not my father considerately allowed me to purchase my own clothing. This arrangement kept my pile reduced to a moderate size. Always looking out for the main chance, however, I had sheep of my own, a calf of which I was the sole proprietor, and other individual property which made me feel, at twelve years of age, that I was quite a man of substance.

I felt at the same time that I had not reached my proper sphere. The farm was no place for me. I always disliked work. Headwork I was excessively fond of. I was always ready to concoct fun, or lay plans for money-making, but hand-work was decidedly not in my line. My father insisted that I could hoe and plough and dig in the garden as well as anybody else, but I generally contrived to shirk the work altogether, or by slighting it, get through with the day’s work.

I was not quite twelve years of age when I visited the commercial metropolis for the first time. It happened as follows: My father, as before stated, kept the village tavern. Late one afternoon in January, 1822, Mr. Daniel Brown, of Southbury, Ct., arrived at our house with a drove of fat cattle which he was taking to New York for sale. The stock were put into our large barnyard, the horses ridden by himself and assistant were stabled, and Mr. Brown having partaken of a warm supper, drew off his boots, put on his slippers, and sat down by the fire to spend the evening comfortably.