CHAPTER IX

HUMBUGGED AND BANKRUPT

I

Barnum’s interest in the future of Bridgeport, Connecticut, and its suburbs as a manufacturing center was one of the abiding influences of his financial life, and he did more than any other one man to make that city such a center. In 1851 he purchased with William H. Noble, a wealthy citizen of Bridgeport, 224 acres of land on the east side of the Pequonnock River, where they planned a new manufacturing suburb, with model houses for sober workmen. The new city was laid out with an eye to beauty and convenience as well as profit; trees were planted, and an eight-acre grove was set aside as a park. Then Barnum and his partner began to sell lots at cost, reserving for themselves enough property to guarantee a large profit when the new city should begin to flourish and property should be in demand. The purchasers of lots were constrained to build after a style of architecture approved by Barnum and his associate--there is no record of an attempt to make it Oriental--and they planned a city which for neatness would be an example to other communities, and which would harbor enough manufactories to keep its happy population out of mischief.

The two real estate operators built a large toll bridge to connect their new city of East Bridgeport with Bridgeport proper. Soon a coach builder set up his factory on the Barnum and Noble property, and other buildings began to rise in the town, for Barnum advanced money liberally, permitting purchasers who would build in East Bridgeport to repay their debts in instalments; he had become so infatuated with East Bridgeport that any one with a scheme for its improvement or a new enterprise to be located there was listened to with undivided attention that soon developed into enthusiasm.

A small clock company which manufactured its product in Litchfield, Connecticut, had absorbed some of Barnum’s money; he became a director in the company, which soon afterwards failed, and Barnum took over the clocks on hand, removing the materials to East Bridgeport. At about the same time Theodore Terry’s clock factory at Ansonia had been destroyed by fire, and Terry approached Barnum with the proposal to build a new clock factory in East Bridgeport. A joint stock company was formed, known as the Terry & Barnum Manufacturing Company. Barnum’s Litchfield clocks and Terry’s stock which had not been destroyed by the fire were combined, and in 1852 Barnum built a factory in East Bridgeport for the manufacture of clocks.

Several years later Barnum was approached by the Jerome Clock Company, the largest clock manufactory in America, for financial aid. The company’s factories were situated in New Haven, Connecticut, and Barnum supplied extra capital on condition that the company would remove as soon as convenient to East Bridgeport. The Jerome Company employed more than seven hundred workmen, and Barnum saw in this number a valuable addition to the population of East Bridgeport. He wrote in his autobiography that Chauncey Jerome, the reputable president of the company, visited him in Bridgeport on this business, but Chauncey Jerome later wrote a book in which he said that he had never seen Barnum until after the termination of their business relations.[14]

Barnum was finally persuaded to lend his name as security for $110,000 to aid the Jerome Clock Company. The cause of the need for $110,000, as stated to Barnum, was the dull business year, and Barnum wrote that he was impressed by the information that unless the company could get financial aid it would be forced to dismiss many of its honest, toiling operatives. He was also impressed by the general reputation of the company, whose clocks were known and sold throughout the world; they were sold even in China, where, Barnum said, the natives took the movements out and used the cases as temples for their gods, “thus proving,” wrote Barnum, “that faith was possible without ‘works.’” Chauncey Jerome’s reputation was another thing that pleased Barnum. He was a wealthy man, a pioneer clock maker, who with Seth Thomas had been associated with the manufacture of American clocks since the industry was established in this country. But what interested Barnum even more was that Chauncey Jerome had built a church in New Haven and had donated a magnificent clock to a church in Bridgeport.

When the cashier of a New Haven bank expressed the opinion in a letter to Barnum that the Jerome Clock Company deserved the highest confidence, Barnum gave his notes for $50,000 and promised to accept the Jerome Clock Company’s drafts for $60,000. He was also willing that his notes should be renewed any number of times, providing that the stipulated sum of $110,000 was not exceeded. He was told that it was impossible to say when his notes would be needed most, and therefore he signed his name to notes without dates for $3,000, $5,000, and $10,000.

The Jerome Clock Company went into bankruptcy in the autumn of 1855. From time to time Barnum had been asked for additional notes by the agent of the company, which he refused to furnish until he had received back his canceled notes. This was done, and he soon grew confident enough in the Jerome Company to neglect the precaution. He was told one day that the banks were hesitating to discount his notes, and upon inquiry he discovered that they had not been taken up as they expired, and that the blank date notes he had issued had been made payable for longer terms than he had intended. He soon discovered that unwittingly he had indorsed notes for more than half a million dollars, and that his money had been used to pay the debts and expenses of the Jerome Clock Company. This drain on his credit was one that Barnum’s resources could not withstand, and he was compelled to go into bankruptcy.

The entire Jerome Clock Company transaction is both complicated and obscure. The only sources of information concerning it are Barnum’s own statements in his autobiography, on the one hand, and Chauncey Jerome’s statements in his autobiography on the other. Neither deserves to be believed, if we consider the weight of the evidence offered. Barnum shouted fraud loudly and accused Chauncey Jerome personally. Jerome wrote that he knew nothing about the transactions, that he was retired at the time, although he owned stock in the company, and that all the financial dealings with Barnum were conducted by the secretary of the Jerome Clock Company, who was making desperate but sincere efforts to retrieve the company’s fortunes. It is likely that both men were either swindled or deceived by some one who thought that, eventually, everything would be all right. And, what made Barnum even angrier, the company had never even removed its more than seven hundred workmen to East Bridgeport!

II

As soon as Barnum’s failure was announced, there was an almost universal cry of “I told you so!” He was called an adventurer, a swindler, and a fraud by persons and papers who but a short time before had hailed him as a genius. His autobiography, which had been published only a year before the bankruptcy, in so far as it admitted many deceits and much humbug, did Barnum great harm in public opinion when he went into bankruptcy. Especially were the newspapers anxious to point the obvious moral, since it was at them Barnum had laughed in his autobiography, for, while professing to admire newspapers and their editors, Barnum’s book showed by the facts of his career that his deceptions were made possible by either the innocence or the ignorance of editors. James Gordon Bennett, especially, seized the opportunity with avidity, and the _Herald_ for March 17, 1856, contained this editorial:

“THE FALL OF BARNUM--The author of that book glorifying himself as a millionaire from the arts and appliances of obtaining money upon false pretenses, is, according to his own statements in court, completely crushed out. All the profits of all his Fejee Mermaids, all his woolly horses, Greenland whales, Joice Heths, negroes turning white, Tom Thumbs, and monsters and impostures of all kinds, including the reported $70,000 received by the copyright of that book, are all swept away, Hindoo palace, elephants, and all, by the late invincible showman’s remorseless assignees. It is a case eminently adapted to ‘point a moral or adorn a tale.’”

The tale was adorned with much morality, preached against him from the pulpit, and preached to him in private. Barnum later said that he was able to endure all the abuse with equanimity, but that it always made him furious to read moral strictures about himself in which were mentioned the “instability of ill-gotten gains.”

But Barnum had many friends as well as detractors. Individuals, corporations, hotels, actors, actresses and singers, financiers and leading citizens, offered him loans, gifts, benefit performances, and other forms of aid. A letter signed by more than one thousand business organizations and citizens, including Cornelius Vanderbilt, James W. Gerard, Simeon Draper and Robert Stuyvesant, was published in the New York newspapers. It urged Barnum to accept a series of public benefit performances that his wife and children might have security. Barnum answered, declining, “because I have ever made it a point to ask nothing of the public on personal grounds, and should prefer, while I can possibly avoid that contingency, to accept nothing from it without the honest conviction that I had individually given it in return a full equivalent.” He added that he still had his health and felt competent, while that remained with him, to earn a livelihood for himself and his family. Bridgeport congregated in a mass meeting, headed by the Mayor, and resolved its utmost sympathy for its distinguished citizen. Mr. Dwight Morris said that “it was principally to him [Barnum] that they owed their present beautiful resting-place for the dead. (Applause.)”[15] Some citizens of Bridgeport offered him $50,000. Barnum thanked them for their kind resolutions and declined their generosity. He wrote to his townsfolk in part:

“No man who has not passed through similar scenes can fully comprehend the misery which has been crowded into the last few months of my life; but I have endeavored to preserve my integrity, and I humbly hope and believe that I am being taught humility and reliance upon Providence, which will yet afford a thousand times more peace and true happiness than can be acquired in the din, strife, and turmoil, excitements and struggles of this money-worshiping age. The man who coins his brain and blood into gold, who wastes all of his time and thought upon the almighty dollar, who looks no higher than blocks of houses and tracts of land, and whose iron chest is crammed with stocks and mortgages tied up with his own heart-strings, may console himself with the idea of safe investments, but he misses a pleasure which I firmly believe this lesson was intended to secure to me, and which it will secure if I can fully bring my mind to realize its wisdom. I think I hear you say--

“‘When the devil was sick, The devil a saint would be. But when the devil got well, The devil a saint was he.’

“Granted, but after all, the man who looks upon the loss of money as anything compared to the loss of honor, or health, or self-respect, or friends,--a man who can find no source of happiness except in riches,--is to be pitied for his blindness. I certainly feel that the loss of money, of home, and my home comforts is dreadful,--that to be driven again to find a resting-place away from those I love, and from where I had fondly supposed I was to end my days, and where I had lavished time, money, everything, to make my descent to the grave placid and pleasant,--is, indeed, a severe lesson; but, after all, I firmly believe it is for the best, and though my heart may break, I will not repine.”

All is for the best, in this best of possible worlds!

Barnum paid his personal debts and sold his assets to make good some of his notes. Though he took the public sympathy without any suggestion that he did not need it, Barnum was not exactly penniless, a condition which some of his pitiful public statements of the time would seem to indicate. The lease of the American Museum, one of his most valuable possessions, was in Mrs. Barnum’s name. The collection itself was sold to Greenwood and Butler, two of Barnum’s former managers, for double its original cost. This sum was used to pay clock debts, but the lease held by Mrs. Barnum brought her $19,000 a year. “The situation is disheartening,” Barnum had said, “but I have experience, energy, health, and hope.” He also had money in his wife’s name, a world-wide notoriety which developed in spite of some newspapers into sympathy, and valuable personal friends.

Barnum’s creditors, and especially people who had bought up the clock notes cheaply, caused him much annoyance. He was examined in supplementary proceedings daily for a long period. The process was called, “putting Barnum through a course of sprouts.” This heckling won him much sympathy from the public and the newspapers. One lawyer asked him his business. He answered, “Attending bar.” “Attending bar! Attending bar! Why, I thought you were a teetotaler.” “So I am,” said Barnum. “And yet, sir, you have the audacity to assert that you peddle rum all day, and drink none yourself?” “That is not a relevant question,” said Barnum. The judge decided that it was a relevant question, and Barnum finally answered, “Very well, I do attend bar, and yet never drink intoxicating liquors.” “Where do you attend bar, and for whom?” “I attend the bar of this court nearly every day, for the benefit of two-penny lawyers and their greedy clients,” was the answer. When another lawyer, who had been asking him many questions, said apologetically, “You see, Mr. Barnum, I am searching after the small thing; I am willing to take even the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table,” Barnum asked, “Which are you, then, Lazarus, or one of the dogs?”

Barnum was asked in court how he lived without any means, and he answered: “I hired a furnished house in Eighth Street last December, where my family resides, and where we have kept five boarders from the first day that we took the house.” “Do you pretend to say that you make your living by keeping boarders?” asked the lawyer. “Partly so; my vegetables were raised last year on my land in Connecticut, and my son-in-law at Bridgeport sends me a box of meat every week. I have also a few friends who would not let me exactly starve this year. I have received various letters from friends at a distance offering to send me money, which I have declined. One wealthy gentleman, whom I scarcely knew in Bridgeport, offered to be one of ten to raise me $100,000, without security, if I could be relieved from clock debts and return to Connecticut to reside. But I desired no assistance, and would not receive it.” “What does your wardrobe consist of?” the lawyer asked. “I am ready to answer truthfully all civil questions,” said Barnum, “but I will not be insulted! My position is not a pleasant one, but I shall try to meet all my troubles with patience. If you choose to trifle unnecessarily with my feelings, however, I shall be protected by the Court, or will protect myself.” “By advice of his counsel, Mr. Barnum answered the question,” said the _New York Tribune_. “I have only one suit of clothes besides the one on my back, and this you will see is rather seedy.” “Do you own a gold watch?” Mr. Barnum was much nettled, and appealed to his counsel, who told him he was bound to answer the question. “Yes, sir.” “What did it cost?” “About $250.” “Where is it?” “I believe it is in my pocket.” “Do you own any diamonds?” “Does that look like a diamond?” asked Barnum, pointing to a plain gold pin on his cravat. “That is not answering my question,” said the lawyer. “I own a diamond pin and ring, which cost about $300.” “Where are they?” “I can produce them when they are wanted.” “Do you own a pianoforte?” “I do,” said Barnum, and added triumphantly, “but, unfortunately for you, it is mortgaged for about its full value. I have had the money and spent it.” “Have you any money in the bank?” “I have no money except what is in my pocket.” “How much is that?” “I can count it for you, but there is less than $25.” “Never mind, I don’t want it, if that is all you have got.” “Mr. Barnum: ‘Then I shall probably spend it before long.’”[16]

In an examination on March 20, 1856, Barnum made a significant statement:

“Q. You stated, in your examination yesterday, that you were the poorest kind of business man. Do you mean to convey the impression that you are _non compos mentis_? A. I mean to say that I do not understand the details of accounts and a credit business; my business has always been a cash business--‘pay before you go in,’--I never knew the meaning of the expression ‘bills payable’ until within a year.” This is one more proof that Barnum was always a poor business man. During his early career he understood nothing of ordinary business methods and was not interested in them. He had also had no experience in financing his large operations. The Museum was bought on its receipts, and the Jenny Lind enterprise was refused financial backing. When Barnum was approached with a financial statement as complicated as that of the Jerome Clock Company must have been, he was undoubtedly at a loss. In fact, whenever he turned from showmanship to the ordinary operations with which the average small business man and clerk are occupied daily, he was completely bewildered.

Soon after Barnum’s bankruptcy the Wheeler & Wilson Sewing Machine Company bought property in East Bridgeport for its large factories. This caused Barnum to renew his faith in the future of East Bridgeport, and he repurchased some of his property from creditors with $5,000 loaned to him by Mr. Wheeler, of Wheeler & Wilson. This property eventually brought him more money than he had lost in the Jerome Clock Company failure.

Barnum had received one letter of sympathy which he now took advantage of. General Tom Thumb wrote from Jones’ Hotel, Philadelphia:

“MY DEAR MR. BARNUM,--I understand your friends, and that means ‘all creation,’ intend to get up some benefits for your family. Now, my dear sir, just be good enough to remember that I belong to that mighty crowd, and I must have a finger (or at least a ‘thumb’) in that pie. I am bound to appear on all such occasions in some shape, from ‘Jack the Giant Killer,’ upstairs, to the doorkeeper down, whichever may serve you best; and there are some feats that I can perform as well as any other man of my inches. I have just started out on my western tour, and have my carriage, ponies, and assistants all here, but I am ready to go on to New York, bag and baggage, and remain at Mrs. Barnum’s service as long as I, in my small way, can be useful. Put me into ‘heavy’ work, if you like. Perhaps I cannot lift as much as some other folks, but just take your pencil in hand and you will see I can draw a tremendous load. I drew two hundred tons at a single pull to-day, embracing two thousand persons, whom I hauled up safely and satisfactorily to all parties, at one exhibition. Hoping that you will be able to fix up a lot of magnets that will attract all New York, and volunteering to sit on any part of the loadstone, I am, as ever, your little but sympathizing friend,

“GEN. TOM THUMB.”

Barnum did not accept this offer immediately, but early in 1857 he arranged his affairs and left for England with General Tom Thumb and Cordelia Howard, a small girl whose Little Eva in _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ was very popular in this country.