P. T. Barnum, New York.—Editor’s compliments. All British children distressed at elephant’s departure. Hundreds of correspondents beg us to inquire on what terms you will kindly return Jumbo. Answer prepaid, unlimited.
LESARGE.
And back went this eminently characteristic reply from the great American showman:—
My compliments to editor “Daily Telegraph” and British nation. Fifty millions of American citizens anxiously awaiting Jumbo’s arrival. My forty years invariable practice of exhibiting best that money could procure, makes Jumbo’s presence here imperative. Hundred thousand pounds would be no inducement to cancel the purchase....
In December next I visit Australia in person with Jumbo and my entire mammoth combination of seven shows, via California, thence through Suez Canal. Following summer to London. I shall then exhibit in every prominent city in Great Britain. May afterwards return Jumbo to his old position in Royal Zoölogical Gardens. Wishing long life and prosperity to the British nation, “The Daily Telegraph,” and Jumbo, I am the public’s obedient servant,
P. T. BARNUM.
To this answer, the “Telegraph” referred in the following editorial:—
“Jumbo’s fate is sealed. The disappointing answer from his new American proprietor, which we published yesterday, proves too clearly that there is nothing to expect from delicacy or remorse in that quarter. Moved by the universal emotion which the approaching departure of London’s gigantic friend had aroused, we communicated with Mr. Barnum, indicating that ‘money was no object’ if he would only listen to the entreaties of the English children, and let the Royal Zoölogical Council off their foolish bargain. The famous showman replied—as all the world now knows—in tones of polite but implacable decision. He has bought Jumbo, and Jumbo he means to have; nor would ‘a hundred thousand pounds’ be any inducement to cancel the purchase. If innumerable childish hearts are grieving here over the loss of a creature so gentle, vast, and sensible, ‘fifty millions of American citizens,’ Mr. Barnum says, are anxiously waiting to see the great elephant arrive in the States. Then, to increase the general regret, the message depicts the sort of life which poor Jumbo has before him. No more quiet garden-strolls, no shady trees, green lawns, and flowery thickets, peopled with tropical beasts, bright birds, and snakes, making it all quite homely. Our amiable monster must dwell in a tent, take part in the routine of a circus. Mr. Barnum announces the intention of taking his ‘mammoth combination of seven shows’ round the world, via California, Australia, and the Suez Canal. Elephants hate the sea. They love a quiet bath as much as any Christians; but the indignity and terror of being slung on board a ship, and tossed about in the agony of sea-sickness, which is probably on a scale with the size of their stomachs, would appear to them worse than death. Yet to this doom the children’s ‘dear old Jumbo’ is condemned; and it is enough, if he knew of it, to precipitate that insanity which his guardians have pretended to fear. It is true Mr. Barnum holds out hopes that we may some day see again the colossal form of the public favorite. In the summer of 1883 he proposes to bring the good beast back to England, exhibiting him in ‘every prominent city;’ and the message adds, ‘I may afterwards return Jumbo to his old position in the Royal Zoölogical Gardens.’ There is a gleam of consolation in this, which we would not darken by any remarks upon the great showman’s ironclad inflexibility; but what will be the mental and physical condition of our immense friend when bereavement, sea-sickness, and American diet shall have ruined his temper and digestion, and abolished his self-respect? There will be a Yankee twang in his trumpeting; he will roll about on his ‘sea-legs,’ with a gait sadly changed from the substantial swing so well known; and Alice herself will hardly know him.