I have never noticed, in the multitude of printed sketches of Mr. Barnum's doings, any general mention of his lavish hospitality poured out for years, but there will be hundreds who can testify to and will remember it. It was as if he had said: "As we go along through life let us make others happy." And he did this with no niggardliness or stint, in his private life as well as in his public career.
There is a series of stories of Mr. Barnum's humane endeavors longer than Aesop's or Pilpays' fables combined, and it is impossible to relate them all. But I have heard one recently that will very well illustrate the beneficial manner of his charity, and which shows that, by native sagacity, he had early learned the scientific way of giving—to give so that the gift may be more than its surface expression, and so as not to produce chronic pauperism.
It seems that a poor widow, some years ago, went to Mr. Barnum's house and told him she was very poor, and had a large family to support; she could not, in fact, decently support them. But if Mr. Barnum would only loan her $75 with which to buy a sewing-machine, she assured him she could do enough better to be able to save a little, and to pay the money back. Mr. Barnum, thinking her honest and truthful, said she might have the money on the terms suggested, but told her when she had saved the requisite amount to bring it to him. After some struggle and privation, in due time she did this, and laid it before him. "Well," said he, "my good woman, you have now fairly earned your sewing-machine, and you have done one thing more, YOU HAVE LEARNED HOW TO SAVE." And thereupon he handed back the money, and told her to put it in safe keeping.
Mr. Barnum's deep attachment for Bridgeport grew year by year, and was most strikingly manifessed. The thousands of trees he had set out there, the new streets he opened, and the Seaside Park, which was his creation mainly, are but a few of the evidences of his public enterprise. The Barnum Historical and Scientific Institute, and the Barnum Gymnasium were among his latest endowments, East Bridgeport he practically gave existence to, and both that and the city proper are so essentially his monument that you cannot now divorce the name of Bridgeport from that of Barnum.
Some years ago, when certain experiments were made to test the presence of ozone in the air, and much was said of its value to health, Mr. Barnum had the air at Bridgeport put on trial, and proved exultingly that no climate in this country was so salubrious as that of Bridgeport, especially in the region of the Seaside Park. He was very enthusiastic on the subject, and wrote to the local papers, to myself, and to others about it to give the fact publicity and proper emphasis.
It may be said by some that Mr. Barnum, in many of his real estate enterprises, made money; and so he did, by his foresight, faith, and sagacity concerning his adopted town. He partly foresaw the future of Bridgeport, and then largely made it. But if he had not made money—and his example was open for others to follow—he could have had no money to give. He used to say himself, half jokingly: "I believe in a profitable philanthropy," which illustrates one of his characteristic traits—his absolute frankness. In fact, he was so open-hearted about himself that no account he ever gave of his private doings was ever flattering or exalted. He wore no phylacteries, and was as far away as possible from Pecksniffian pretensions.
In early life he suffered hardship and deprivations, and no Mark Tapley ever met them with more composure and, on occasions, with more hilarity. But he knew well what comfort and convenience are, and when they were at his command he enjoyed their best gifts. He once told me that it pained him to see Mr. Greeley omit those little cares for himself in later life to which he was surely entitled, and so, when he was his guest for many days together, he took care to provide him with a loose morning coat and comfortable slippers, and would not have him drop in an ordinary chair by accident, but secured for him the easiest one.
Busy as Mr. Barnum was, he found many hours for social and other pleasures. He did this by his systematic allotment of his time. All the machinery of his household and his business ran with a smoothness and punctuality that would have delighted George Washington. Everything was on time; his meals were regular—not movable feasts. It was a wonder how he wrote so many letters, foreign and domestic; dispatched so promptly his household and his city affairs, and his out-of-town business; met all sorts of callers on all sorts of errands; and yet spared time for rides, a social game or talk, and an evening out with so much frequency. Absolute idleness was positively painful to him; occupation of some sort he must have, and to the very end he had and enjoyed it.
I can scarcely realize, even now, that he is really gone—so clear of mind and active was he to the very last. Nor can it be easily imagined how Bridgeport in this generation can accustom itself to so great a loss. To hear that the average man—of distinction even—has died, seems common and credible. But the message which announced Mr. Barnum's death came like a troubled dream from which we somehow expect to awaken. That one so full of life as to be its very embodiment, should leave us, it will take time to fully comprehend. If, in the world, his demise leaves a striking and peculiar void, to a multitude of friends it comes with a tender sorrow that shall tincture indelibly many flowing years. J. B.
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