After delivering my lecture many times in different places, a prominent publishing house in London, offered me £1,200 ($6,000,) for the copyright. This offer I declined, not that I thought the lecture worth more money, but because I had engaged to deliver it in several towns and cities, and I thought the publication would be detrimental to the public delivery of my lecture. It was a source of very considerable emolument to me, bringing in much money, which went towards the redemption of my pecuniary obligations, so that the lecture itself was an admirable illustration of “The Art of Money Getting.”
CHAPTER XXXII
AN ENTERPRISING ENGLISHMAN.
AN ENGLISH YANKEE—MY FIRST INTERVIEW WITH HIM—HIS PLANS BASED ON BARNUM’S BOOK—ADVERTISING FOR PARTNERS—HOW MY RULES MADE HIM RICH—METHOD IN MADNESS—THE “BARNUM” OF BURY—DINNER TO TOM THUMB AND COMMODORE NUTT—MY AGENT IN PARIS—MEASURING A MONSTER—HOW GIANTS AND DWARFS STRETCH AND CONTRACT—AN UNWILLING FRENCHMAN—A PERSISTENT MEASURER—A GIGANTIC HUMBUG—THE STEAM-ENGINES “BARNUM” AND “CHARITY”—WHAT “CHARITY” DID FOR “BARNUM”—SELLING THE SAME GOODS A THOUSAND TIMES—THE GREAT CAKES—SIMNEL SUNDAY—THE SANITARY COMMISSION FAIR.
WHILE visiting Manchester, in 1858, I was invited by Mr. Peacock, the lessee, to deliver a lecture in “Free Trade Hall.” I gave a lecture, the title of which I now forget; but I well remember it contained numerous personal reminiscences. The next day a gentleman sent his card to my room at the hotel where I was stopping. I requested the servant to show the gentleman up at once, and he soon appeared and introduced himself. At first he seemed somewhat embarrassed, but gradually broke the ice by saying he had been pleased in listening to my lecture the previous evening, and added that he knew my history pretty well, as he had read my autobiography. As his embarrassment at first meeting with a stranger wore away, he informed me that he was joint proprietor with another gentleman in a “cotton-mill” in Bury, near Manchester, “although,” he modestly added, “only a few years ago I was working as a journeyman, and probably should have been at this time, had it not been for your book.” Observing my surprise at this announcement, he continued:
“The fact is, Mr. Barnum, upon reading your autobiography, I thought I perceived you tried to make yourself out something worse than you really were; for I discovered a pleasant spirit and a good heart under the rougher exterior in which you chose to present yourself to the public; but,” he added, “after reading your life I found myself in possession of renewed strength, and awakened energies and aspirations, and I said to myself, ‘Why can’t I go ahead and make money as Barnum did? He commenced without money and succeeded; why may not I?’ In this train of thought,” he continued, “I went to a newspaper office and advertised for a partner with money to join me in establishing a cotton-mill. I had no applications, and, remembering your experiences when you had money and wanted a partner, I spent half a crown in a similar experiment. I advertised for a partner to join a man who had plenty of capital. Then I had lots of applicants ready to introduce me into all sorts of occupations, from that of a banker to that of a horse-jockey or gambler, if I would only furnish the money to start with. After a while, I advertised again for a partner, and obtained one with money. We have a good mill. I devote myself closely to business, and have been very successful. I know every line in your book; so, indeed, do several members of my family; and I have conducted my business on the principles laid down in your published ‘Rules for Money-making.’ I find them correct principles; and, sir, I have sought this interview in order to thank you for publishing your autobiography, and to tell you that to that act of yours I attribute my present position in life.”
Of course, I was pleased and surprised at this revelation, and, feeling that my new friend, whom I will call Mr. Wilson,[B] had somewhat exaggerated the results of my labors as influencing his own, I said:
“Your statement is certainly very flattering, and I am glad if I have been able in any manner, through my experiences, to aid you in starting in life; but I presume your genius would have found vent in good time if I had never written a book.”
“No, indeed it would not,” he replied, in an earnest tone; “I am sure I should have worked as a mill-hand all my life if it had not been for you. Oh, I have made no secret of it,” he continued; “the commercial men with whom I deal know all about it: indeed, they call me ‘Barnum’ on ‘change here in Manchester.”
[B] By his consent I state that his name is John Fish.
This singular yet gratifying interview led to several others, and from that time a warm personal friendship sprung up between us. In our conversations, my enthusiastic friend would often quote entire pages from my autobiography, which I had almost forgotten; and, after he had frequently visited me by appointment where I happened to be stopping in different parts of Great Britain, he would write me letters, often quoting scraps of my conversation, and extolling what he called the “wisdom” of these careless remarks. I laughed at him, and told him he was about half Barnum-crazy. “Well,” he replied, “then there is method in my madness, for whenever I follow the Barnum rules I am always successful.”