Chapter XXXIX: The American Museum in Ruins

A TERRIBLE LOSS--HOW I RECEIVED THE NEWS--BURNING OF THE AMERICAN
MUSEUM--DETAILS OF THE DISASTER--FAITH IN HERRING’S SAFES--BAKED
AND BOILED WHALES--THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE
MUSEUM--A PUBLIC CALAMITY--SYMPATHY OF THE LEADING EDITORS--AMOUNT
OF MY LOSS--SMALL INSURANCE--MY PROPERTY--INTENTION TO RETIRE TO
PRIVATE LIFE--HORACE GREELEY ADVISES ME TO GO A-FISHING--BENEFIT TO
THE MUSEUM EMPLOYEES AT THE ACADEMY OF MUSIC--MY SPEECH--WHAT THE
NEW YORK SUN SAID ABOUT IT--THE NEW UP-TOWN MUSEUM--OPENING THE
ESTABLISHMENT TO THE PUBLIC.

On the thirteenth day of July, 1865, I was speaking in the Connecticut Legislature, in session at Hartford, against the railroad schemes, when a telegram was handed to me from my son-in-law, S. H. Hurd, my assistant manager in New York, stating that the American Museum was in flames and that its total destruction was certain. I glanced over the despatch, folded it, laid it on my desk, and calmly continued my speech as if nothing had happened. At the conclusion of my remarks, the bill I had been advocating was carried, and the House adjourned. I then handed the telegram, announcing my great loss in New York, to my friend and fellow-laborer, Mr. William G. Coe, of Winsted, who immediately communicated the intelligence to several members. Warm sympathizers at once crowded around me, and Mr. Henry B. Harrison, of New Haven, my strongest railroad opponent, pushing forward, seized me by the hand, and said:

“Mr. Barnum, I am really very sorry to hear of your great misfortune.”

“Sorry,” I replied, “why, my dear sir, I shall not have time to be ‘sorry’ in a week! It will take me that length of time before I can get over laughing at having whipped you all so nicely in this attempted railroad imposition.”

The Speaker of the House and my fellow-members all testified that neither my face nor my manner betrayed the slightest intimation when I read the telegram that I had received unpleasant intelligence. One of the local journals, speaking of this incident, two days after the fire, said:

In the midst of Mr. Barnum’s speech a telegram was handed to him,
announcing that his Museum was in flames, with no hope of saving
any portion of his cherished establishment. Without the slightest
evidence of agitation, he laid the telegram upon his desk and
finished his speech. When he went next day to New York he saw only
a pile of black, smouldering ruins.

Immediately after adjournment that afternoon, I took the cars for Bridgeport, spending the night quietly at home, and the following morning I went to New York to see the ruins of my Museum, and to learn the full extent of the disaster. When I arrived at the scene of the calamity and saw nothing but the smouldering debris of what a few hours before was the American Museum, the sight was sad indeed. Here were destroyed, almost in a breath, the accumulated results of many years of incessant toil, my own and my predecessors, in gathering from every quarter of the globe myriads of curious productions of nature and art--an assemblage of rarities which a half million of dollars could not restore, and a quarter of a century could not collect. In addition to these there were many Revolutionary relics and other links in our national history which never could be duplicated. Not a thousand dollars worth of the entire property was saved; the destruction was complete; the loss was irreparable, and the total amount of insurance was but forty thousand dollars.

The fire probably originated in the engine room, where steam was constantly kept up to pump fresh air into the water of the aquaria and to propel the immense fans for cooling the atmosphere of the halls. The flames burst through into the manager’s office, and rapidly extended to all parts of the building. The desk of my son-in-law, Mr. Hurd, was already in flames when he opened it and took out several thousands of dollars in bank bills, and reflecting upon the risk he might incur in carrying it through the surging crowd outside, with remarkable presence of mind, and faith in Herring’s safes, he hastily thrust this money with the account books into my safe, which already held many thousand dollars, and locking the door, left the whole with entire confidence to the flames. Buttoning his coat, he safely made his way out of the burning building and through the excited throng in the streets.

Mr. Hurd’s faith in Herring was well founded; for, when the safe was recovered from the ruins, its contents were discovered to be in perfect preservation. Of the curiosities and other contents of the establishment nothing was saved. When I first gazed upon the ruins, I saw, down in the depths, the remains of the two white whales, which had arrived only a week before, and which were swimming in the great glass tank when the fire broke out. I had never seen these monsters alive, but the half-consumed carcasses presented to my mind the worst specimens of baked and boiled fish that could be conceived of. All the New York newspapers made a great “sensation” of the fire, and the full particulars were copied in journals throughout the country. A facetious reporter, Mr. Nathan D. Urner, of the _Tribune_, wrote the following amusing account, which appeared in that journal, July 14, 1865, and was very generally quoted from and copied by provincial papers many of whose readers accepted every line of the glowing narrative as “gospel truth”:

Soon after the breaking out of the conflagration, a number of
strange and terrible howls and moans proceeding from the large
apartment in the third floor of the Museum, corner of Ann Street
and Broadway, startled the throngs who had collected in front of
the burning building, and who were at first under the impression
that the sounds must proceed from human beings unable to effect
their escape. Their anxiety was somewhat relieved on this score,
but their consternation was by no means decreased upon learning
that the room in question was the principal chamber of the
menagerie connected with the Museum, and that there was imminent
danger of the release of the animals there confined, by the action
of the flames. Our reporter fortunately occupied a room on the
north corner of Ann Street and Broadway, the windows of which
looked immediately into this apartment; and no sooner was he
apprised of the fire than he repaired there, confident of finding
items in abundance. Luckily the windows of the Museum were
unclosed, and he had a perfect view of almost the entire interior
of the apartment. The following is his statement of what followed,
in his own language:

Protecting myself from the intense heat as well as I could, by
taking the mattress from the bed and erecting it as a bulwark
before the window, with only enough space reserved on the top so as
to look out, I anxiously observed the animals in the opposite room.
Immediately opposite the window through which I gazed, was a large
cage containing a lion and lioness. To the right hand was the three
storied cage, containing monkeys at the top, two kangaroos in the
second story, and a happy family of cats, rats, adders, rabbits,
etc., in the lower apartment. To the left of the lion’s cage was
the tank containing the two vast alligators, and still further to
the left, partially hidden from my sight was the grand tank
containing the great white whale, which has created such a furore
in our sight-seeing midst for the past few weeks. Upon the floor
were caged the boa-constrictor, anacondas and rattlesnakes, whose
heads would now and then rise menacingly through the top of the
cage. In the extreme right was the cage, entirely shut from my view
at first, containing the Bengal tiger and the Polar bear, whose
terrific growls could be distinctly heard from behind the
partition. With a simultaneous bound the lion and his mate, sprang
against the bars, which gave way and came down with a great crash,
releasing the beasts, which for a moment, apparently amazed at
their sudden liberty, stood in the middle of the floor lashing
their sides with their tails and roaring dolefully.

Almost at the same moment the upper part of the three storied cage,
consumed by the flames, fell forward, letting the rods drop to the
floor, and many other animals were set free. Just at this time the
door fell through and the flames and smoke rolled in like a
whirlwind from the Hadean river Cocytus. A horrible scene in the
right hand corner of the room, a yell of indescribable agony, and a
crashing, grating sound, indicated that the tiger and Polar bear
were stirred up to the highest pitch of excitement. Then there came
a great crash as of the giving way of the bars of their cage. The
flames and smoke momentarily rolled back, and for a few seconds the
interior of the room was visible in the lurid light of the flames,
which revealed the tiger and the lion, locked together in close
combat.

The monkeys were perched around the windows, shivering with dread
and afraid to jump out. The snakes were writhing about, crippled
and blistered by the heat, darting out their forked tongues, and
expressing their rage and fear in the most sibilant of hisses. The
“Happy Family” were experiencing an amount of beatitude which was
evidently too cordial for philosophical enjoyment. A long tongue of
flame had crept under the cage, completely singing every hair from
the cat’s body. The felicitous adder was slowly burning in two and
busily engaged in impregnating his organic system with his own
venom. The joyful rat had lost his tail by a falling bar of iron;
and the beatific rabbit, perforated by a red hot nail, looked as if
nothing would be more grateful than a cool corner in some Esquimaux
farmyard. The members of the delectated convocation were all
huddled together in the bottom of their cage, which suddenly gave
way, precipitating them out of view in the depths below, which by
this time were also blazing like the fabled Tophet.

At this moment the flames rolled again into the room and then again
retired. The whale and alligators were by this time suffering
dreadful torments. The water in which they swam was literally
boiling. The alligators dashed fiercely about endeavoring to
escape, and opening and shutting their great jaws in ferocious
torture; but the poor whale, almost boiled, with great ulcers
bursting from his blubbery sides, could only feebly swim about,
though blowing excessively, and every now and then sending up great
fountains of spray. At length, crack went the glass sides of the
great cases, and whale and alligators rolled out on the floor with
the rushing and steaming water. The whale died easily, having been
pretty well used up before. A few great gasps and a convulsive flap
or two of his mighty flukes were his expiring spasm. One of the
alligators was killed almost immediately by falling across a great
fragment of shattered glass, which cut open his stomach and let out
the greater part of his entrails to the light of day. The remaining
alligator became involved in a controversy with an anaconda, and
joined the melee in the centre of the flaming apartment.

A number of birds which were caged in the upper part of the
building were set free by some charitably inclined person at the
first alarm of fire and at intervals they flew out. There were many
valuable tropical birds, parrots, cockatoos, mocking birds, humming
birds, etc., as well as some vultures and eagles and one condor.
Great excitement existed among the swaying crowds in the streets
below as they took wing. There were confined in the same room a few
serpents which also obtained their liberty; and soon after the
rising and devouring flames began to enwrap the entire building, a
splendid and emblematic sight was presented to the wondering and
upgazing throngs. Bursting through the central casement, with flap
of wings and lashing coils, appeared an eagle and a serpent
wreathed in fight. For a moment they hung poised in mid air,
presenting a novel and terrible conflict. It was the earth and air
(or their respective representatives) at war for mastery; the base
and the lofty, the groveller and the soarer, were engaged in deadly
battle. At length the flat head of the serpent sank; his writhing
sinuous form grew still; and, wafted upward by the cheers of the
gazing multitude, the eagle, with a scream of triumph, and bearing
his prey in his iron talons, soared toward the sun. Several monkeys
escaped from the burning building to the neighboring roofs and
streets; and considerable excitement was caused by the attempts to
secure them. One of the most amusing incidents in this respect was
in connection with Mr. James Gordon Bennett. The veteran editor of
the _Herald_ was sitting in his private office with his back to the
open window, calmly discussing with a friend the chances that the
_Herald_ establishment would escape the conflagration, which at
that time was threateningly advancing up Ann Street, toward Nassau
Street. In the course of his conversation Mr. Bennett observed;
“Although I have usually had good luck in cases of fire, they say
that the devil is ever at one’s shoulder, and”--Here an exclamation
from his friend interrupted him, and turning quickly he was
considerably taken aback at seeing the devil himself, or something
like him, at his very shoulder as he spoke. Recovering his
equanimity, with the ease and suavity which is usual with him in
all company, Mr. Bennett was about to address the intruder when he
perceived that what he had taken for the gentleman in black was
nothing more than a frightened orang-outang. The poor creature, but
recently released from captivity, and doubtless thinking that he
might fill some vacancy in the editorial corps of the paper in
question, had descended by the water-pipe and instinctively taken
refuge in the inner sanctum of the establishment. Although the
editor--perhaps from the fact that he saw nothing peculiarly
strange in the visitation--soon regained his composure, it was far
otherwise with his friend, who immediately gave the alarm. Mr.
Hudson rushed in and boldly attacked the monkey, grasping him by
the throat. The book-editor next came in, obtaining a clutch upon
the brute by the ears; the musical critic followed, and seized the
tail with both hands, and a number of reporters, armed with
inkstands and sharpened pencils, came next, followed by a dozen
policemen with brandished clubs; at the same time, the engineer in
the basement received the preconcerted signal and got ready his
hose, wherewith to pour boiling hot water upon the heads of those
in the streets, in case it should prove a regular systematized
attack by gorillas, Brazil apes, and chimpanzees. Opposed to this
formidable combination, the rash intruder fared badly, and was soon
in durance vile. Numerous other incidents of a similar kind
occurred; but some of the most amusing were in connection with the
wax figures.

Upon the same impulse which prompts men in time of fire to fling
valuable looking-glasses out of three-story windows and at the same
time tenderly to lower down feather beds,--soon after the Museum
took fire, a number of sturdy firemen rushed into the building to
carry out the wax figures. There were thousands of valuable
articles which might have been saved, if there had been less of
solicitude displayed for the miserable effigies which are usually
exhibited under the appellation of “wax figures.” As it was, a
dozen firemen rushed into the apartment where the figures were
kept, amid a multitude of crawling snakes, chattering monkeys and
escaped paroquets. The “Dying Brigand” was unceremoniously
throttled and dragged toward the door; liberties were taken with
the tearful “Senorita,” who has so long knelt and so constantly
wagged her doll’s head at his side; the mules of the other bandits
were upset, and they themselves roughly seized. The full length
statue of P. T. Barnum fell down of its own accord, as if disgusted
with the whole affair. A red-shirted fireman seized with either
hand Franklin Pierce and James Buchanan by their coat-collars,
tucked the Prince Imperial of France under one arm, and the Veiled
Murderess under the other, and coolly departed for the street. Two
ragged boys quarrelled over the Tom Thumb, but at length settled
the controversy by one of them taking the head, the other
satisfying himself with the legs below the knees. They evidently
had Tom under their thumbs, and intended to keep him down. While a
curiosity-seeking policeman was garroting Benjamin Franklin, with
the idea of abducting him, a small monkey, flung from the
window-sill by the strong hand of an impatient fireman, made a
straight dive, hitting Poor Richard just below the waistcoat, and
passing through his stomach, as the Harlequin in the
“Green-Monster” pantomime ever pierced the picture with the slit in
it, which always hangs so conveniently low and near. Patrick Henry
had his teeth knocked out by a flying missile, and in carrying
Daniel Lambert down stairs, he was found to be so large that they
had to break off his head in order to get him through the door. At
length the heat became intense, the “figgers” began to perspire
freely, and the swiftly approaching flames compelled all hands to
desist from any further attempt at rescue. Throwing a parting
glance behind as we passed down the stairs we saw the remaining
dignitaries in a strange plight. Some one had stuck a cigar in
General Washington’s mouth, and thus, with his chapeau crushed down
over his eyes and his head reclining upon the ample lap of Moll
Pitcher, the Father of his Country led the van of as sorry a band
of patriots as not often comes within one’s experience to see.
General Marion was playing a dummy game of poker with General
Lafayette; Governor Morris was having a set-to with Nathan Lane,
and James Madison was executing a Dutch polka with Madam Roland on
one arm and Lucretia Borgia on the other. The next moment the
advancing flames compelled us to retire.

We believe that all the living curiosities were saved; but the
giant girl, Anna Swan, was only rescued with the utmost difficulty.
There was not a door through which her bulky frame could obtain a
passage. It was likewise feared that the stairs would break down,
even if she should reach them. Her best friend, the living
skeleton, stood by her as long as he dared, but then deserted her,
while as the heat grew in intensity, the perspiration rolled from
her face in little brooks and rivulets, which pattered musically
upon the floor. At length, as a last resort, the employees of the
place procured a lofty derrick which fortunately happened to be
standing near, and erected it alongside the Museum. A portion of
the wall was then broken off on each side of the window, the strong
tackle was got in readiness, the tall woman was made fast to one
end and swung over the heads of the people in the street, with
eighteen men grasping the other extremity of the line, and lowered
down from the third story, amid enthusiastic applause. A carriage
of extraordinary capacity was in readiness, and entering this, the
young lady was driven away to a hotel.

When the surviving serpents, that were released by the partial
burning of the box in which they were contained, crept along on the
floor to the balcony of the Museum and dropped on the sidewalk, the
crowd, siezed with St. Patrick’s aversion to the reptiles, fled
with such precipitate haste that they knocked each other down and
trampled on one another in the most reckless and damaging manner.

Hats were lost, coats torn, boots burst and pantaloons dropped with
magnificent miscellaneousness, and dozens of those who rose from
the miry streets into which they had been thrown, looked like the
disembodied spirits of a mud bank. The snakes crawled on the
sidewalk and into Broadway, where some of them died from injuries
received, and others were despatched by the excited populace.
Several of the serpents of the copper-head species escaped the fury
of the tumultuous masses, and true to their instincts, sought
shelter in the _World_ and _News_ offices. A large black bear
escaped from the burning Museum into Ann Street and then made his
way into Nassau, and down that thoroughfare into Wall, where his
appearance caused a sensation. Some superstitious persons believed
him the spirit of a departed Ursa Major, and others of his
fraternity welcomed the animal as a favorable omen. The bear walked
quietly along to the Custom House, ascended the steps of the
building, and became bewildered, as many a biped bear has done
before him. He seemed to lose his sense of vision, and no doubt,
endeavoring to operate for a fall, walked over the side of the
steps and broke his neck. He succeeded in his object, but it cost
him dearly. The appearance of Bruin in the street sensibly affected
the stock market, and shares fell rapidly; but when he lost his
life in the careless manner we have described, shares advanced
again, and the Bulls triumphed once more.

Broadway and its crossings have not witnessed a denser throng for
months than assembled at the fire yesterday. Barnum’s was always
popular, but it never drew so vast a crowd before. There must have
been forty thousand people on Broadway, between Maiden Lane and
Chambers Street, and a great portion stayed there until dusk. So
great was the concourse of people that it was with difficulty
pedestrians or vehicles could pass.

After the fire several high-art epicures grouping among the ruins
found choice morsels of boiled whale, roasted kangaroo and
fricasseed crocodile, which, it is said, they relished; though the
many would have failed to appreciate such rare edibles. Probably,
the recherche epicures will declare the only true way to prepare
those meats is to cook them in a museum wrapped in flames, in the
same manner that the Chinese, according to Charles Lamb, first
discovered roast pig in a burning house, and ever afterward set a
house on fire with a pig inside, when they wanted that particular
food.

All the New York journals, and many more in other cities, editorially expressed their sympathy with my misfortune, and their sense of the loss the community had sustained in the destruction of the American Museum. The following editorial is from the _New York Tribune_, of July 14, 1865:

The destruction of no building in this city could have caused so
much excitement and so much regret as that of Barnum’s Museum. The
collection of curiosities was very large, and though many of them
may not have had much intrinsic or memorial value, a considerable
portion was certainly of great worth for any Museum. But aside from
this, pleasant memories clustered about the place, which for so
many years has been the chief resort for amusement to the common
people who cannot often afford to treat themselves to a night at
the more expensive theatres, while to the children of the city,
Barnum’s has been a fountain of delight, ever offering new
attractions as captivating and as implicitly believed in as the
Arabian Nights Entertainments; Theatre, Menagerie and Museum, it
amused, instructed, and astonished. If its thousands and tens of
thousands of annual visitors were bewildered sometimes with a
Woolly Horse, a What is It? or a Mermaid, they found repose and
certainty in a Giraffe, a Whale or a Rhinoceros. If wax effigies of
pirates and murderers made them shudder lest those dreadful figures
should start out of their glass cases and repeat their horrid
deeds, they were reassured by the presence of the mildest and most
amiable of giants, and the fattest of mortal women, whose dead
weight alone could crush all the wax figures into their original
cakes. It was a source of unfailing interest to all country
visitors, and New York to many of them was only the place that held
Barnum’s Museum. It was the first thing--often the only thing--they
visited when they came among us, and nothing that could have been
contrived, out of our present resources, could have offered so many
attractions unless some more ingenious showman had undertaken to
add to Barnum’s collection of waxen criminals by putting in a cage
the live Boards of the Common Council. We mourn its loss, but not
as without consolation. Barnum’s Museum is gone, but Barnum
himself, happily, did not share the fate of his rattlesnakes and
his, at least, most un-“happy Family.” There are fishes in the seas
and beasts in the forest; birds still fly in the air and strange
creatures still roam in the deserts; giants and pigmies still
wander up and down the earth; the oldest man, the fattest woman,
and the smallest baby are still living, and Barnum will find them.

Or even if none of these things or creatures existed, we could
trust to Barnum to make them out of hand. The Museum, then, is only
a temporary loss, and much as we sympathize with the proprietor,
the public may trust to his well-known ability and energy to soon
renew a place of amusement which was a source of so much innocent
pleasure, and had in it so many elements of solid excellence.

As already stated, my insurance was but $40,000, while the collection, at the lowest estimate, was worth $400,000, and as my premium was five per cent I had paid the insurance companies more than they returned to me. When the fire occurred, my summer pantomime season had just begun and the Museum was doing an immensely profitable business. My first impulse, after reckoning up my losses, was to retire from active life and from all business occupation beyond what my large real estate interests in Bridgeport, and my property in New York would compel. I felt that I had still a competence and that after a most active and busy life, at fifty-five years, I was entitled to retirement, to comparative rest for the remainder of my days. I called on my old friend, the editor of the _Tribune_, for advice on the subject.

“Accept this fire as a notice to quit, and go a-fishing,” said Mr. Greeley.

“A-fishing!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, a-fishing; I have been wanting to go a-fishing for thirty years, and have not yet found time to do so,” replied Mr. Greeley.

I really felt that his advice was good and wise, and had I consulted only my own ease and interest I should have acted upon it. But, two considerations moved me to pause: First, one hundred and fifty employees, many of whom depended upon their exertions for their daily bread, were thrown out of work at a season when it would be difficult for them to get engagements elsewhere. Second: I felt that a large city like New York needed a good Museum, and that my experience of a quarter of a century in that direction, afforded extraordinary facilities for founding another establishment of the kind, and so I took a few days for reflection.

Meanwhile, the Museum employees were tendered a benefit at the Academy of Music, at which most of the dramatic artists in the city volunteered their services. I was called out, and made some off-hand remarks in which I stated that nothing which I could utter in behalf of the recipients of that benefit, could plead for them half so eloquently as the smoking ruins of the building where they had so long earned their support by their efforts to gratify the public. At the same time I announced that, moved by the considerations I have mentioned, I had concluded to establish another Museum, and that in order to give present occupation to my employees, I had engaged the Winter Garden Theatre for a few weeks, and I hoped to open a new establishment of my own in the ensuing fall.

The _New York Sun_ commented upon the few remarks which I was suddenly and quite unexpectedly called upon to make, in the following flattering manner:

One of the happiest impromptu oratorial efforts that we have heard
for some time, was that made by Barnum at the benefit performance
given for his employees on Friday afternoon. If a stranger wanted
to satisfy himself how the great showman had managed so to
monopolize the ear and eye of the public during his long career, he
could not have had a better opportunity of doing so than by
listening to this address. Every word, though delivered with
apparent carelessness, struck a key note in the hearts of his
listeners. Simple, forcible and touching, it showed how thoroughly
this extraordinary man comprehends the character of his countrymen,
and how easily he can play upon their feelings.

Those who look upon Barnum as a mere charlatan, have really no
knowledge of him. It would be easy to demonstrate that the
qualities that have placed him in his present position of notoriety
and affluence would, in another pursuit, have raised him to far
greater eminence. In his breadth of views, his profound knowledge
of mankind, his courage under reverses, his indomitable
perseverance, his ready eloquence and his admirable business tact,
we recognize the elements that are conducive to success in most
other pursuits. More than almost any other living man, Barnum may
be said to be a representative type of the American mind.

I very soon secured by lease the premises, numbers 535, 537 and 539 Broadway, seventy-five feet front and rear, by two hundred feet deep, and known as the Chinese Museum buildings. In less than four months, I succeeded in converting this building into a commodious Museum and lecture room, and meanwhile I sent agents through America and Europe to purchase curiosities. Besides hundreds of small collections, I bought up several entire museums, and with many living curiosities and my old company of actors and actresses, I opened to the public, November 13, 1865, “Barnum’s New American Museum,” thus beginning a new chapter in my career as a manager and showman.