Struggles and Triumphs P. T. Barnum (the beginning after the end read novel .TXT) 📖

While in Boston with Jenny Lind, I was earnestly solicited to deliver two temperance lectures in the Tremont Temple, where she gave her concerts. I did so; and though an admission fee was charged for the benefit of a benevolent society, the building on each occasion was crowded. In the course of my tour with Jenny Lind, I was frequently solicited to lecture on temperance on evenings when she did not sing. I always complied when it was in my power. In this way I lectured in Baltimore, Washington, Charleston, New Orleans, Cincinnati, St. Louis, and other cities, also in the ladies’ saloon of the steamer Lexington, on Sunday morning. In August, 1853, I lectured in Cleveland, Ohio, and several other towns, and afterwards in Chicago, Illinois, and in Kenosha, Wisconsin. An election was to be held in Wisconsin in October, and the friends of prohibition in that State solicited my services for the ensuing month, and I could not refuse them. I therefore hastened home to transact some business which required my presence for a few days, and then returned, and lectured on my way in Toledo, Norwalk, Ohio, and Chicago, Illinois. I made the tour of the State of Wisconsin, delivering two lectures per day for four consecutive weeks, to crowded and attentive audiences.

My lecture in New Orleans, when I was in that city, was in the great Lyceum Hall, in St. Charles Street, and I lectured by the invitation of Mayor Crossman and several other influential gentlemen. The immense hall contained more than three thousand auditors, including the most respectable portion of the New Orleans public. I was in capital humor, and had warmed myself into a pleasant state of excitement, feeling that the audience was with me. While in the midst of an argument illustrating the poisonous and destructive nature of alcohol to the animal economy, some opponent called out, “How does it affect us, externally or internally?”

“E-ternally,” I replied.

I have scarcely ever heard more tremendous merriment than that which followed this reply, and the applause was so prolonged that it was some minutes before I could proceed.

On the first evening when I lectured in Cleveland, Ohio, (it was in the Baptist Church,) I commenced in this wise: “If there are any ladies or gentlemen present who have never suffered in consequence of the use of intoxicating drinks as a beverage, either directly, or in the person of a dear relative or friend, I will thank them to rise.” A man with a tolerably glowing countenance arose. “Had you never a friend who was intemperate?” I asked.

“Never!” was the positive reply.

A giggle ran through the opposition portion of the audience. “Really, my friends,” I said, “I feel constrained to make a proposition which I did not anticipate. I am, as you are all aware, a showman, and I am always on the lookout for curiosities. This gentleman is a stranger to me, but if he will satisfy me tomorrow morning that he is a man of credibility, and that no friend of his was ever intemperate, I will be glad to engage him for ten weeks at $200 per week, to exhibit him in my American Museum in New York, as the greatest curiosity in this country.”

A laugh that was a laugh followed this announcement.

“They may laugh, but it is a fact,” persisted my opponent with a look of dogged tenacity.

“The gentleman still insists that it is a fact,” I replied. “I would like, therefore, to make one simple qualification to my offer, I made it on the supposition that, at some period of his life, he had friends. Now if he never had any friends, I withdraw my offer; otherwise, I will stick to it.”

This, and the shout of laughter that ensued, was too much for the gentleman, and he sat down. I noticed throughout my speech that he paid strict attention, and frequently indulged in a hearty laugh. At the close of the lecture he approached me, and extending his hand, which I readily accepted, he said, “I was particularly green in rising tonight. Having once stood up, I was determined not to be put down, but your last remark fixed me!” He then complimented me very highly on the reasonableness of my arguments, and declared that ever afterwards he would be found on the side of temperance.

Among the most gratifying incidents of my life have been several of a similar nature to the following: After a temperance speech in Philadelphia, a man about thirty years of age came forward, signed the teetotal pledge, and then, giving me his hand, he said, “Mr. Barnum, you have this night saved me from ruin. For the last two years I have been in the habit of tippling, and it has kept me continually under the harrow. This gentleman (pointing to a person at his side) is my partner in business, and I know he is glad I have signed the pledge tonight.”

“Yes, indeed I am, George, and it is the best thing you ever did,” replied his partner, “if you’ll only stick to it.”

“That will I do till the day of my death; and won’t my dear little wife Mary cry for joy tonight, when I tell her what I have done!” he exclaimed in great exultation. At that moment he was a happy man, but he could not have been more so than I was.

Sir William Don⁠—who came to this country and acted in several theatres, afterwards going to Australia, and dying, I believe, soon after his return to England⁠—once heard me lecture, and immediately afterwards came forward and signed the pledge. He kept it for a short period only, although when he signed, he said that strong drink was the bane of his life. It is the one bane of too many brilliant men, who but for this one misfortune might attain almost every desirable success in life.

I may add, that I have lectured in