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103 TheMeasureofaMan  I n 1856, P. T. Barnum lost everything. A year earlier he invested in the large Jerome Manufacturing Company of New Haven, which built reasonably priced one-­ day clocks and sold them internationally. Barnum hoped to bring the factory to his real estate kingdom of East Bridgeport, which had become more than a pet project by this point. The founder and president, Chauncey Jerome, had been mayor of New Haven, and seemed a respectable partner. Barnum already owned a small clock company, and it was agreed that Jerome would absorb it, “in return for an exchange of stock and Barnum’s pledging temporary security to the amount of $110,000.” Supposedly this was one-­ sixth of the company’s assets, and the loan was only a bridge. However, the company was in a much worse state than Barnum had been led to believe. Furthermore, he or his son-­ in-­ law made several horrifying accounting mistakes, which led to a half-­million-­dollar debt rather than $110,000. Then in February 1856, Jerome Manufacturing went bankrupt. Barnum was pulled down with it, utterly overextended in all his other investments and concerns as well. It was never clear if the showman had been “swindled,” as he claimed, or if the whole thing had been a mess from day one. But the effect was the same. Once flush with money from his management of Tom Thumb and Jenny Lind, he was poor, forced out of his Bridgeport mansion and into a rented house on West Eighth Street in Manhattan. The museum was cleverly transferred into his wife’s name, but the angry creditors continued to hound him.1 He received many letters of condolence and offers of help. However , the one from his former protégé must have had a special impact. Jones Hotel, Philadelphia, May 12, 1856 My Dear Mr. Barnum, I understand your friends, and that means “all creation,” intend to get up some benefits for your family. Now, my dear sir, just be b e c o m i n g t o m t h u m b 104 good enough to remember that I belong to that mighty crowd, and I must have a finger (or at least a “thumb”) in that pie. I am bound to appear on all such occasions in some shape, from “Jack the Giant Killer,” up stairs, to the doorkeeper down, whichever may serve you best; and there are some feats that I can perform as well as any other man of my inches. I have just started out on my western tour, and have my carriage, ponies and assistants all here, but I am ready to go on to New York, bag and baggage, and remain at Mrs. Barnum ’s service as long as I, in my small way, can be useful. Put me into any “heavy” work, if you like. Perhaps I cannot lift as much as some other folks, but just take your pencil in hand and you will see I can draw a tremendous load. I drew two hundred tons at a single pull to-­ day, embracing two thousand persons, whom I hauled up safely and satisfactorily to all parties, at one exhibition. Hoping that you will be able to fix up a lot of magnets that will attract all New York, and volunteering to sit on any part of the loadstone, I am, as ever, your little but sympathizing friend, Gen. Tom Thumb.2 This touching dispatch shows Charles’s generosity of spirit, his self-­ deprecatory humor, and his maturing confidence. Does this letter also show a little glee at Barnum’s discomfiture? His boasting about the two thousand people at one of his performances is certainly a sign of his own success at a time when Barnum is at his lowest. Perhaps it is only a confident signal that he could help more easily than anyone else. Regardless, the overall feeling from this is the strength of his friendly feelings toward his old mentor and manager. Whatever money Barnum helped him make, he was about to return the favor. At the end of 1856 Barnum fled his creditors into the fog of London with Mr. and Mrs. George Howard and their daughter Cordelia, a young actress who had played in Dred as Tom Tit, the role Charles had replaced her in.3 But Cordelia’s most famous role was “Little Eva” in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and she reprised it in London under Barnum’s...

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