ry, Miss Fanny Davenport. That night she seemed
to be inspired, and her eloquence, her wit, her humor, her sparkling
genius, together with the impression of her amazing beauty were
very effective.

P. T. Barnum, the showman, was a many-sided and interesting
character. I saw much of him as he rented from the Harlem Railroad
Company the Madison Square Garden, year after year. Barnum never
has had an equal in his profession and was an excellent business
man. In a broad way he was a man of affairs, and with his vast
fund of anecdotes and reminiscences very entertaining socially.

An Englishman of note came to me with a letter of introduction,
and I asked him whom he would like to meet. He said: "I think
principally Mr. P. T. Barnum." I told this to Barnum, who knew
all about him, and said: "As a gentleman, he knows how to meet me."
When I informed my English friend, he expressed his regret and
at once sent Barnum his card and an invitation for dinner. At the
dinner Barnum easily carried off the honors with his wonderful
fund of unusual adventures.

My first contact with Mr. Barnum occurred many years before, when
I was a boy up in Peekskill. At that time he had a museum and
a show in a building at the corner of Ann Street and Broadway,
opposite the old Astor House. By skilful advertising he kept
people all over the country expecting something new and wonderful
and anxious to visit his show.

There had been an Indian massacre on the Western plains. The
particulars filled the newspapers and led to action by the government
in retaliation. Barnum advertised that he had succeeded in
securing the Sioux warriors whom the government had captured,
and who would re-enact every day the bloody battle in which they
were victorious.

It was one of the hottest afternoons in August when I appeared
there from the country. The Indians were on the top floor, under
the roof. The performance was sufficiently blood-curdling to
satisfy the most exacting reader of a penny-dreadful. After
the performance, when the audience left, I was too fascinated
to go, and remained in the rear of the hall, gazing at these
dreadful savages. One of them took off his head-gear, dropped
his tomahawk and scalping-knife, and said in the broadest Irish
to his neighbor: "Moike, if this weather don't cool off, I will
be nothing but a grease spot." This was among the many illusions
which have been dissipated for me in a long life. Notwithstand