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FEW weeks ago, having seated myself in the car for my accustomed trip to Boston, I opened the morning paper. Passing hastily down the column of news brevities, I was arrested by the brief announcement, that on the day preceding Mrs. P. T. Barnum very suddenly died in New York, her husband being at the time in Germany. Reaching the city I found a telegram awaiting me, in which one of the family thoughtfully and kindly notified me of the same sad event-the departure from earth of one whom I shall ever remember with grateful emotions.

The interest which the public feel in any reminiscence of the greatest and most popular of caterers to the world's passion for amusement, attaches not a little to the companion of his now more than "forty years' struggles and triumphs." Often in his book-which a full million must have read-and in his conversations, Mr. Barnum remembers his wife; and with more of feeling than the casual reader may suspect, he was accustomed to cite the Apostolic passage: "Without Charity, I am nothing!" I presume that the reader knows that Mrs. Barnum's Christian name was Charity. I have not a few memories in which the Barnums, husband and wife, are permanently held, and associated with many hours of curious enjoyment. The recent decease of the wife recalls a portion of my not very remote past, with tender vividness. And I am sure the readers of the REPOSITORY will thank me if I tell them somewhat of things I personally know of a couple whereof millions, on both sides of the great water, have heard so much. Nor need my readers think that I am compelled to any great caution, lest I betray the confidences of a protracted and strangely generous hospitality. I find myself free and safe to talk with little occasion for restraint, of what I have seen and heard under the hospitable roof of my two friends -the one in Rome; the other in the peaceful valley "across the river."

It may be not without an interest to the reader if I explain how it happened that for

several years, I was almost literally one of the Barnum family-never, however, present as "company," against which they both protested. In the latter part of December, 1866, I went to New York, where I was almost a total stranger, to take the editorship of the Ambassador, the office of which was on Nassau street. I found a home, where on Sundays I preached, and at all times did such pastoral labor as my little spare time permitted, in Huntingon on Long Island, thirty-five miles from the city up the Sound. Necessarily I was compelled to pass two nights of the week in the city, taking a room at a hotel. So matters went on for a year. Early in February, 1868, the door of the Ambassador office opened, and the "Bismarck of managers" entered. He came to my desk and asked me several leading and prophetic questions-as to how much of my time I was in the city, and as to my hotel accommodations; and he ended with these three: "Can you be at liberty this afternoon? Will you dine at my house? Will you pass the night with me?" As many times I gave the affirmative.

There was at the time a mutual friend at Mr. Barnum's house, one who for thirty years has been in the habit of saying things of me, and "behind my back" too, things which, when they get round to me, never make me angry. This royal friend had been talking about me to the gentleman who gave me that call. I may add that his name is Abel C. Thomas, who lives in Tacony, Philadelphia.

Reaching the house,-one of the Fifth Avenue mansions-I first saw Mrs. Barnum, wide a circle of readers. From that hour to her death, I received at her hands nothing but kindness,-a hearty welcome when I came, and a reminder to return when I went away. I hope I justified her confidence; yet I have always suspected that my Tacony friend had something to do with it. And it will please not alone myself, but very many readers of this, if I here record what I have heard Mrs. Barnum say a great many times: "Mr. Thomas is a min

the " 'Charity," so well known to so

ister who comes up to what I think every minister ought to be; I wish they were all like him." I think it would have been a comfort to Mrs. Barnum in her life, could she have foreknown that the funeral service over her casket was to be pronounced by the minister-friend for whom she had such solid respect.

On leaving the succeeding morning, my new found friend put into my hands a key, and said: "Come now as often as you can and stay as long as you can; only, remember, you are not company." With the exception of one winter-during which the mansion was pretty well filled with company from abroad-from that first visit to the present hour, I never have had even opportunity to beg an invitation. The "latch string" has been always out; and I know not how I could have had much greater freedom had I been proprietor of the premises. And a pleasant feature is that neither of the Barnums ever seemed to have the thought of conferring a favor. Mrs. Barnum often said to me: "I hope you will be here all you can; for my husband needs your company so much." And this to a man whom they had taken from hotel solitude, and set down in their best clover!

The table was always attractive, but by no means simply because of tempting viands. The incorrigible humorist at the head of the table, ready to gush at any time, seemed to have no power to keep the jokes back when knife and fork were at play. Had I been a Boswell I doubt not I should have found material for as droll a book as need be printed. If it be true that bad people never laugh in "real earnest," there certainly was very little badness at the table of the Barnums.

Even annoyances were at times wholly mitigated in being the occasion of a jocose demonstration which convulsed the company, by no means excluding the perpetrator. On a particular occasion it happened, as it will in the best regulated families, that the butcher had not sent the tender steak he had been paid for. The man at the head of the table, knowing what the article ought to be, concluded the carver was dull. All round the table, the impres

sion was strong that the knives were not sharp. By-and-by the husband asked: "My dear, have you an opera glass?" "Why, what do I want with an opera glass?"

"I want you to make a critical inspection and see if you can make out whether that is beet or leather!"

The serious manner in which this was said, made it indescribably comical; and the simultaneous laugh might have been heard all over the mansion.

On one occasion Mrs. Barnum had use for the chore-boy-a fine little fellow whom I will call Tom. "Where is Tom, Mr. Barnum?"

"Tom is in the library."

"What is he doing in the library?” "He is storing his intellect!" "Storing his intellect! what is he doing?” "He is reading the life of Barnum!" Turning to me, Mrs. B. exclaimed, “There, did you ever see such a man as that in all your life!" In all sincerity, I replied that I had not. But it was the fact, that Tom was at work on the "Struggles and Triumphs!"

Of course Mrs. Barnum must have been a dull scholar not to have had the joking faculty well developed. I saw that she heartily enjoyed him, as she could not keep the laughter down even when censuring what she thought a somewhat extravagant use of the faculty on the part of her spouse. I do not recollect an instance in which she started a joke. But when, as was often the case, a good natured specimen was produced for her special benefit, it rarely failed to be honored with a repartee every whit its equal. And I can testify that I have never, on any occasion, seen Mr. Barnum more thoroughly delighted than on occasion of his wife's sending back a gibe with good interest! "Well," he would say to me when we had reached the library, “Charity gave me a stinger that time, didn't she?” He really expected a compliment whenever his joke extorted from his wife a crushing return! It is needless to add, that she thoroughly enjoyed her success.

The suspicion gradually grew upon me that the room was not quite as light as it

used to be, and that the gas was losing something of its brilliancy. In other words, my eyes began to need a little artificial help. I procured a pair of eye-glasses. I thought the supper table would be a good place to make the palpable confession that my sight was no longer young. Besides the Barnums and myself, there were three ladies at the table, two of whom were younger than myself; and I supposed none of them conscious of impaired vision. I adjusted the glasses, and looked as if "I did not care who knew it." To my surprise, the lady nearest me leisurely did likewise. Not to be outdone the other ladies surprised us all by putting the same instruments in the proper places. Then Mrs. Barnum drew forth her golden-bowed, determined not to seem singular. Next in order, properly to bring up the rear, the master of the house was soon staring at the company through the same artificial medium of vision! There was an artificial silence, followed by a chorus of rather noisy laugh

ter.

Hundreds of thousands have been delighted with that unique entertainment the Tom Thumb troupe. But mine was the far greater novelty of meeting them all at Mr. Barnum's house and table. The loquacious member of that company of little folks was the "General." But all were sociable, and seemed very much like gentlemen and ladies, but of very diminutive size. They had seen so much of the world, were so familiar with the etiquette of courts and palaces, that their accents and manners were thoroughly courtly.

Mr. Barnum's houses, both in New York and in Bridgeport, frequently entertained not a few persons well known to fame. Chief among these were Alice and Phoebe Cary and Horace Greeley. The Cary sisters I had known in their early youth in Ohio, when they were contributors to the Star in the West, under the editorship of the late Rev. John A. Gurley. It was a privilege to renew, after a lapse of a quarter of a century, the early acquaintanceship. Alice was never well, and it was with no little pain that she took part in any conversation. But Phoebe prior to her sister's decease, seemed the image of vigorous

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health, and no one could put more life into word or act. It may seem strange, yet it is nevertheless true, that the liveliest party I ever met with at the Barnums, was on the evening succeeding the destruction of his second Museum on Broadway. As I went to the city that cold day, I saw in the dailies full accounts of the conflagration, the destruction of the wild beasts, and the change to ashes of so much valuable property, which no insurance could in any good degree cover. "Well," thought I, "it will not be very lively at the Barnums tonight," and I entered the door as if it must open to a sepulchre. But it is literally true that a man can get used to anything. Were it possible to repeat the gibbet a few times, I doubt if the third or fourth would convey much of a fright. So often had this man been the sport of fortune, so often had he seen a competence go out in a night, that this destructive conflagration really troubled him less than would the prospect of an average headache. On that evening I found there Mrs. A. C. Thomas and Phoebe Cary. And the storyteller was never in better mood. He used to say: "Phoebe Cary is the wittiest woman that lives." And she gave evidence that evening that her reputation was deserved. It was on that occasion that he astonished her by saying, "Phoebe, you know that fat woman weighing over four hundred, and the skeleton man weighing less than fifty ?" She had seen them. "Well, they are husband and wife!"

"Mercy on me; but I suppose they love through thick and thin!"

Horace Greeley had the treedom of many a New York mansion. But he had a strong friendship for Mr. Barnum; and not infrequently yielded to the invitation to make his house a home weeks at a time. I had heard so much of Mr. Greeley, of his eccentricities, his absent-mindedness, his carelessness touching his dress, that I thought myself fortunate indeed that I could see him familiarly and really know him-know him as the public hardly ever knows an eminent man. I soon learned that the public estimate as to his odd ways, was not far from being accurate; and what was strange, he rather enjoyed comments on

his peculiarities, though of course these were rather covertly put. But he did permit free talk about his "horrid" chirography, though I doubted if he was convinced that it was so very illegible.

I found to my surprise that Mr. Greeley could tell stories, and tell them well. On one occasion, while at the table, he entered very freely into a controversy with a lady on the subject of the female ballot, to which project he was earnestly opposed. And he finally "closed debate" by telling a story for her special benefit! "A strong-minded woman, and a widow, called her son to her, as she had something very important to communicate to him. 'John, my son, I have given the matter serious thought, and I have made up my mind to marry 'Squire Jones next week.' 'Good for you, mother: does 'Squire Jones know anything about it yet?'

One evening as Mr. Greeley was leaving the house, Mr. Barnum urged him to take a key as he might be out later than he anticipated. But he was sure he should return by ten. And off he went. Speaking of him in the accustomed style when absent, Mr. Barnum said so soon as he left: "I am sorry Horace didn't take the key; for he won't get back till midnight." We waited till eleven, but no "Horace." I did my best to drive Mr. B. off to bed; and at last on promising not to remain up after twelve, he consented to leave me. I broke faith so far as to remain a half hour after twelve, and then retired, "but not to sleep." I heard the clock strike one, and immediately the bell at the door sounded. Very much in the style of Lady Macbeth in her sleepwalking-I mean so far as wardrobe is concerned I started for the door. Opening it, there stood "Horace" in the drab coat. "I tell you, I had no idea of being out so late!" And he started for his room. called him back. "I am afraid that your heavy boots may awake Mrs. Barnum, who is not very well to-night." He sat upon the stair, and by our united effort he got into his "stocking feet," and we quietly went to our rooms. In the morning he explained. He went to the Tribune office. Here he was called for and taken to a gathering of gentlemen. He made several attempts to

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leave. But Fernando Wood was there with his carriage. He would take him when he went home, and he would go soon. Only he did not "go soon." I asked him, "Was that Fernando Wood and his carriage that I saw as I opened the door?" He said it was. I remembered the style of the Tribune in dealing with Fernando Wood! In the quarrels of editors and politicians, how little of personal bitterness really gets into the seemingly bitter words! Read what they say each of the other, and you would think they could not possibly exchange a civil word. But they can visit at the same gathering, and ride in the same coach, and be personal friends all the time.

One day I received a copy of the "Vagabond Adventures," by Ralph Keeler, whose recent fate is involved in such sad mystery. I thought to read a few pages. I did not close the book till I had read every word. I took the book to Mr. Barnum, and said, "There is a book you must read." "Well, sometime, perhaps." I insisted that he should read a few pages at once, and extorted a promise. On my next call I found that he had read every word, and was passing it round. He was delighted with it, for it was so much in the line of his own early experience that it seemed his own story. "Write Mr. Keeler, and tell him what you think of his book." "I will, and urge him to call on me." Mr. Keeler was thoroughly delighted on getting a letter from his senior brother in the show line; and in about two weeks, to our great satisfaction, Mr. Keeler called. He was so complete a gentleman, so polished in his address, so neat in his apparel, that it did not seem possble that he ever could have been the "infant phenomenon," his description of which is so exceedingly droll. The readers of his strange book will remember the humble guise in which the penniless youth first crossed the ocean. He told us that on that very voyage, Dr. Chapin was a passenger. He eyed the preacher curiously, and wished he could know him. But he no more dared to speak to a cabin gentleman than to a king. Mrs. Barnum was delighted with poor Keelerpoor I must call him, now that his fate is wrapped in such painful mystery. Said