This was the kind of thing that "took down" the outsiders. Orders for this strain of pure blood poured in upon me, and I supplied them. I trust the purchasers were always satisfied. In my case, it might answer; but I would not recommend the practice generally of purchasing chickens out of the newspapers. Such a portrait as the above might chance to be a little fanciful; or, perhaps, it might be a trifling exaggeration, you see. Yet this was the breed that were always "put in the newspapers." You very rarely found them in your coops, though!

CHAPTER XXVI.
"POLICY THE BEST HONESTY."

"Friend B——: What has become of all the trade? I haven't sold twenty dollars' worth of chickens, in a month! I've now got over three hundred of these curses on hand—and they're eating me up, alive. What'll we do with them? Do you want them? Will you buy them—anyhow? And give what you like for them.

"They are a better lot than you ever owned,—everybody says so,—Greys, Cochins (pure) and Shanghaes. D—n the business! I'm sick of it. My fowls and fixin's cost me over twelve hundred dollars. What do you think of an auction? Has the bottom fallen out, entirely? Could I get back two or three dollars apiece for this lot, do you think, at public sale?

"B—— is stuck with about five hundred of the gormandisers. I'm glad of it—glad—glad! An't you? He always lammed you, as well as me; and though I think you can swinge the green 'uns as cutely as 'most any of 'em, he has been an eye-sore for three years that ought to be put down. He got his stock of you, he says,—but (no offence to you, friend B——), it an't worth a cuss. All of it's sick and lousy, and he shan't sell no more fowls, if I can help it.

"Have you seen W——'s stock, lately? Isn't he a beauty! I told him, last week, he'd ought to be ashamed of himself ever to gone into this trade, at all. He's well enough off, without stealing the bread out of the mouths of them that's a long way honester than he ever was. I'll have a lick at him, yet.

"Come and see my stock,—and buy it. I don't want it. I must give it up. I'm too busy about something else. Come—will you? I don't say anything against your fowls, outside; but you know, as well as I do, that you haven't got the real thing. Bennett says you haven't, and everybody else says so. As to your 'importations,' you never had a fowl that was imported from any further off than Cape Cod, and you know it! But that is neither here nor there. I don't care a fig how much you gouge 'em. All I want is to get rid of mine. If you don't buy them, I shall sell them,—somehow,—or give them away, sure. They shan't eat me up, nohow.

"They don't eat nothing—these fowls don't! O, what an infernal humbug this is! I never got much out of it, though. I tell everybody what all the rest of you do,—of course. But I had rather keep the same number of Suffolk pigs, anyhow, so far as that's concerned. I an't afraid of your showing this letter to nobody—ha! ha! So I don't mark it 'private.' But of all the owdacious humbugs that ever this country saw, this thing is the steepest,—and you know it!

"Write me and say what you'll give me for my lot. I won't peach on you. You can buy 'em on your own terms. I want to get out of it. And you may say just what you've a mind about 'em. I'll back you, of course. Couldn't you take them, and get up another fresh guy on a 'new importation'?? That's it. Come, now, friend B——, help me out. And answer immediately. All I want is to get out of it, and catch me there again if you can!

"Yours, &c.,

"—— ——.

"P.S. If you don't buy them, I shall kill the brutes, and send 'em to market; though they are too poor for that, I think."

This complimentary epistle from a brother-fancier was rather cool, but it didn't equal the following. I had more than one of this sort, too,—of which I had no occasion, for the time being, to take the slightest notice, for I had "other fish to fry," decidedly!

"Mr. Burnham.—Sir: How is it that you have the impudence to try to palm off on the public those fowls of yours for genuine 'imported ones,' when it is known that you bought them all of me, and A——, and B——? How can you sleep nights? Don't you feel a squirming in your conscience? Or is it made of ingy-rubber, or gutter-perchy? You have made hundreds, and I don't know but thousands of dollars, by your impudence and bare-faced deceit. They are not genuine fowls. I say this bolely. I wish there was a noospaper that would show the inderpendence to print an article that I could rite for it, on this subject of poletry. If I wouldn't make you stare, and shet your eyes up, too, then I aint no judge of swindling!

"Why don't you act like a man? Carnt you? Havn't you got the pluck to own up that other people have done for you what you never had the gumption to do for yourself? Why don't you act fair,—and tell where the genuine fowls can be got, and of who? You're a doing the poultry business more hurt than all the rest of the men in the country is doing, or ever did, or ever will, sir.

"I don't mind a man's being sharp, and looking out for himself. I do that. But I carn't humbug people as you are doing,—and I won't, neither. You're sticking it into the people nicely,—don't you think you are? And they believe it, too! The people believes what you tell them, and sucks it all down, and wants more of it. And you keep a giving it to them, too! How long do you suppose such infamous things as these can last? I hope this letter will do you good. I havn't no ends to answer. I keep but a few fowls, and I have never charged over twenty-five dollars a pair for the best of them,—as you know. You get fifty or a hundred dollars a pair. So the noospapers say, but I believe you lie when they say so. You carn't come this over me! You don't pull none of that wool over my eyes! No, sir!

"If you want to get an honest living,—get it! I don't say nothin against that; you've a rite to. But don't cheat the people out of their eye-teeth, by telling these stories that you carn't prove.[11] You've no right to. You sell fowls, by this means, but you don't get no clear conscience by it. It's wrong, Mr. Burnum, and you know it. While you do this, nobody can sell no fowls except you. Give other people a chance, say I. I wouldn't do this, nohow, to sell my fowls at your expense; and I go for having everybody do unto others as I would do to them. This is moral and Christian-like, and you'd better adopt it. That's my advice, and I don't charge nothing for it. So, no more at present—from

"Your, resp'y,

"—— —— ——."

These missives never disturbed me. Why should they? These very men would have sold, from that very stock,—had done so, repeatedly, before,—whatever a buyer sought to purchase. I never knew either of them to permit the chance of a sale to pass by him, on account of the variety of bird sought! They invariably possessed whatever was wanted. With them, "policy was the best honesty." I did not complain. I was a "hen-man," but no Mentor.

CHAPTER XXVII.
A GENUINE HUMBUG.

It was now getting pretty clear to the vision of most of the initiated that the hen fever was in the midst of its height. Buyers with long purses were about, but they were not so ravenous as formerly. They talked knowingly and cautiously, and chose their fowls with more care than formerly; but still a great many samples were being circulated, and at very handsomely remunerating prices.

A gentlemanly-looking man called upon me, one day, about this time, in Boston, and introduced himself, in his own felicitous manner, something in this wise:

"How are you? Mr. Burnum, I suppose. My name is T——. I'm from Phil'delphy."

"Happy to see you, Mr. T——," I replied. "Take a seat, sir?"

"I want to look at your fowls, Burnum," he continued, in a rather bluff manner. "I know what poultry is, I think. I've been at it, now, over thirty year; and I'd oughter know what fowls is. You're a humbug, Burnum! There's no doubt about that; and you're all a set of hums, together—you hen-men! I haven't got the fever. I'm never disturbed by no such stupid nonsense. These China fowls are an old story with me. I had 'em twenty years ago,—brought into Phil'delphy straight from Shanghae by a friend of mine."

[This gentleman had forgotten, or didn't know (or thought I didn't), that the port of Shanghae had been open to communication with this country only a dozen years or less; and so I permitted him to proceed in his remarks without offering any opposition to his assumption.]

"These big fowls never lay no eggs, Burnum. You know it as well as anybody. Do they?"

"None to hurt," I answered.

"No, no—I reck'n not," continued my visitor. "I know 'em, like a book. Can't fool me with them. They an't worth a curse to nobody. I'll go out and see yours, though, 'cause you're a good deal fairer than I expected to find you. I thought you'd try to hum me, same as I s'pose you do the rest."

"O, no!" I replied, meekly. "When I meet with gentlemen who are posted up, as you are, sir, I conceive it to be useless to attempt to urge them to possess themselves of this stock; because I am always satisfied, at first sight, what my customer is. And I govern myself accordingly. I will take you out to my place, directly. My carriage is in town, and we'll ride out together. You can see it,—but you say you don't want to purchase any?"

"No, no—that's not my object, at all. Still, I like to look at the humbugs, any way."

I was as well satisfied that this man knew very little of what he thus boldly talked of, as I also was that he had come all the way from Philadelphia purposely to buy some Chinese fowls. But I gave him no hint of this suspicion; and we arrived, an hour afterwards, at my residence in Melrose.

He examined my fowls carefully; went through all the coops and houses, and finally we entered the "green-house" where the selected animals were kept. As soon as he saw these birds, I saw that he was "a goner."

He denounced the whole race as he passed along; but when we entered this well-appointed place, he stopped. These were very respectable, and he wouldn't mind having a few of these, he said.

"What do you get for such as these?" he inquired.

"Twenty-five dollars each," I replied, "when I sell them. But they're all alike. You know it as well as I do. They're worth no such money. These fowls are well-grown, and are in good condition; but five or six shillings each is their full real value. Still, you know when 'the children cry for them,' why, we get a little more for them."

"Yes; but twenty-five dollars is a thundering hum, anyhow, Burnum! I can't go that! You mustn't think of getting no such price as that out of me, you see; 'cause you know that I know what all this bosh means. I'd like that cock and those three big hens," he added, pointing to four of my "best" birds. "That is," he continued, "if I could have them at anything like a fair rate."

"My dear sir," I responded; "you don't want any such hum as this imposed upon you. You know, evidently, what all this kind of thing signifies. But, at the same time, you see I can get this price, and do get it every day in the week, out of the 'flats' that you have been speaking of. I don't sell any of these things to gentlemen, who know, as you do, what they are, you see."

"Yes, yes!" continued the stranger; "I know; I see. I comprehend you, exactly—precisely. But I should like them four fowls. What's the lowest price you'll name for them?"

"I never have but one price, sir," I replied. "These fowls I keep here for show-birds. They are my 'sign,' you perceive—my models. The younger stock, that you have seen outside, are bred from these; and thus I am enabled to show gentlemen, when they come here, what the others will be"—(perhaps, I might have added; but I didn't).

This gentleman remained half an hour at my house, and we talked the whole subject over, at our leisure. I agreed with him in every proposition that he advanced, and he finally left me with the assurance that I had been traduced villanously. He really expected to meet with a regular sharper when he encountered me; but he was satisfied, if there was a gentleman and an honest poultry-breeder in New England, I was that fortunate individual!

I did not dispute even this assurance on his part. And when he left, I had one hundred dollars of his money, and he took away with him four of my "splendid" pure-bred Grey Shanghaes, which I sent to the cars with him when he bade me good-day.

This was but a single sample of the real humbugs that presented themselves to us, from time to time, all of whom were certain to inform us that they were "thoroughly acquainted" with the entire details of the business; all of whom had been through the routine, and "knew every rope in the ship;" none of whom were affected with the "fever" (so they always declared), and not one of whom believed, while they were thus striving to pull wool over the eyes of others, that they were all the time being "shaken down" without mercy!

This was the very class of men who, in the later days of the malady, assisted most to keep up the delusion, and to aid in carrying on the hum of the trade. To be sure, the keepers of agricultural warehouses talked, and told big stories to their poor customers, who would buy eggs and chickens of them, for a while, at round prices; true, most of the agricultural papers strove from week to week to keep up the deceit, after the editors or proprietors found their yards over-stocked with this species of property, for which they had originally paid me (or somebody else) roundly, and which they "couldn't afford to lose," though they knew it to be valueless! True, the hen-men themselves kept their advertising and the big stories of their success constantly before "the people," whom they gulled from day to day. But no portion of the community did more to "help the cause along" than did this self-sufficient, learned, know-nothing, thin-skinned class of "wise-acres," who never chanced to make much more than a considerable out of the writer of this paragraph—I think!

Among this well-informed (?) set of men there was a "John Bull" who was connected in some way with a Boston weekly, which was nominally called an agricultural sheet, but which for several years was filled with articles upon the subject of "the equality of the sexes."

His name was Pudder, or Pucker, or Padder, as nearly as I remember. From the commencement of this fever he was sorely affected, and his articles upon the merits of the different breeds of fowls he raised were very learned and instructive! He sold eggs for three, four, or five dollars a dozen, for a few weeks; but, as they didn't hatch, his game was soon blocked. Still, he stuck to this hum with the obstinacy of a "bluenose;" and his readers were indebted to his advice for possessing themselves of the most worthless mass of trash (in the shape of poultry) that ever cursed the premises of amateur. His lauded "Plymouth Rocks," his "Fawn-colored Dorkings," his "Italians," his "Drab Shanghaes," etc., sold, however; and the poor devils who read the paper, and who purchased this stuff, lived (like a good many others) to realize, to their hearts' content, after paying this fellow for being thus humbugged, the truth of the old adage that "the fool and his money is soon parted."

Still, Podder was useful—in his way—in the hen-trade. The operations of such ignorant and wilful hucksters had the effect of opening the eyes of those who desired to obtain good stock, and who were willing to pay for it. And after they had been thus fleeced, they became cautious, and procured their poultry only of "honorable" and responsible breeders (like myself), who imported and bred nothing but known pure stock.

As late as in January, 1855, a western agricultural sheet alludes to the flaming advertisement of an old hand in this traffic, and says: "It is known to all who know anything about poultry that Mr. G—— has been an amateur breeder for about forty years, and is undoubtedly better 'posted,' in reference to domestic and fancy fowls, than any other man in America; and, beside this, he is an honest man, and has no 'axe to grind.' He has raised fowls, heretofore, solely for his own amusement; but now he proposes to accommodate the public by disposing of some of them."

This man is my "fat friend" in Connecticut,—who has bred and bought and sold as much trash, in the past ten years, as the best (or the worst) of us. Friend Brown, we could tell you a story worth two of yours, on this point! But—we forbear.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
BARNUM IN THE FIELD.

Such was the violence of the demonstrations in this gentleman's case, however, and so fearful were the indications with him, even during the incipient stages of the affection, that his friends feared that Phineas T. had really contracted his "never-get-over." But, upon being informed (as I was, soon afterwards) of this case, and questioned as to his probable eventual recovery, I unhesitatingly gave it as my opinion that his friends might rest assured the humbug that could kill him was yet to be discovered; and that, so far as he was personally concerned, I entertained no sort of doubt that "he would feel much better when it was done aching." (A prediction which, I have no question, has been accurately fulfilled, ere this.)

The man who could succeed, as he had, with no-haired horses, gutta-percha mermaids, fat babies, etc., and who had gone into and out of fire-annihilators, prepared mastodons, illustrated newspapers, copper mines, defunct crystal palaces, and the like, unscathed, would scarcely be jeopardized by an attack of the prevailing malady of the day, however violently it might exhibit itself in his case. And so there was hope for Phineas, though his symptoms were really alarming.

My friend took the very best possible means for alleviating the virulence of his attack; and, looking about him for the largest-sized humbug known in the trade, he alighted upon a two-hundred-and-forty-pound Connecticut joker, who quickly offered to inform him how he could find relief.

"How shall I do it, John?" exclaimed Phineas, as his fat friend made his appearance.

"Heesiest thing in life," responded John; "hall you 'ave to do is to put yer 'and in yer pocket."

"So?" said Phineas, putting his fist gently out of sight.

"No—you aren't deep enough down yet," replied John. "Go down deeper. That's better,—that'll do."

"How much'll it cost?" queried Phineas.

"Carn't say," responded John. "You're pooty bad. There's nuth'n' in this country that'll cure you. Hi'll go hout to Hingland, if you say so, and hi can git somethin' there that'll 'elp you. It ar'n't to be 'ad in Ameriky, though."

"Sho!" exclaimed Barnum; "you don't say so! Do you think, John, that we could find something in England that would knock 'em, here?"

"Nothing else," replied John. "Hi know where they keep 'em." (John was raised in Great Britain.)

"But, John," persisted Phineas, "there's Burnham, you know, of Boston. They say he has the best poultry in the world; and I've no doubt of it, between you and I."

"Fudge!" exclaimed John; "Burn'am's a very clever fellow, hi've no manner o' doubt, and hi won't say nuth'n' ag'inst 'im; but 'ee's the wust 'umbug you ever see, since you 'ad breath. 'Ee don't know the dif'rence 'tween a Shanghi and a Cochin-Chiny—an' never did. 'Ee's a hum, 'is Burn'am. Don't go near 'im, unless you want the skin shaved hoff o' yer knuckles, clean."

"Well, John," said the show-man, "something must be done. I've got the fever, bad, I'm afraid, as you suggest; and it must be fed. What can you do for me?"

John thought the matter over, and it was finally agreed, as there were no good fowls in America (according to John's notions), that he should be deputized by Phineas to proceed to "Hingland," and procure some genuine (that is, pure) stock, for the coops at Iranistan, at the liberal show-man's expense! A capital recipe, this, for Barnum's disease, as well as for John's own benefit.

But Phineas isn't taken down easy, though they do occasionally "fetch him." And so he hesitated. He thought the matter over a while, and finally said to his friend, one day,

"John, I've got it!"

"'Ave you?" says John.

"Yes, I've got it. You know I've something in my head besides grey hairs, John."

"Hi've no manner o' doubt o' that," replied John.

"Well, I have thought this thing over, and I have determined to see, first, what there is in America, before I send you out to Europe."

"It'll take you a long time to do that," said John, "and you'd 'ave to travel a great w'ile to see all the poultry we've 'ere."

"I won't travel at all," said Phineas.

"No? As 'ow, then?" inquired John.

"I'll get up a show—a poultry exhibition—on a grand scale, and it shall come off at my Museum, at New York. Everybody'll come, of course; and we can see what there is, buy what I want from the best of 'em, and make our selections as we may fancy; you shall go out afterwards to England, and obtain for me what I can't get here, you see."

"Capital!—hexellent!" responded John.

"And I'll call it the—the—what?" said Barnum, stopping for an appropriate title to this anticipated exhibition.

"I donno," said John, puzzled.

"Well—then—the National Show," continued Phineas. "How'll that do? The first exhibition of the 'National Poultry Society.' I think that's good. You see that includes all quarters of the country; and we shall know no north, no south, no east, no west! A quarter admission—Museum included—capital!"

"Yes—just the thing!" chimed in his friend. And shortly afterwards advertisements and circulars found their way into the hands of all the hen-men in the country, who were thus invited to visit New York, in February, 1854, to contribute to the grand show of the "National Poultry Society," of which P.T. Barnum, Esq., was President.

A long string of names was attached to this call, and the list of "Managers" embraced one or more representatives from every State in the Union—my own humble name appearing among the Vice-presidents for Massachusetts.

The whole thing was clearly one of Barnum's dodges to fill his Museum for a few days; and probably not a single individual except himself had any knowledge of the formation or existence of any such society as this, of which he thus nominally appeared to be the presiding officer. At any rate, after diligent inquiry, I could never ascertain that anybody knew anything about any such an association, except himself.

However, this was a matter of no sort of consequence, of course. The Fitchburg Dépôt Show, in Boston, was a similar affair; and I now joined in this exhibition without asking unnecessary questions,—because I saw that there was fun ahead, and that I could make an honest penny out of it, whether Barnum did or not.

Every one now put his best foot foremost; and, as this fair approached, Shanghaes were converted into Cochin-Chinas (by the knowing ones), by the removal of the feathers from the legs; the mongrels were made feathered-legged Bother'ems, by the free use of gum-tragacanth and down; the long-tailed fowls were deprived of all superfluous plumes, through the aid of the pincers; and what this last process did not satisfactorily effect, the application of the shears completed (see engraving!); until, at last, the unlucky bipeds, whom nature had originally supplied with decent caudal appendages, were reduced to that requisite state of brevity, astern, which the mode or the taste of the day demanded. And, at length, all was ready for the great "National Show" in New York city.

As it turned out, the whole thing (though an utter sham as regarded its being a society matter) proved to have been well conceived, and, from beginning to end, was admirably well carried out. Mr. Barnum did his part most creditably at this first show in New York, and the experiment was eminently successful.

The birds were afforded excellent care, and an immense quantity of good specimens found their way to the Museum at the appointed time. For a week, notwithstanding the very dull weather, the great rooms of the American Museum on Broadway were thronged with visitors; and Barnum was in high glee at the entire success of his undertaking.

Not content with one week's show of the fowls, Barnum proposed that it should be continued for six days longer; and the crowd continued to visit this exhibition for another week, and to pour in with their friends, their wives, their children, and their quarters, to the great edification and satisfaction of the proprietor of the show, and the "President" of the "National Poultry Society."

I was there, with a goodly quantity of my "rare" and "unexceptionable" and "pure-bred" fowls, which were greatly admired by the thousands of lookers-on, who flocked to this extraordinary exhibition. It was really astonishing (to me, at least) what very fine birds I had at this show.

And, "may be," fowls didn't sell there! If I remember rightly, "the people" were round, on that occasion. And so was I!

CHAPTER XXIX.
FIRST "NATIONAL" POULTRY-SHOW IN NEW YORK.

"All the world" was there, with his wife and babies, and nieces and nephews. The belle and the beau, the merchant and the mechanic, the lawyer and the parson, the rich and the poor, old and young, grave and gay,—all were in attendance upon this extraordinary display of cockadoodledom; and Barnum—the indefatigable, the enterprising, the determined, the incomparable Barnum—was in his glory, as the quarters were piled up at the counter of the ticket-office, and "the people" wedged their way up the crowded stairs and aisles of his Museum.

The great show-man was as busy as His Satanic Majesty is vulgarly supposed to be in a snow-storm! Now here, now there; up stairs, down stairs; in the halls, in the lobbies; busy with John, button-holing the "committees," from morning till night. All smiles, all good-nature, all exertion to please the throngs of visitors who constantly jammed their way about the building. And, to say that everything about this undertaking (so far as he was personally concerned) was not managed with tact and good judgment, as well as complete propriety and liberality, would be to state what was untrue. Mr. Barnum rarely does anything by halves; and to him, in this instance, belongs the credit of getting up, and carrying through successfully, the very best show of poultry ever seen in America,—beyond all comparison.

In due season I selected from my then somewhat reduced stock sixty specimens of the Shanghae tribe of fowls, which, with some twenty samples of choice Madagascar Rabbits, I forwarded (in charge of my own agent) to this long-talked-of show.

The person whom I employed to look after my stock—(for I had long since got to be "a gentleman," and couldn't attend to such trifling matters, personally)—the man who went with it to this exhibition was thoroughly posted up in his "profession," and knew a hawk from a handsaw, as well as a Shanghae from a Cochin-China. And when he started for New York with my contributions, I enjoined it upon him to bear in mind, under all circumstances, that the gentleman he represented had the only pure-bred poultry in America, any way. To which he replied, briefly,

"Is that all? I knew that before."

I said, "John, you're a brick. A faced-brick. A hard-faced-brick. You'll do."

John winked, and left me, with the understanding that, as soon as he should have time to look around the show, he would telegraph me at Boston what the prospect was, comparatively. I felt quite sure that my fowls would take all the premiums, for they always had done so before; and my "pure-bred" stock grew better and better every year!

I did not go to the show for a day or two after my agent left; and, on the morning succeeding the opening, I received from him the following brief but expressive telegraphic dispatch:

"G.P. Burnham, Boston.

"Arrived safe; thought we'd got 'em, sure. We have—over the left. You are nowhar!

"B."

Here was a precious fix, to be sure! For five years, I had carried away the palm at every exhibition where my "splendid" and deservedly "unrivalled" samples had been put in competition with the stock of others. And now, at the first great national exhibition, where everybody would of course be present (and where the first cages that would be looked for, or looked into, must be those of Mr. Burnham, the breeder of the only original "pure"-blooded poultry in the country), according to my agent's dispatch I was nowhar!

This dispatch reached me at noon, and on the following morning I was in New York. I looked about the several apartments in the Museum, and satisfied myself who had the best fowls there, very quickly. As it happened, they were not inside of my cages, by a long mark!

Yet "the people" crowded around my showy coops, for which my agent had secured an advantageous position, and in displaying them (if I remember aright) he lost no opportunity in saying just enough (and no more) to the throng who passed and admired their beautiful proportions, their great size, and splendid colors. There were not a few choice birds scattered about the rooms,—under the benches, or in the far-off corners,—which my eye fell upon, which my agent subsequently purchased at very modest prices, and which found their way, somehow, into my coops.

"The people" now stared with more earnestness than ever. By the evening of the second day, my "pure-bred" stock did look remarkably well! And when the "committee" came round, at last, I found myself the recipient of several of the leading premiums, for my "magnificent," "superb" and "extraordinary" contributions, again. And now commenced the fun, once more, in earnest.

Everything that I sent to New York was quickly bought up at enormous prices. Fifty, eighty, a hundred, a hundred and twenty-five dollars per trio, was willingly paid my agent for the rare and incomparable fowls I exhibited there. "The people" were literally mad on the subject; and I hadn't half enough to supply my customers with, at figures that astonished even my ideas of prices,—which, by the way, were not easily disturbed!

During this exhibition, Mr. Barnum announced that a "conversational" gathering would be held, one day, in the lecture-room of his Museum; whither the throng were invited to repair, at last, to talk over matters pertaining to the welfare of the trade generally, and the hen-humbug more particularly.

A rush was directly made for this hall, which was quickly filled up by the multitude, who now stood or sat, with gaping mouths and staring eyes, in readiness to be further bamboozled by the managers of this National "Society," who duly paraded themselves upon the platform, and commenced to show themselves up for the edification of the uninitiated, and to the great amusement of those who had "been there" before them.

Mr. Barnum presided, but with that grace and modesty and extreme diffidence for which he is so noted. The enthusiasm of the occasion soon reached concert-pitch, however, and everybody on the stage, in the parquette, and around the gallery, desired to relieve themselves of the pent-up patriotism that rioted in their bosoms; and all desired to be heard at the same time.

Cries of "Barnum! Barnum!" "Where's Bennett?" "Speech from Burnham!" "Down in front!" "Give 'em a chance!" "Hear the president!—there he is!" "Hurra for the Bother'ems!" &c. &c., rang from the lungs of the crowd. And finally order was restored, and Mr. Barnum approached the front of the stage, to deliver himself of "feelings that could be fancied, not described," amid the cheers and shouts of that crazy multitude.

CHAPTER XXX.
BARNUM'S INNATE DIFFIDENCE.

This modest appeal brought down the house, of course; and the bashful Mr. B., after clearing his throat, was requested by the crowd to "Go on, Barnum! Proceed—put 'er through!"

"The hen fever," continued Mr. B——, "is but just begun to be realized, ladies and gentlemen, among us." (Barnum had been attacked by the malady only a few weeks previously, and hadn't "heard from the back counties" then!) "This first exhibition of the National Poultry Society, my friends, is ample evidence in support of this statement. Was there ever such a show seen, or heard of, ladies and gentlemen, as this which you are now the witnesses of? Never! Yet, I repeat it, this is but the commencement. The enthusiasm which has attended upon this exhibition, the feelings that have been stirred up by this before unheard-of display, the people of every grade in society that come forward here in its support, the zeal which animates the bosoms of the thousands upon thousands who have attended it, and the names of the men connected with its origin and present patronage, afford ample evidence in support of my assertions, that the fire has but just begun—just begun to burn, fairly, ladies and gentlemen!" ("That's a fact," was the ready response of a young gentleman who had just paid my agent over three hundred dollars for a few samples of my "choice" chickens; the first he ever owned!)

"I want to say a few words," remarked a stranger, under the gallery, at this point. But he was requested by the chairman to "hold in!" until Mr. Barnum concluded. After considerable urging, this anxious man was prevailed upon to sit down; though he was evidently "full to bursting," with his enthusiastic emotions.

"We have a good deal to learn yet, gentlemen," continued Barnum (and that was truthful, at any rate!) "We have much to learn; but we know enough to spur us on to acquire more. More knowledge, more experience, more fowls. We haven't enough—we don't know enough, yet. I am greatly rejoiced at the prospects, to-day, and with the entire success of this enterprise, here!" (And well he might be.) "I have freely given my time and humble talents to its consummation, and we have triumphed! We, the people, the men who have the heart and the pluck to undertake and carry through this sort of thing. There's no hum in this, gentlemen! None, whatever. How can there be? We see this thing before our very eyes. It is a tangible, living, breathing, walking, crowing" (and he might have added eating!) "reality, ladies and gentlemen. There can be no humbug in anything of this sort; because we can take hold upon it, handle it, view it with our eyes open. A humbug is but an unexplained or half-concluded fact. This is a self-evident, clearly-defined fact—

'A thing that is—and to be blessed!'

And when you, or I, can take a crower in our hands that will weigh twelve or fourteen or fifteen pounds,—when we can see and feel him,—can there, by any possibility, be humbug in it?"

"No—no—no!" shouted the crowd; the ladies kindly joining in the decisive negative given to this forcible appeal.

"Then, I repeat it, we are but just in the beginning of the commencement of this new and promising era. The fire has just begun to burn, and to illumine the world; and, as I said before (or intended to say), it is not to be subdued! It is a mighty conflagration, which assails everybody at this moment, and is now enveloping all classes of the community, from the highest to the lowest! This land is in a blaze! In a threatening, exciting, violent, whirling, astounding blaze, gentlemen—and no opposition or invention can put it out!" ("Fetch on your fire-'nihilators, then!" shouted a vicious wag, from the gallery.)

"We don't want to put it out," continued Mr. Barnum, growing warmer as the fire of his zeal in this cause continued to glow within him; "we have no wish to put it out. Let it burn! Let it come! Let it conflagrate! We love it—you love it—I love it—it's one of the things we admire to think of, and speak of, and read of, and pay for, and help to keep alive here, and everywhere, and elsewhere! Our country is big enough; we have millions of broad acres, miles on miles of fertile fields, and cords of maize and grain that cannot be used or disposed of, unless it be devoted to the uses and benefits of these beautiful birds, sometimes so cavalierly spoken of by their enemies, but the value of which I know, and most of you, gentlemen, know how to appreciate!" (Applause, and cries of "Go it, old hoss! You'll be a capital customer for some of the hen-men to pick up! Go it, Barnum!")

"I did not rise, gentlemen," continued the speaker, "with any idea of telling you anything new. I am but an humble coadjutor with you in this pleasing and innocent undertaking. I can see, as you can, also, the importance of this subject" (he didn't say what "subject"), "and I trust that we may go on, and increase, and multiply domestic fowls and customers, in a ratio commensurate with the rapidly increasing throbs of the public pulse—which is now beating only at 2.40, and which must soon reach a 2.10 pace, if nothing breaks!" ("Hurra! Hurra!" yelled the boys; "that's a good 'un!") And the President sat down, blushing, amid the uproarious applause that followed his remarks.

As soon as order was comparatively restored, other gentlemen, whom the President introduced as "honorable," and "talented," and "professional," and "influential," took the rostrum, and "followed suit" upon Barnum's lead.

A vote of thanks was finally passed to Mr. Barnum for his services, and the sacrifices he had made in behalf of the "Society;" another to the "orator" of the day (whose name I have now forgotten), formerly a member of Congress, I believe; another similar vote to the Secretary, to whom, also, a plated jug was subsequently presented; a vote to Mr. Burnham, of Boston, for his speech and his "magnificent" contributions of pure-bred stock; a vote condemning everybody who had or should thenceforward nickname fowls; a vote of condolence and sympathy with John Giles, because none of his pure Black Spanish fowls were in the exhibition; a vote to Porter, of the New York Spirit of the Times, for his disinterested notices of the show; another to Greeley, of the Tribune, who hadn't time to visit it; another to pay the bills of the "Committees" at the Astor House (minus the champagne charges!); another to Dr. Bennett, for not being present at this show; another endorsing the claims of patent pill-venders and cross-grained bee-hive makers; another to Frank Pierce, for the allusions in his inaugural to the "march of progress" in our land, which of course included Shanghae-ism; another to Caleb Cushing (an honorary member), who was lauded as the most thoroughly graceless humbug known to the "national" society; another endorsing the collector and postmaster of Boston as disinterested democrats; another that my "Grey Shanghaes" were evidently the only full-blooded fowls exhibited at the American Museum on this occasion; and numerous other resolves were duly "voted," of which no note was taken at the time.

While this bosh was transpiring, I sent to Boston for some fifty pairs more of my "superb" specimens of Shanghaes and Cochins, all of which were disposed of during the second week of this show, at curiously "ruinous" rates. And at the close of the exhibition my agent had taken very nearly three thousand dollars for the "pure" Shanghaes, and Cochins, and Greys, he had sold there for my account!

I trust that every one was as well satisfied with the results of this first exhibition of the "National Poultry Society" as I was. It is the last show I shall ever attend. And having invariably taken the lead, from the beginning up to this trial, I retired, content with the self-assurance that I had made all I could make out of this sort of thing, and that the field now legitimately belonged to my juniors in the profession. May success attend them!

At the close of the exhibition, my friend Barnum congratulated me.

"They tell me you've done well, Burnham," said my friend, cheerfully. "I'm glad of it. And, since you've made it so handsomely, suppose you leave me a couple of your best Fancy Rabbits, yonder; I'll add them to the 'Happy Family.'"

"Certainly," I replied. "With great pleasure, B——. And, since you have done so capitally with this show, you shall give me a quarter of your profits on the tickets sold. Here—take the rabbits!"

"A-hem!" said Barnum. "No—no. It's no matter. You needn't—no—we won't say anything about it. It's all right. You'll do. You can run alone, I guess. I believe I don't spell my name right! Good-by—good-by."

I haven't seen friend Barnum since.

At this exhibition of poultry I managed to show a pair of my pure-bred Suffolk pigs, too, which did not set me back any. I took numerous orders for these animals, and I have given on page 174 what passes for a likeness of a fancy "Shanghae" fowl, such as we "read of in the newspapers," and which everybody, during the last five years, imagined he was buying, when he ordered "such," after seeing the "pictur'."

In this class of illustration, there was quite as much deceit and chicanery practised, commonly, as in any part of the general system of the humbug. The uninitiated saw the well-rounded forms of the huge fowls or hogs he sought, in his weekly agricultural journal, from time to time; and, through the same channel, he met with "portraits," represented to have had originals at some time or other, and which were said to be in the possession of this or that breeder, who "had been induced, after earnest solicitation, to part with a very few choice samples," out of such imaginary stock. With the swine, the thicker the ham, the smaller the feet, the shorter the nose, and the thinner the hair, the better and the purer blooded pig you got, for instance!

The following is a sample of this kind of guy, which has had its run in the past three years, and upon which tens of thousands of dollars have been squandered by enthusiastic admirers of these bloated bladders of lard. This is supposed to be a likeness of the "genuine" Suffolk pig.