“There’s my chance.  Let Jumbo and the Monument alone for the present —­they’ll keep.  I’ll buy Shakespeare’s house.  I’ll set it up in my Museum in New York and put a glass case around it and make a sacred thing of it; and you’ll see all America flock there to worship; yes, and pilgrims from the whole earth; and I’ll make them take their hats off, too.  In America we know how to value anything that Shakespeare’s touch has made holy.  You’ll see.”

In conclusion the S. C. P. said: 

“That is the way the thing came about.  Barnum did buy Shakespeare’s house.  He paid the price asked, and received the properly attested documents of sale.  Then there was an explosion, I can tell you.  England rose!  That, the birthplace of the master-genius of all the ages and all the climes—­that priceless possession of Britain—­to be carted out of the country like so much old lumber and set up for sixpenny desecration in a Yankee show-shop—­the idea was not to be tolerated for a moment.  England rose in her indignation; and Barnum was glad to relinquish his prize and offer apologies.  However, he stood out for a compromise; he claimed a concession—­England must let him have Jumbo.  And England consented, but not cheerfully.”

It shows how, by help of time, a story can grow—­even after Barnum has had the first innings in the telling of it.  Mr. Barnum told me the story himself, years ago.  He said that the permission to buy Jumbo was not a concession; the purchase was made and the animal delivered before the public knew anything about it.  Also, that the securing of Jumbo was all the advertisement he needed.  It produced many columns of newspaper talk, free of cost, and he was satisfied.  He said that if he had failed to get Jumbo he would have caused his notion of buying the Nelson Monument to be treacherously smuggled into print by some trusty friend, and after he had gotten a few hundred pages of gratuitous advertising out of it, he would have come out with a blundering, obtuse, but warm-hearted letter of apology, and in a postscript to it would have naively proposed to let the Monument go, and take Stonehenge in place of it at the same price.

It was his opinion that such a letter, written with well-simulated asinine innocence and gush would have gotten his ignorance and stupidity an amount of newspaper abuse worth six fortunes to him, and not purchasable for twice the money.

I knew Mr. Barnum well, and I placed every confidence in the account which he gave me of the Shakespeare birthplace episode.  He said he found the house neglected and going-to decay, and he inquired into the matter and was told that many times earnest efforts had been made to raise money for its proper repair and preservation, but without success.  He then proposed to buy it.  The proposition was entertained, and a price named —­$50,000, I think; but whatever it was, Barnum paid the money down, without remark, and the papers were drawn up and executed.  He said that it had been his purpose to set up the house in his Museum, keep it in repair, protect it from name-scribblers and other desecrators, and leave it by bequest to the safe and perpetual guardianship of the Smithsonian Institute at Washington.