When you think of 10 strange stories surrounding P.T. Barnum, the mind jumps to dazzling spectacles, circus grandeur, and the infamous exploitation of figures like Joice Heth. While some argue his actions fit the era, the truth is Barnum’s legacy is riddled with both adoration and revulsion. Beneath the glittering showmanship lies a puzzling—yet undeniably troubling—person.
10 Strange Stories: Con Man Or Philanthropist?
Many anecdotes circulate about P.T. Barnum, the most famous of which attributes to him the line, “There’s a sucker born every minute.” That quip captures the image of a perpetual swindler forever hunting the next big hustle to lure paying crowds through his doors. Yet scholars who have sifted through a trove of over three thousand of his personal letters argue that Barnum saw himself in a very different light. Historian Arthur Saxon, who compiled those letters, contends that Barnum believed he was providing a public service—a low‑cost laugh and a day out for the masses. He thought that if people realized they’d been gently duped, they would appreciate the joke and cherish the experience. Saxon further notes that Barnum held his patrons in high esteem.
Saxon also re‑examines one of the most vilified episodes: Barnum’s involvement in excavating the Division Street Cemetery in Bridgeport, Connecticut, and repurposing the land for development. Rather than a cold, profit‑driven plunder, Saxon argues that Barnum acted because the cemetery was already being desecrated by pigs, and he seized the chance to intervene for the public good.
In his own book, The Humbugs of the World, Barnum draws a clear line between himself and genuine charlatans. He categorizes the real humbugs as those who sell mystery meat, sell imaginary real estate, or manipulate stock markets to their own advantage. He insists those were the true swindlers—not him.
9 The Temperance Movement
When Barnum wasn’t showcasing senior citizens billed as George Washington’s nursemaid, he threw his considerable charisma behind the temperance cause. The movement’s fierce anti‑alcohol rhetoric fascinated Barnum, who eventually convinced himself that outlawing booze would cleanse society. Up until his early forties, Barnum enjoyed whiskey, wine, and even champagne. As he observed the rampant drunkenness among the elite, he began a personal crusade: first ditching whiskey, then wine, and finally annihilating his champagne stash, swearing complete abstinence.
His commitment went beyond personal sacrifice. Barnum took to lecture circuits, delivering a series of talks denouncing alcohol’s evils. When elected mayor of Bridgeport, Connecticut, he chaired the city’s Committee of Temperance, embedding the anti‑alcohol agenda into his political platform. He famously wrote, “Our watchword now was, ‘Prohibition!’ We had become convinced that it was a matter of life and death; that we must kill Alcohol, or Alcohol would kill us, or our friends.”
8 Barnum On ‘Negro Suffrage’
In 1865, after the 14th Amendment outlawed slavery and raised questions about citizenship, Barnum entered the fray with his characteristic showmanship, championing the right of freed slaves—provided they were literate and of “good moral character”—to vote. He framed his stance as a battle against ignorance, which he believed undermined liberty, justice, and freedom for all.
Barnum’s arguments, however, now read as bizarre. He praised the “gentle nature” of Black men, noting their religious lives and lack of violent rebellion, contrasting this with the supposed aggression of Irish, Chinese, and Portuguese peoples. He claimed that because slaves had not risen up en masse, they must be inherently moral and thus ready for education and Christianization. He further admitted past fears of immigration, yet concluded that even immigrant political candidates behaved “without exhibiting his genius by tapping an opponent’s head with a shillelagh.”
Complicating his legacy, rumors persisted that Barnum harbored pro‑slavery sentiments. He owned a slave, reportedly whipped him for infractions, and once wrote that freed slaves would descend into chaos. In the 1840s he gave pro‑slavery talks in Europe, and in 1865 he claimed African Americans possessed “no more of manhood or womanhood than so many orang‑outangs or gorillas.”
7 The Moral Lecture Room
Beyond freak shows and circus extravaganzas, Barnum pioneered family‑friendly theater in the 1850s with a 3,000‑seat venue he called the Moral Lecture Room. Tucked into his museum, the theater promised wholesome, moral plays for audiences who otherwise might be shocked by his more sensational exhibits.
He programmed temperance‑focused dramas such as The Drunkard alongside adaptations of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. While the venue attracted middle‑class families, it also welcomed street‑gang members, tourists, and immigrant families, creating a mixed‑audience environment. After each performance, pamphlets urging anti‑alcohol pledges and other moral literature were handed out.
Nevertheless, commercial considerations sometimes overrode pure morality. Anti‑slavery productions like Uncle Tom’s Cabin were softened to avoid alienating pro‑slavery patrons. Barnum was well aware that many tourists entering New York held less abolitionist sentiment than Northern residents, and he adjusted his programming accordingly.
6 Barnum vs. The ASPCA
Animal‑rights battles have long shadowed the circus world, and Barnum found himself squarely in the crosshairs of the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA). In 1866, ASPCA president Henry Bergh condemned Barnum’s practice of feeding live rabbits to a boa constrictor, labeling it needless cruelty. Bergh argued that the snake’s slow death was avoidable and that the reptiles would survive on dead prey.
Barnum countered with academic testimony asserting that snakes would starve without live food, and he framed his act as satisfying public demand to see animals in their “natural state.” He likened the spectacle to culinary traditions—no one refuses a lobster salad because the lobster was boiled alive, nor avoids raw oysters that are swallowed whole.
Public opinion largely sided with Bergh, and in 1867 Barnum published a newspaper piece acknowledging the impossibility of pleasing everyone. Surprisingly, the two men later forged a friendship, and Barnum helped establish a Connecticut branch of the ASPCA.
5 The Fires
When a blaze consumes a business, tragedy strikes. When that tragedy repeats three times, eyebrows raise. Barnum’s most famed circus eventually emerged only after he lost two museums and a fortune to fire.
The first inferno was a bizarre wartime mishap. In late 1864, Confederate spies were dispatched to New York City to ignite a series of small fires. Their plan also involved a cache of “Greek fire”—highly volatile liquid—intended for a larger raid. When the original scheme faltered, the spies redirected their effort toward four hotels, and eventually, after a night of heavy drinking, Robert Cobb Kennedy set fire to Barnum’s museum, using the Greek fire. The open‑air museum, packed with 2,500 evacuated patrons, burned spectacularly as the arsonists sealed windows and doors, feeding the flames with oxygen.
A second blaze struck in July 1865, igniting in an engineer’s office and quickly devouring the museum. Two captive whales boiled in their tanks, and countless live animals perished or fled. Revolutionary War artifacts were lost, but a heroic fireman, William McNamara, helped limit human casualties. Wax figures, including a dressed‑up Jefferson Davis, caused momentary confusion among rescuers. Spectators even hung an effigy of Davis before St. Paul’s Cathedral as the fire roared.
Undeterred, Barnum rebuilt nearby, only for that structure to succumb to fire as well. He then pivoted to a portable solution, eventually establishing what would become Madison Square Garden, and finally embraced the traveling circus model.
4 Barnum’s Civil War Exhibitions
Even amid the Civil War, Barnum capitalized on the nation’s fascination with conflict. He recruited a colorful cast for his museum: a 102‑year‑old Revolutionary War veteran, an 11‑year‑old drummer boy, and actress‑turned‑spy Pauline Cushman. Cushman, a New Orleans native, had toured with a Kentucky theater troupe when she accepted payment to toast the Confederate president—a move that got her fired for Southern sympathies.
Determined to redeem herself, Cushman volunteered as a Union spy, adopting the disguise of a camp follower. She was caught stealing battle plans, sentenced to hang, but a timely Union advance saved her. Granted a brevet major’s rank, she later joined Barnum’s circus, regaling audiences with wartime tales. Unfortunately, she succumbed to an opium overdose, a tragic end to a turbulent life.
3 Barnum’s Anti‑Contraception Law
In 1873, the federal Comstock laws banned the promotion of birth‑control methods, aiming to restore a perceived moral order. Barnum, already entrenched in politics as a Connecticut legislator and Bridgeport mayor, felt the statutes didn’t go far enough. As chair of the House Temperance Committee, he championed even stricter regulations, pushing Connecticut to outlaw the possession, sale, or use of any contraceptives entirely.
Under Barnum’s influence, violations incurred hefty fines and at least 60 days in jail. The draconian law lingered until 1965, when the Supreme Court, in a 7‑2 decision, struck it down as an unconstitutional breach of marital privacy, restoring personal freedom.
2 The Grand Buffalo Hunt
Barnum’s entrepreneurial flair extended to “free” events that secretly generated profit. In June 1843, he purchased fifteen underfed bison calves for $700, envisioning a spectacle that would entice New Yorkers ignorant of the true West. He staged the Grand Buffalo Hunt on August 31, 1843, in Hoboken, New Jersey, securing interests in the ferries shuttling crowds and the concession stalls.
The event was advertised as free, drawing over 24,000 New Yorkers and countless New Jersey residents. Overcrowded ferries forced passengers to cling to railings, and a few fights erupted. Once ashore, the terrified calves were herded into a chaotic stampede that broke through fences, resulting in at least one fatality—a man who tried to climb a tree and fell when the branch snapped. Despite the danger, spectators claimed they enjoyed the show, appreciating its raw, unfiltered nature. Barnum netted approximately $3,500—a sum that translates to roughly $88,000 today.
1 The Irony Of The Barnum Effect
The psychological phenomenon known as the Barnum effect explains why vague statements, like those found in horoscopes, seem personally accurate to many. It thrives on a charismatic presenter and universal human truths. Ironically, Barnum himself dismissed the very trick he popularized. In his exposé, Humbugs of the World, he debunked spiritualists and mediums, exposing their raps, blindfolded letter tricks, and the empty promises of figures like J.V. Mansfield.
Barnum even issued a public challenge: he sealed a set of questions in an envelope and offered $500 to any spirit who could answer them without opening the envelope. While he famously displayed hoaxes such as the Fiji Mermaid—clearly fabricated—he condemned the outright swindling of spiritualists, labeling them the true humbugs. For Barnum, his own deceptions were harmless entertainment, not malicious fraud.
Explore these ten strange stories and discover how P.T. Barnum’s legacy continues to fascinate, bewilder, and provoke debate.