FSB Presents: Great Moments In Inviting Consumers To Delude Themselves II

If ever there was a god of marketing, Phineas Taylor Barnum was it.  The man could sell anything to anyone at any price - including himself.  He got himself elected to the Connecticut state legislature and he was mayor of Bridgeport, Connecticut.  Along the way, he promoted some very odd exhibits, like the Fiji Mermaid and brothers Chang and Eng Bunker, famous Siamese twins.

The Greatest Book On Earth!

It's been a little hard to unravel the history of P.T. Barnum.  At least one reason was that almost everything he ever said was a lie of some form or another.  And he said a lot of things.  The definitive biography of the man was written by himself.  Originally published in 1854, Barnum reissued it every couple of years - taking out stories that offended public sensibilities and adding new bits he thought would make him look better.  Finding a true statement in any edition of that book is like finding the one waitress at Hooters who really is into you.

Don't take my word for it.  Read the book.  Barnum surrendered the copyright so others could put as many copies out as possible.





How pernicious are the rumors about Barnum?  Take his most famous quote, "There's a sucker born every minute."  He never said it.  But, in typical Barnum fashion, once it was attributed to him, he claimed to have originated it after all.

Barnum is by no means the bad guy in this story.  In his colorful life, he did such things as introduce real natural wonders to the American people - whales and elephants and other animals never personally seen in the US.  He donated so much money to Tufts University that they adopted his elephant, Jumbo, as their mascot.  He was a believer in abolition and temperance.  He voted in the Connecticut legislature in favor of the 13th Amendment.  In doing so, he made this charming speech that may have been the least racist thing anyone ever said in 1865, "A human soul, ‘that God has created and Christ died for,’ is not to be trifled with. It may tenant the body of a Chinaman, a Turk, an Arab or a Hottentot — it is still an immortal spirit."

That quote is true.  They wrote it down and everything.

Barnum worked to keep liquor and prostitution out of Bridgeport, and bring gaslights in.  He was an early debunker of mediums who claimed to communicate with people's deceased relatives.  He created one of the first aquariums in the US.  He was the first president of Bridgport Hospital.

Seriously, who wouldn't want to see
a baby elephant.

He was a con man who wasn't.  He offered the incredible and the astounding, but not the unbelievable.  And he always delivered a show (or an exit into an alley).  His exhibitions were successful because they were what people wanted to see, or what people didn't know they wanted to see until Barnum told them.  Remember that Barnum lived in a time when most people didn't travel, when huge animals were known but never seen, and when dwarfs and conjoined twins were rare enough to gawk at.  Chang and Eng were from Thailand.  For all people knew, they had unicorns and mermaids in Thailand, too.

 But Barnum's greatest attraction wasn't even one of his own devise.  It was neither statue nor animal.  It was an attraction that may have even fooled Barnum himself.  (It probably didn't.)  And it came at the very beginning of Barnum's career, before he even had his own exhibition hall.

It was Joice Heth.

In 1935, P.T. Barnum was a grocer, looking for an entry into show business.  He found it in an exhibit being shown by R. W. Lindsay.  Barnum and his partner bought the exhibit and showed it around the northeast before settling in New York City.  It was the body of the black nursemaid of George Washington, the first President of the United States.  It was 161 years old and it was alive.

This all sounds true ....

Though blind with cataracts, arthritic, paralyzed in both legs, with use of only one arm and extremely ill, Joice Heth entertained visitors for as long as twelve hours a day.

Heth would tell stories of the young George Washington, sing hymns she claimed to have taught him, let the curious inspect her body, and even pray with people.  And just about everybody bought it.  The interesting question is why.  Certainly the world was mysterious enough that a 161 year old person was something that might have been possible, but nobody knew or had heard of a story outside of the bible of anyone living that long.

"I die so that others may live.  But I'm black
so you don't have to feel too bad about it."

At least one thing that helped sell Heth's story was that she was black.  She was an early example of what is now a stock character, the Magical Negro.  This is a character with superhuman spiritual power whose job, in fiction, is to teach a wealthy white person how to connect with the universe.  Consider Michael Clark Duncan.

Also, read this actual scholarly work that isn't a screenshot from a Stephen King movie.

The last thing on Joice Heth's side was the fact that the country in the 1830s was anything but sanguine about race.  The specter of slavery hung like a storm cloud over every event in US history.  We could beat up all the Native Americans we wanted, eventually slavery was going to tear the country apart.


A young nation like the United States needed heroes.  We needed myths.  And George Washington would do just fine.  Joice Heth provided a conduit to transform Washington from real man (who many could still remember) into founding father, destined for greatness since nursed by his magic, immortal nanny.

One question for which no answer remains is whether Heth was Barnum's slave.  In many ways, she was.  Barnum bought her, as had the exhibitor before him.  She went where he said and performed when he said.  In other ways, it seemed Joice had some degree of freedom.  She was never referred to by Barnum as a slave.  She was cared for, and never complained to the throngs of northerners (including abolitionists) who came to see her.  When her twelve hour days prove too much for her, Barnum limited her appearances to eight hours.  And, of course, she was treated far better than a blind, toothless, paralyzed slave would have been.

It's not Barnum who deserves this award, though.  It is Joice Heth.

Isn't she lovely ...

Joice wasn't senile or crazy.  She couldn't have told such consistent stories if she had been.  Instead, she was a black woman who'd had a hard, hard life at the hands of whites.  And now, in her old age, she could be waited on by those same whites while she spun fantastic nonsense stories of being 161 years old and of teaching statesmanship to her dear George.  She must have found the willing gullibility of the public to be quite amusing.

Joice passed away in 1836.  Barnum, sensing opportunity, invited one of the most respected surgeons in New York to perform an autopsy on her ... in public ... while charging onlookers money.  The method of estimating age today is little changed from the 1830s.  Doctors look for the increasing ossification that comes with age.  The surgeon pronounced Ms. Heth not to be over eighty.

Barnum had a bit of a problem with that.  He took possession of the corpse, insisted that the entire autopsy had been a hoax, and claimed Heth was still alive, traveling through Europe, impressing all the crowned heads.

Finding Joice Heth becomes a little difficult.  No one knows what Barnum did with her.  Barnum is buried in Mountain Grove Cemetary and Mausoleum, Bridgeport, Connecticut.

He buried Tom Thumb about 100 feet away.
In a snuff box 

Joice Heth was primarily exhibited in one of the front rooms of the famous Niblo's Garden, a theater, outdoor natural garden, sideshow, dining hall, and ice cream parlor all in one.

If you go shopping at this Forever 21, you'll be pretty close to where Joice Heth entertained idiots a hundred and seventy-five years ago.

And for telling people exactly what they wanted to hear even though they knew it couldn't possibly be true, Joice Heth is remembered for her Great Moment In Inviting Consumers To Delude Themselves.