The recent openin’ of the new Eden museum has called to my mind the first wax-work and general museum that was opened in New York, on the Bowery, near Chatham square.
Whiskey was then sellin’ at five cents a glass. Hooper, at his saloon on the Bowery, used to have plenty of customers at that price, and had even made an arrangement with some regular old topers to give it to ‘em in certain quantities at three cents per glass. Consequently, on such a tariff as this, it wouldn’t have done to be stiff on prices for a museum. So the admission to the museum was placed at five cents, with ten cents for a reserved seat.
In those days people in the “curiosity” business had not got so far as to do what they do nowadays, go the rounds of the hospitals seekin’ and tradin’ in malformation and human oddities and deformities. No, the museum people took a shorter cut to success and manufactured or “faked” such “curiosities” as was needed.
One of the chief attractions at this museum was a “singin’ duck,” which was “faked” up as follows: There was a small round table with drapery that reached to the floor. Under the table was located a person who worked a galvanic battery which connected with a small galvanic plate in the centre of the table top, on top of which plate was placed a duck. The table of course was painted and fixed in such a way that the galvanic plate was not noticed, and, as an additional precaution, a railin’ was placed around the table to prevent the curious or the “scientific” from gettin’ too near and seeing too much.
The duck, bein’ placed on the plate on the well protected table, was given a shock by the battery, worked by the party under the table. Under the influence of the shock the poor duck naturally got excited and wiggled and flapped its wings and opened its mouth. And then, the party under the table bein’ furnished with a peculiar kind of whistle, blew this whistle and caused a certain peculiar sound to escape, which of course seemed or sounded as if escapin’ from the duck’s open mouth and extended throat. This whistle was the “song” of the “singin’ duck.” It really appeared to be quite a wonder and attracted a good deal of attention, even from “scientific” men.
The great trouble about this “singin’ duck” was that the shock of the battery in a little while killed the duck. And as a duck of the same color couldn’t always be got handy, it was given out in the programme that this “singin’ duck” had the marvelous property also of changin’ color. This was really a greater marvel than its singin’, but it got the museum people out of their scrape, and enabled them to change their ducks as often as necessity required, altho’ of course they generally managed to get ducks as near one color as they could.
The “wild man from the Fejee Islands” at this museum was a sailor who had been picked up along the wharves. He was really a curiosity of ugliness. He had an unearthly lookin’ face, with repulsive cross-eyes, with very large protrudin’ lips and teeth, his hair reached almost to his middle, his Limbs and hands were fearfully large and he had lost two of his toes in a fight.
Withal he was very lazy, very dirty and very cross, just the sort of a man for a “wild” man. The museum people guaranteed to give him ten dollars a week and all the liquor he wanted, and they stained him all over with walnut juice, and made him more hideous by art then he had even been made by nature. They put him in a cage, had him heavily ironed, stuck pieces of raw meat in his cage and altogether made him a tremendously disgustin’ and profitable object.
When sober he would every now and then keep up his “wild” character by utterin’ the most blood curdlin’ yells and committin’ the most outrageous antics, but when drunk he would fall fast asleep. So without any regard whatever for “temperance” the museum people did all they possibly could to keep their wild man sober.
But he insisted on his whiskey, and so at last the museum people compromised with him. He was to be a very “wild” and sober man all day and early evenin’, and the rest of the night he could be as drunk and as tame as he chose.
But the gem of the collection in this colossal (humbug of a) museum was the same as the strong point of the new Eden Museum, i. e. the wax-works. These were wax-works as “was” wax-works. The work was genuine at all events.
In all, there were fifteen figures–that is, there were fifteen bodies, or trunks, with movable and adjustable heads, legs and arms. The heads could come off, or go on, by means of a socket in the neck. There were also sockets at the sides and ends of the trunk to attach or detach the arms and legs.
The two-legged figure to-day could be one-legged tomorrow. Julius Caesar on Monday could be a modern cripple on Tuesday. Back of the museum was a sort of half-dressin’, half-dissectin’ room in which the wax-work man took apart his figures, combined their parts in new shapes and dressed ‘em accordingly.
As soon as anybody got celebrated, or at least notorious, a wax-work likeness–and such a “likeness!”–was produced of him or her. George Washington was “in stock,” and Queen Victoria, who had just begun to reign, and Prince Albert, and Napoleon Bonaparte, and Julius Caesar, and Queen Elizabeth, and Mary, Queen of Scots; though violatin’ all the facts of history, Queen Mary, in the collection, wasn’t half as good looking as Queen Elizabeth.
Horace Greeley was just then beginnin’ to be popular, and the wax-work man did him up–it didn’t cost much to dress him. But one day somebody committed an atrocious murder, and as time pressed the wax-work man took hold of Horace, put a rough likeness of the murderer’s head on the philosopher’s body, daubed some red paint on his clothes for blood, and threw Horace’s head aside in the dissectin’ room, where it got badly bruised.
The various figures had labels pinned round their necks to inform the gapin’ public who they were supposed to be. But one mornin’ a wag got slyly into the buildin’ and changed all the labels, makin’ confusion worse confounded.
By this arrangement Horace Greeley became Colt, the murderer, and people remarked to each other what a mild lookin’ benevolent face Adam’s assassin had to be sure. George Washington became Prince Albert, and as it hadn’t been a very good Washington anyway, people didn’t at first recognize the difference. General Jackson was transformed into Napoleon Bonaparte, and Prince Albert was turned into Charles Dickens, Queen Elizabeth of England became Mrs. Robinson. “the veiled murderess of Troy” (without the veil), and other equally amazing transformations took place. The funniest fact about the joke was that it was not “dropped on” first by the public who had paid their money, but by one of the attaches of the museum.
Perhaps hadn’t this chap “dropped on” the joke the public would have kept on believin’ in the new names, as they had in the old.
Finally the wax-work came to grief in a singular way. One of the men connected with museum got drunk and fell asleep in the dissectin’ room, so-called, where several headless figures, and several heads without figures were lyin’ around. When the man woke up, with a touch of the jim-jams, he thought he was in a morgue, haunted by ghosts or somethin’ of that sort, got scared out of his wits and got bangin’ the waxworks around in his frenzy. Then, with a yell, he rushed out into the show, and with a head (it happened to be the poor battered head of Greeley already alluded to) he laid about him, smashing Queen Victoria and the crowned heads generally. Before he could be restrained he had done the mischief, and all there was left of the wax-works was the wax.
