“No, I guess I could not break faith with my aunt! The shilling has found its appointed place in Madame Tussaud’s till, after many years, and I have done as I was told.” My father’s meeting with Phineas Taylor Barnum, the great showman, was an accidental one. While lunching in a West End restaurant the brusque and humorous behaviour of one of the guests sitting near enlisted my father’s amused attention. The waiters were no less amused by the breezy visitor with the American accent, who supplemented his commands with odd remarks. Having ordered a second dozen of oysters, the American said: “I guess I could hanker arter these. Bring me another dozen.” Looking hard at him, my father recognised Barnum, and presently the two men were in friendly conversation; in fact, they spent the greater part of the day together, as kindred spirits are apt to do in such circumstances. Barnum used to call himself the “Prince of Humbugs,” and gave that title to his autobiography. He told my father a story about a bright idea that struck him when his show was going none too well in an American town. He put up an announcement, “Come and see the cherry-coloured cat,” and imposed an extra charge for the privilege. There was almost a riot as Barnum showed the people a black cat. They protested, and demanded their money back; but he coolly asked them whether they had never seen a black cherry, and so appeased their wrath. Barnum sat to me in the spring of 1890, about a year before he died, and I think I must give him the palm for being the most entertaining of all my subjects, his reminiscences extending over so long and interesting a period. I remember him telling me that many years before he had tried to induce my grandfather to transport Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition to New York, but that the negotiations fell through at the last moment. As I modelled him he gave me some gentle hints not to be too attentive to the wrinkles on his face, from which I inferred that the old showman possibly thought he looked older than he felt, in spite of his silvery hair and four-score years. A short-sighted tailor was once employed to repair the coat worn by Paganini, who stood with the violin under his left arm, while the bow was held aloft in his right hand. The figure was on a tall pedestal, and the knight of the needle had to use a step-ladder. One of the attendants, ever ready for a joke, taking advantage of the tailor’s infirmity, removed the figure, and, adopting a similar attitude, stood in its place. The tailor prepared his thread, mounted the steps, and was about to begin stitching when the supposed figure brought the bow down on his victim’s back. This so terrified the unfortunate man that he rolled down the ladder on to the floor, where he sat gazing up with the utmost stupefaction. All attempts to pacify him were for a time futile, and whenever he passed the figure of Paganini afterwards he invariably sidled away from it with a scared look.